I have fond memories of my father despite his flaws and the destruction caused. He tried to be a good man, served on the local fire department for years, and was honored at his funeral for service.
He toiled in the fields, plowing and planting in spring, and harvesting in the fall to feed nine children. Hulled trees, cut and stacked firewood alongside his children for winter heat.
He built his own house and furniture and even found time to learn to play the guitar, harmonica, drums, and symbols. He was a one-person band.
I remember one time, as a young child, I was very sick with a cold. My father took me to the hospital, and I had pneumonia. He made sure I got better and even made his home remedy: onion sandwiches with ketchup.
My mother wasn’t very good at handling finances. She loved Bingo too much. After he taught her to drive, forget it, you never saw her much afterward.
One time, my father took us school shopping at the end of summer. He said, “Get what you want,” and put it on layaway. When it was time to pick it up, he brought my mother along.
You should have seen the look on her face.
She kept asking my father, “Where are we going?” He didn’t respond, just kept driving to the store. When we arrived, we went straight to the layaway counter. He asked for the order, and my mother was furious when she saw him pay the bill.
I thought it was great because her idea of school shopping was twenty-five dollars at the Thrift Store. I remember her saying, “Now, girls, you each have twenty-five dollars to spend on school clothes for the year.” Afterward, we went to the supermarket for the cheap five-dollar white tennis shoes.
Her idea for school shopping stunk.
I often wonder why things went so wrong in his life.
He had a large family, a devoted wife, and many children to love.
He loved taking them camping at the local campground and cooking those nasty pancakes over the open fire.
Teaching them the importance of building and stoking a fire in the woodstove for heat when he worked long shifts at the mill.
My father seemed to care that his children had a warm house, clothing, and food. He wasn’t afraid to confront my mother’s ill ideas of raising children.
It’s difficult to look back sometimes because he really did try his best to be a good father. I love him so much for trying.
I think that’s why I got so angry when he left home.
I was left to fend for myself, alone, against a mother who cared more about herself than me. I always had a saying for her, “she was like the old woman in the shoe. She had so many children she didn’t know what to do, so she went to Bingo.”
I’ve always had a love-hate relationship with my father; the seeds got planted early in life. They grew into resentment and profound anguish, leading to a bitter heart and making forgiveness difficult.
My father passed away before the chance to reconcile was possible.
Today, that breaks my heart because in his final days, he still loved his child and told her the truth and pointed her in the right direction to restore her life.
I’ve learned my father tried to be a good man in his own strength, without the Lord, and the weight of his flaws and choices deeply damaged our family.
He understood that before he passed. I believe the Lord forgave him, and that’s how he knew he was the only way to save my life.
I’ve since learned that love is action, and most of my father’s actions spoke of love, despite his destructive flaws.
The memories are remnants of a time that has passed. The Lord has soothed the bitterness and allowed forgiveness to grow in my heart toward both my parents.
Is a reflective life writer and author of the upcoming memoir The Secret Darkness: Overcoming Abuse and Finding Freedom. Her writing explores healing, faith, creativity, and the journey of restoring scattered remnants into something beautiful again.
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