A Father's Blessing, Withheld

Now that He's Gone

Last night I received a phone call, the one that you pray to God you never receive.
My father was killed in a car accident.

Caught In a dramatic relationship that could only be paralleled in King Lear, my father and I were estranged. I had tried, simply and sincerely, numerous times over the last ten years to build a bridge. He was beyond my reach. It seemed that of the children, I, his firstborn, was the one he could live without.

To touch his heart, I had even sent him a photo of him and me, one that I thought would rend his heartstrings and make him call me. In the picture, I was two or three years old and he was a mere twenty-five. It didn't rend anything except my heart, that he could look at that image of him and me and look away.

So now he's dead and there's no chance for reconciliation in this lifetime. I had tried to prepare myself that this could happen, that only in heaven would we find understanding. But now it's final and that brings a grief that is deeper than black. I have to keep reminding myself that his silence isn't something I can read with certainty--maybe there was love there, after all, and maybe some intent to reconcile, someday. Maybe.

It's a good thing that I believe in eternity, and in God's mercy, and in miracles, and in life forever. Otherwise this would be absolutely unbearable.

A father's love, the touch of his hand on your head in blessing, is a potent thing. Bestowed, it can bring life and blessing. Withheld, it has the power to destroy.

It's no wonder that Goneril and Regan lied so ornately to their father Lear, and that Jacob put on goatskins to steal Isaac's love from Esau.

Fathers, take note. Give life. Give love. Bless each daughter and son today.

Not tomorrow. Today.

"What shall Cordelia do? Love, and be silent." King Lear Act I, Scene I, 62