32. My Dad is ___________

There are some days that stick in your memory no matter how much time has passed. One of my first ones was when I was in first grade. The day began like any other but soon the room was teeming with large, unfamiliar men trying to navigate their way through a sea of tiny desks and high pitched voices. Order was soon restored, and one by one these men regaled the class with tales of police work, fighting fires, and corporate conquest while their progeny beamed with pride. Meanwhile my six year old self sat in the back and began to quietly cry. The teacher noticed, and edged her way over. Putting her arm around me she asked where my dad was. My simple response: "I don't know." She had no clue the depth of those words.

My dad's name is Jon. In 1985 he lived in suburban South Carolina and worked in the music business. He began using and dealing cocaine, among other things, and became dangerous. He abandoned my mom, and she him. I can't blame her. Shortly after I was born we were living two states away, sans-daddy. This is all that I know about him, as it is all that I've been able to piece together over the years. But twenty years ago I knew little...

I sat under the arm of my teacher trembling, realizing for the first time not just the shame of having never met my father, but the pain of everything I would never get to have. I overheard my friends proclaiming, "my dad is an architect" or "my dad is a lawyer." I wept as I understood I had no answer to fill in the blank. My eyes fell on joyful peers clambering into their father's embrace while I saw the full measure of the rejection I'd been dealt. My face slowly contorted from a saddened child to that of a stoic youth as my heart decided to hate the man I'd never know.

That was a long time ago. Recently I have been reading some books for my counseling class and subsequently doing a lot of thinking about this person I've never met. I can forgive the harsh judgments of a six year old child, but the man that boy grows into must think differently. My life has been very complicated and negatively impacted by not having a dad. It is not important to get into the details of that now. What is pertinent is today's gift. I've finally accepted the answer that fills in the blank:

          My Dad is HUMAN.

It's easy for us to see beyond someone's horrid past, so long as we are not personally affected. That's not forgiveness. Forgiveness is... forgiving what has been done directly. The fallout from someone's decisions. Wherever you are Dad, I can for the first time say that I've completely and sincerely forgiven you. I also know that I am a better man, and will be a better father, because of what you and life have indirectly taught me.

Knowing that there are so many others who've endured this kind of pain, I can only hope to encourage the same forgiveness. I would want it.