About My Father
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When I think about my father I think about tacos. Actually, I think about tacos and soccer. Among my fondest childhood memories is that of eating tacos with my father at a fast food restaurant after my Saturday afternoon soccer games. The tacos themselves were nothing special; but being with my Dad, just the two of us, that was special.
I started playing organized soccer when I was in first grade. I played on coach Ocho's team. And although I didn't know it at the time I was probably the worst player on the team. I'm sure my dad must have known it, but he never let on. I continued to play soccer for many years to come. I was never very good, but each season I would join a team and every Saturday, without fail, my father was at the game. He would run up and down the sidelines as I fumbled along. He would try to will the ball into the goal, kicking it with his mind. After the game, we would walk from the field together, through the lime-stained grass and across the gravel parking lot. Then, I would kick off the dirt from my cleats and jump in the front seat of his faded blue Dodge Dart.
We would eat tacos and talk about the game. I would dream about making a big play or even reflect aloud on a play that I had made. "Did ya' see that pass I made Dad. We almost, scored a goal off that one," I would say. "Sure did son. You know your a real team player." And that was enough. "I'm a real team player," I would think, beaming. That's how my father taught the value of team play.
Sadly, my father was able to will the ball off my foot and into the goal only one time in nine seasons. But he didn't seem concerned. He was never disappointed. And although he always challenged me to give it my best,--and I always did--he never once criticized me. As far as I was concerned, I was a star...because I was a star in my father's eyes.
Now, my father wasn't soft. In fact, he could be fiercely competitive; though I have never seen him allow his competitive nature distort his character. When he plays he plays hard. "Keep practicing," he would say with a smirk on his face after beating me at another game of ping-pong. "One more game Dad," I would say. "OK...if you insist." He would put me down again. It's been over twenty years since we've played, but to this day, whenever I look at a ping pong table, I think, "I could take him now"...and I could.
He had to punish me at times-- not just on the ping-pong table either. The real kind of punishment. I don't think he liked doing it. He didn't shame me or degrade me. Each time he punished me he saw to it that I understood exactly why I was being punished. Once, I got into it with my mother and she went to spank me. I ran into the bathroom and locked the door. My parents had to call the neighbor to come over and pick the lock.
When they finally opened the door, they found the bathroom empty and the window open. I had jumped out of the window and over to the sundeck risking a considerable drop. My father found me at the end of the street, chased me down and caught me. At some point, we were both trying to keep from laughing about the ridiculousness of the whole matter.
When we arrived home, he took me to my bedroom, got a belt and told my mother to wait outside the door. Her face was white with terror. My father had never harmed me, but I guess she thought that this latest outburst had sent him over the edge. He closed the bedroom door and began beating my director's chair as I watched, dumbfounded. I caught on when he looked over at me expectedly, and I began hollering and crying. He continued to beat the chair and I continued to cry and holler.
My mom was real nice to me the rest of the day.
My teenage years cast a shadows of darkness and despair over the entire family. I had been using drugs and alcohol. What began as curious experimentation turned into desperation and dependence. I lost all passion for life and spiraled into self-destruction. I drifted away from my family. I was alone.
I survived high school and entered college--a privilege that my father hadn't had. I couldn't cope and flunked out of college during my second semester. Like a caged animal, I was trapped by my addiction to alcohol, marijuana, sedatives, and opiates. My father tried to help me, but I had become impenetrable. My mother came to me often, saying, "Your father is grieving." I was ashamed but broken. My father would come into my room each morning and read scripture to me as I slept. He would pray over me, asking for God's intervention. I don't think my father ever gave up--although others clearly did. I gave up.
Maybe it was father's prayers that brought about a series of coincidences--miracles if you will--that led to my 'accidental' meeting with a group of men who told me about their own histories of addiction. It seemed as though they had read my diary. They did not try to rescue me. They simply encouraged me to go home and ask my father to send me to a hospital for drug treatment . That's exactly what I did.
My father did not ask any questions. He didn't waste any time. I spent seven weeks in that hospital and he and my mother came to see me every Saturday. I couldn't let them know, on those Saturday visits, how much it hurt. I had flashbacks. I was afraid. I was alone. I looked all around me and saw people with whom I could not relate...junkies from broken homes. I wanted to eat tacos with my dad.
I was admitted on Memorial Day and discharged shortly after Independence Day. I have been clean and sober ever since.
My father came from a broken home. He'd had a hard life. He and his sister were raised by their mother and the three of them lived with his grandparents. He never received a postsecondary education. In fact, I'm not sure he even graduated high school. Not because he didn't apply himself, but because he had obligations to meet. He was a champion debater and had dreams of going to Northwestern University, where he could have been awarded a scholarship. He wanted to be an attorney. Instead, he got a job selling shoes. True to his nature, he eventually became president of that company...a fortune 500 company. He eventually went to Harvard Business School.
He is deeply religious and fully engaged in his own spiritual growth. My mother and father have been married for over 40 years. He has always loved my mother--although he teases her often. One time she threw a raw hamburger at him and it stuck to the wall. I came in and said, "Mom there's a hamburger on the wall!" "Shut up," she said, "that's your daddy's dinner."
My father is kind, compassionate, gentle and humble. He is tough-minded and tenacious. He has a relentless dedication to fairness. He is a world-class competitor. In spite of his success, he remains genuine and approachable.
One night my parent's were having a dinner party. They had invited several friends... mostly church people. From time to time some of the women in the church like to show off a new diamond pendant or fur coat. In an effort to remember the ultimate source of all of their prosperity, it is not uncommon for them to show one another their new coats and jewelry while pointing out in some way that God had provided.
The party was well underway when the doorbell rang. As my mother and father opened the door, a woman, who was a close friend of my mother's, came bouncing through the door--her husband trailing behind. The woman was glowing with excitement. "We can't stay long," she said, "but I just had to stop by and show you this new mink coat that the Lord gave me."
My father looked at the woman's husband and grinning widely said, "Hi lord"
L. Dylan Christopher.