I began a letter as a child…one I wouldn’t finish until I was well into my twenties…a grown woman. I wrote recently about a painful childhood experience and was reminded, while responding to comments, of a valuable lesson learned. I learned forgiveness. I learned to choose the redemptive road. One that always cycles back to open doors for another…setting free everyone who wants to be…in its path.
I’d just applied my makeup and with my favorite gel and scarf, snatched back a perfect ballet bun. Being an apprentice with the company meant time and – learning about time management. My mind leapt and lunged through movement…so I was always thinking. But we were always getting ready…and time – meant preparation. For class, rehearsal…the stage. There was little of it left for the God-sized hole in my heart. But life would demand it.
I was ready to go on when I got lost in my head. For weeks, thoughts of my father haunted me. They clung like some crazy new blend of nylon, stretching to allow movement…just far enough to taste freedom…but always, always snatching me back. I hadn’t seen him regularly since college, when he’d pick me up in the big white truck and we’d stop mid trip for McDonalds. We hadn’t spoken in years.
Before then, I’d never spent time with him alone. The regularity of those rides opened space for us to communicate. We began to talk…something we’d never done before. I was 19 years old and just getting to know him. On one of those “just long enough” trips – from upstate NY back to Brooklyn, I realized, I loved him. I was his daughter. Despite the twisted truth of our family dynamic. I was his girl and good or bad – my allegiance was rock solid.
This revelation turned my world upside down. What could loving him mean? Would the truth of my love transform? Make me forget everything that happened…eradicate a poisonous past?
I was one daughter in 1 of 3 families he fathered. I’d spent my entire childhood feeling confused and hurt. He was the cause of my chaos. The free and unspoiled love of a little girl filled my heart when he entered a room. It soared. But the little woman in me didn’t trust him. She knew too much and that knowledge…his truth, was too complicated.
I didn’t know what to do with it. From ambivalence I explored deep denial. Tried on casual nonchalance. It went well with the stylish “you can’t hurt me” shield I’d already adopted as “uniform”. Because I had legitimate reasons. Who could blame me for my distance, for generally ignoring him…who could blame me for hating him? As far as I was concerned – I was justified.
As an adult I assured the continuity of my secret by talking about him only as much as I wanted. I shared beautifully measured half-truths, making my family appear normal. He traveled for business. Parents were separated. All true-ish. End of story. So I embraced the clean slate offered when I started life on my own. Independence brought anonymity. Or so I thought.
But that year, every moment not dancing was filled with thoughts of him. Maybe it was traveling more than usual, maybe it was feeling insecure about my place in the company. Being “chosen” was always big for me and I struggled to find my identity apart from the approval of others. I looked for validation in relationships and work. And not surprisingly, with men.
So when God shape-shifted the stars to form a reconciliation constellation over me, I responded. Life gave the gift of time. Time to “write out” the black hole of my heart.
Just minutes before the stage manager called places, I pulled out a blank card. It spoke to me from the aisle in a cute but pricey stationery store earlier that morning. Instantly, I knew who it was for and what I’d write. I told my father I forgave him.
In writing, I realized I’d been walking toward that moment all my life. I didn’t need his apology and I didn’t expect a response. I simply forgave. Every reason I had for being hurt or angry was another reason to forgive. More fuel for the fire of redemption raging in me. I chose the greater thing…and my motive was selfish. I did it for me.
My life’s trajectory changed as a result of one God inspired action. One decision. One letter. One writing.
I found his current mailing address in my Filofax. (Do people still use those?) And, to ensure safe arrival, pressed extra postage on the promise of freedom in my hands. Carefully placing it in my dance bag to mail between performances, I pushed my chair in as the stage manager called “places”.
I was ready to “go on” – ready to live. Forgiving didn’t change the past. Forgiveness changed my future. Writing the letter kick started a redemptive recycling …in my selfish dream for freedom God threw in a lifeline for my father.
Writing opened the door for him to hear the flip side of his truth. Brutally honest about his chosen lifestyle, he never considered how it would affect his children. Writing allowed him to hear what I could never say. Writing opened the door…we walked though and forward…together.
late link up love with Deidra and just in time to share with Michelle and Laura
