Fourteen years ago today, my dad passed from this life to the next. Here is something I wrote that day:

Today, December 3, 2008, my dad died at age 89.

How do you process the death of a parent you were estranged from most of your life? I am trying to work that out. My dad died today. He was 89 years old. The last time I saw him was four years ago. I spoke to him about two months ago when he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, although he did not know he had cancer at the time. He lived the last 12 years in Southern California. I followed his journey to death via my mom, who doesn’t have much time either. She is here in the Seattle area; she is 85 years old; her heart is only working at about 30%, and she has colon cancer. She could die any day.

I did not have a real relationship with my dad ever, and the relationship I did have was filled with significant pain. So, here at the time of his death, it is hard to know how to process the sadness I feel. It is no coincidence to me that this week as I grieve any hope of what could have been, at the same time, we are in the week of hope for Advent. Every night we read the Advent readings and light the candle. Tonight, the Advent reading was about Jacob’s ladder and how the earth was reconnected with the Divine. We lit the candle of hope, and I prayed that God would grace my heart to hope that one day all would be put to right between my dad and me.

I believe my dad is absent in his body but present with the Lord. I pray for the day when Kingdom Come will put all that was lost in my family to right. Until that day, God rest his soul.
Amen

My mom called me to tell me my dad had died. It was about 10 o’clock in the morning. Rich was out on a real estate call. I was home alone. I hung up the phone and was numb. I left my body and went on autopilot. I started frantically cleaning my house. I picked up every bit of laundry and ran the washing machine like it was cleansing fifty-two years of confusion and shame. I put on spaghetti sauce, carefully sauteing the onion, garlic, basil, and Italian parsley. My kitchen soon smelled like an Italian nana’s kitchen on Sunday afternoon, awaiting the kids and grands coming for dinner. I broke open a bottle of Rich’s bourbon. I don’t often drink bourbon, yet this morning, it joined my nervous system in helping to anesthetize the internal tumult just below the surface of my emotions.

Rich arrived home around noon. He walked into the kitchen and watched me, like a zombie, stirring the sauce while simultaneously sipping bourbon. He stopped, a little shocked, as this was so out of character for me to be day-drinking. Once he heard what had happened, he asked me to come and sit with him. I collapsed into his arms and sobbed.

Today fourteen years later, as I reflect on my dad’s life, I have a lot of compassion still mixed with so much confusion. After years and years of therapy, I think the shame has dissipated to the point that the layers left will come to the surface when it’s time.

I don’t know as much about my dad’s family origin stories as I do about my mom’s family stories. I know that my dad was born in Las Vegas, New Mexico, in May 1919. He had an older sister, three younger brothers, and a younger sister. I am not sure when his father and mother split. I was told it was when they were quite young. My grandmother worked in migrant labor camps as a cook. She traveled from place to place. My dad and his siblings were in an orphanage for a few years. Who knows what kind of abuse happened there? When his mother finally came for them, she was still working in migrant worker camps. The children would travel with her. I heard many stories of the abuse that occurred all through his childhood in those camps.

You wonder what makes a person a full-fledged narcissist, sex addict, and violent. I can only imagine what he and his siblings suffered. This is why I have compassion. My dad didn’t have the tools we have today to deal with trauma and abuse. I don’t excuse the abuse he inflicted on all of us, but I do understand, and I have forgiven him.

This brings me full circle on this series of pioneering as a woman in a wickedly patriarchal world. I will still write about women, faith, and what it is like to lead in a man’s world. But for this series, we come to the end.

A few words about Vineyard USA. In the years since the 2006 resolution, so much has turned around in removing barriers for women in leadership. As of today, there are women on the National Leadership Team. Out of nine regions, there is one female and three female co-leaders. The board of trustees is all male. There is still much work to do, and hopefully, the current leadership will see where there is still genderblindness (Lisa Weaver Swartz, Stain Glassed Ceilings) happening and commit to working on the male-centeredness of the movement.

I want to thank all the women who contributed to this series. I admire you for your courage to tell your stories and continue your journey with hope. And to all who have been reading along and sending me notes, thank you, it means so much. And a special thanks to Bert Waggoner for allowing me to interview him. I appreciate his courage!

The week my dad passed on was the first week of Advent. The week we remember hope. This week, as this series comes to a close, we remember peace. I am practicing peace this week. As I remember my story and my dad’s story, I think about reconciliation. Forgiveness is my work. Reconciliation depends on all parties coming to the table to say what is true in order to move on. Sometimes, it all does not get fixed on this side of the eschaton. But I know that one day “all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.” Mother Julian of Norwich

Series Introduction click here

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