I remember the details of that day with ultimate clarity. Sometimes, when I think about him, I go back to that dreadful moment. And cry. It was a period in my life I desperately wish was only a nightmare. But it wasn’t. I never woke up.
At least not until December.
My dad was diagnosed with brain cancer while I walked the halls of St. Patrick’s School as an awkward 13-year-old. The news was devastating. The truth hurt. Badly. Those times in my life were a struggle. A constant, draining, helpless struggle. As my parents signed their divorce papers, things only managed to get worse. As the caregiver to our father, Jake and I remained by his side while my sisters and I were split up by a mountain range, countless rest stops, and 300 miles of distance. From then on, my dad and I formed a beautiful friendship. He was a light in my dark world. Strong. Sturdy. Hopeful. Determined. And I tried my hardest for him.
Things began to change as he became healthy. He had overcome the cancer that attempted to take his life and was finally able to live again. He started going on dates, and I accepted the fact that, eventually, my dad would have to heal his broken heart too. From then on, we began to inch slowly apart. He had his relationship, and I had mine. Time spent with him had dwindled. Through mistakes made on each side, the worst day of my life managed to steal away every good feeling I had of my father. That day, I lost my best friend. 5 years ago.
Then December 2010 came.
I had kept minimal contact with my dad, seeing him once or twice at UW track invites each year. My heart was hardened toward him. Everything he did was wrong in my eyes. And I was still angry. I couldn’t fathom my life with him playing any significant role. And I didn’t want him to.
But December brought change. I was in Olympia with Adam during Christmas break, and spent a lot of time with him, friends, and the Lord. I grew tremendously in my stay there. Emotions were high, and my heart was heavy. On our several trips up to Mukilteo for bullpens in a drafty old warehouse, we’d pass Woodinville. And it made me sad every time. My dad lives in Woodinville. And each time we’d pass, memories of car rides with Dad resurfaced. Songs we sang. Baseball. Oh, how my dad loves baseball. I feared the day would come that I’d realize how much I missed him. Well, that day came. Passing Woodinville, knowing how close he was to me, was heart-wrenching. Thoughts stirred in my mind. I became anxious. It was then that I knew I needed to make a change. God had a plan. And I needed to execute it. Everything was laid out for me, and I could see it clearly.
I found, as I asked my dad back into my life, that the weight of anger, disappointment, fear, distrust, hatred, and negativity is heavy. Unbearably so. You see, I had a misunderstanding that harboring these feelings was protecting me from him. Protecting me from the pain of our past. But instead of protecting me, they had abandoned me. They abandoned me from developing relationships with other people, as I feared they’d leave me just like he had.
Since our first ‘real’ conversation in December, life for me, has forever changed. And I know it has for him as well. Two weeks after that initial talk, my dad was re-diagnosed with brain cancer. 10 years later and just as severe. I was there only an hour after he found out. Ironically, so was my mom. We were dropping my brother off in Woodinville from his military visit in Spokane on December 27th. I’ll never forget that day. I went into his house to say hi to Dad before Mom dropped me off in Olympia, and caught him on the stairs with an odd and concerned look masking his face. I didn’t know what was wrong. “What now,” was all I could manage. His glossy eyes and reddened cheeks bring back tears. He told me that the cancer had come back. I stood there in stunned bewilderment. Shocked. Confused. Angry. “Not again,” I thought. I had few words for him. There’s not really much one can say to news like that. I offered the best advice and support I could, “Stay positive, Dad. You beat it once before and I know you can do it again. God has a plan, and if this is part of it, you’re in Good Hands.”
It still didn’t feel right. I left there more confused than I think I ever have been. I couldn’t figure out why. Why again? Why now? Why him? Why me? Why us? Why, why, why? Why wasn’t I crying? Why wasn’t this real to me? As I climbed into Mom’s car, her instincts were sharp. She knew something was wrong. It’s no lie- a mother really does have eyes in the back of her head. And on the side. And next to you at the mall. And in the car. Heck, they’re even on the pole vault pole every time I jump. She just knew. That’s when the floodgates opened, and I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. I stammered out the words in a toddler-like struggle. I was devastated. And once I saw her beautiful face turn upsidedown, contorted with emotion, I cried harder. In the past few years, my parents haven’t had much communication, and certainly not any overflowing with positivity. But this news brought reality back to each of us, all in one swift moment. We turned the car around, and headed back up the walkway to my Dad’s. When they hugged for the first time in, well, who knows how long, I lost it. Completely. The love-hate-and-everything-in-between that embrace dropkicked me right in the heart. Hard. It was a special moment. A reuniting of something once so special. So perfect. So forever. It brought me back to the days of gymnastics and the Coeur D’alene park. Of camping and Sterling and the Baseball Room. Of the high bar in the backyard, Logan Elementary, and the painted white porch. Of the Dogwood tree and the one I fell out of at Franklin. It brought me back to Sunday School and the green spikey things that grew on the tree across the street. Of Jackpot, where we’d spend our allowance on candy. I thought about the special dinner plates each of us had and the forest-colored carpet that entertained our weekly “Shark” games. The memories in that hug were overwhelming. And beautiful.
As I left Dad’s house that day, new life stirred within me. I, so badly, wanted to make things right again with him. The stress of our silence had gone on for too long.
Forgiveness, as I’ve learned, is the cornerstone of one’s being. With it, you can change lives. Without it, you can ruin them. A person who can forgive freely, has the heartbeat of a Follower. One who’s alive in Christ. To remain dead in my lack of forgiveness toward my father is not a life I want to remember.
What I do want to remember: Dad being there. When I finish my pole vault career. When I graduate from half-a-decade in Pullman. When Adam asks for my hand in marriage. When he walks me down the aisle. When Jackson is born. When Adam begins his career. A father is special gift to a daughter. One that should be taken particular care of. And I’m excited to afford that care.
March 9 marked the beginning of Lent. My goal of Lent, this year, was to commit to doing something more for God instead of doing something less for God. I wanted to focus my commitment to sacrifice on a positive change. With careful reflection, I realized that this was the perfect time for me to initiate the relationship with my dad in a way that I hadn’t considered, ever. For 8 consecutive days now, I’ve called my dad. Each day that he’s answered, I’ve been able to re-establish a lost relationship with him, one of which I thought was forever dissolved. I’ll continue to call him, each day, until he gets sick of answering. By giving up my, for lack of a better word, comfort, I can see God more clearly now. And it’s an incredibly soul-filling feeling.
I want my dad to know how much I care. And how much I’ve always cared. I want him to realize the love that stirs in my heart for him, and the friend that I’ve always wanted to be for him. As I let God take the reigns of this relationship, I’m confident that someday…
I’ll be able to call him a best friend again.
Forever, all my love,
”Z”
.The King and The Rascal.
Cougar Baseball Awaits
