The Fragrance of the Violet

He has been on mind lately. I have his eyes. I have his nose. I have his tendency of connecting with a large number of people, making it difficult to be in public without being recognized.

I do not have his baggage. I could. I could hold on to the past. I could keep pointing fingers. I could cut everyone out of my life to protect myself and blame him for it. I choose not to. I choose forgiveness. I choose freedom.

What do you choose? Are you holding on to something that someone has done to you as if it could somehow be erased, if the person only confessed or begged for forgiveness… or died? None of these external events will set you free from your internal chains. There is one way to freedom.

Forgiveness. Letting go. Leaving the past in the hands of a righteous, just God and moving on to fully live the one life that He has given you.

It seems strange. Counterintuitive. But by the power of the Holy Spirit, and sometimes with the help of a professional therapist, I am here to tell you that it can be done. And it is worth it.

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.” Mark Twain

“Bear with each other and forgive one another if any of you has a grievance against someone. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful.”
Colossians 3:13-15

Revelations Part VII: The Final Word

January 10, 2016: I had returned home from Vegas the previous day. I went to church Sunday morning. It was difficult to hold myself together when Dad’s death was mentioned in the announcements. In the afternoon, I wrote Dad’s obituary. I volunteered with the youth group in the evening, though I had to hide in the restroom when they played the song, “Good, Good Father.”

As we were preparing for bed that night, my husband and I got into a minor argument. I went downstairs to the kitchen, sunk to the floor, and wept. Loudly. Uncontrollably. David came to find me and joined me on the floor, placing his arm around my shoulders. When I could speak, I said, “I wrote my dad’s obituary today. I will never see him again. I can’t even think that he is someplace avoiding me anymore. He is nowhere. He no longer exists. He didn’t let us say ‘goodbye.'”

We decided to hold the memorial in May because of Val’s work/travel schedule. I printed flyers and delivered them to the two bars in town where Dad spent most of his spare time when he was in Michigan. We posted a memorial announcement in the local newspaper inviting all who knew him. I wanted Dad’s friends to be there. Cory did not think that they would come because he had left them as abruptly as he left us. One day he said, “You’ll never see me again,” and walked out the door. They were hurt and angry. But I wanted them to learn from his life. I wanted everyone to.

May 15, 2016: The day arrived. I was nervous. Excited. Ready. Unsure of what to expect. I was going to see people I had not seen in many years and family members that I had never met. Bless my soul, some of Dad’s friends from the bars arrived. I could have kissed them.

Dad’s cousin, Rich, began. He shared memories of Roger the child. The naughty things they did together. The happy memories of innocence. Next was Dad’s sister, Nancy. She also talked about the young boy. Her older brother who would pick on her, scare her, protect her. She mentioned their abusive father and how Dad couldn’t get past the pain of their childhood. When she had seen him shortly after their mother had passed a few years before, he still spoke of their childhood abuse like the wounds were fresh. Then it was my turn. Below is the video of my portion.

Afterwards, many shared stories with me about him. He was a jokester. He liked to sneak money to his friend’s little boy. There were consoling words and healing hugs. I realize now how badly I needed this day to come, to say what I believed needed to be said, to let him go and move on. When we got home, I said to my husband, “It stinks that he had to die for me to get to get to know him better.”

April 11, 2017: I dreamt about him. I woke myself up crying. A feeling of heavy darkness clung to me throughout the day. That evening I tried to do homework, but could not concentrate. My church had posted a new podcast that morning, so I decided to listen. The pastor spoke about obedience. What is God telling you to do that you haven’t done? The answer filled the room like a whisper from everywhere. Forgive. I did not want to. I was still so angry. However, I had learned that I could not live my life in disobedience to God. I said aloud, “I forgive you.” Again, tears flowed, but not of anger or pain. Tears of freedom. The anger that had burned inside me, erupting like a volcano whenever I spoke about him, was gone. Just… gone. I realized that a piece of myself had been in Dad’s Hell as long as my anger lasted.

The words of the song “No Longer a Slave” had held great meaning for me after Dad’s death. “I’m no longer a slave to fear. I am a child of God.” I was no longer a slave to the fear of being abandoned or rejected by him. I was no longer a slave to the fear of never seeing him again, because it was now a fact. And that day, I was no longer a slave to the anger that pulled me down into the pit where he had lived his entire adult life. I was free. I am free.

“So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” John 8:36

Revelations Part III: Stepping Into His World

“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.”
Psalm 139:7-8

January 3, 2016: I spent the day in my pajamas, rarely leaving my rocking chair. My head was still in a fog. After a few texts, I spoke to my young friend’s sister in Vegas. “We have a room with a bed, but we just moved so we still have some boxes around the house.” By the grace of God and divine appointment, I had a place to stay.

January 4, 2016: My flight was in the afternoon, so I got up, read my Bible, and prayed. While I was on my knees talking to God, tears began to flow. I was surprised to find myself crying, really crying, for the first time. Then they stopped, as if the door of grief had slammed shut in front of me. The abrupt end was equally surprising. I finished getting ready and packing. I was uncertain about what to expect. My siblings and I were not close, and I did not know what they thought of me and I was nervous.

“I do not know what the week holds, but I know that You hold the week You have made this evident. I am so thankful that I can rest in your hands.” Written in my journal on the plane.

A few hours later, we landed in Vegas. We met for dinner at In and Out Burger and discussed the general schedule for the week, then separated for the night. When I arrived at my hosts’ home, they were preparing meals for the week with a couple of friends. We chatted until I couldn’t stay awake and I went to my room, where I found a welcome note and basket of gifts.

The next day, I learned that Dad’s roommate, Freddie, called my siblings before they arrived at their room. He was at a bar celebrating Dad’s life with some of Dad’s “friends” and he wanted them to join him. They drove to a desperate part of town. Val describes it as the kind of place “…where you… find either a cop… or addicts, dealers, and prostitutes. Nothing in between.” Freddie was inside the bar, buying drinks for everyone in memory of Roger. At one point, Val used the public restroom where she found drug paraphernalia on the bathroom counter. When exiting, she found one of Dad’s friends guarding the door to prevent people from entering while she was inside. They passed someone “shooting up” on the sidewalk when they left for the night. As they left the place in their rear-view mirror, the full understanding of where they had been began to sink in, but the greater significance of that night was not yet uncovered.

Photo provided by Val. Both sisters wanted the photo posted, but one preferred her face blurred for personal reason.

Revelations Part I: Ceiling Collapses

“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.” Psalm 68:5

“There are five stages of grief. When you reached this one, you seemed to have hit a ceiling. Anger. You need to allow yourself to be angry at your dad.” The counselor was trying to help me work through my feelings toward my father. He had shut me out… again. I had not seen or spoken to him for a few years, and I was trying to accept that I probably never would this side of Heaven. But I did not want to be angry. Anger hurt people. I would try to find my way over that ceiling without anger.

December 31, 2015: About 8 more years had passed with no word from my father. The phone on my desk rang at 4:00 p.m. “Brandi, this is Donnie. Your mom told me to call you at work.” Donnie was a friend of both of my biological parents. “I received a call from your dad’s roommate in Vegas. Your dad is on life-support and the hospital is looking for someone to sign a DNR.”

After we hung up, I called my younger sister Miranda. She told me that they had learned about Dad from his roommate, Freddie. Another sister, Val, was his Power of Attorney and was in the process of faxing proof and the DNR. Miranda, Val, and our brother Cory planned to fly to Vegas on Monday, January 4, to get his affairs in order. I knew that I needed to go. There was a chance that we might see him before he passed.

Before we hung up, Miranda said, “Brandi, the hospital didn’t even know he has kids.” Those words was like a punch to the gut. I was his first child. My parents divorced when I was an infant. Shortly after, Dad remarried a woman who had three children from a previous marriage. She and Dad had two more: Miranda and Glen. All five were raised as Dad’s children. Six kids. Six kids who didn’t exist. My ceiling caved in. I was angry. So angry.

I called my husband, David. He suggested trying to find a round-trip ticket for Friday. Maybe I could fly there, see Dad, and fly back within 24 hours. I could be home in time for my oldest son’s wedding on Saturday. But we planned to decorate the reception hall and chapel on Friday. “I’m not leaving the day before my son’s wedding. The living matter,” I spat into the phone.

We traditionally spent New Year’s Eve with a couple of friends who lived about 30 minutes away. When I got home, David could see that I was upset. He suggested that we cancel, but I couldn’t just sit at home. I refused. While my husband drove us there, my anger boiled over. I slapped the dashboard and yelled, “D*** him! He did this on purpose! He made sure none of us could be there for him!” He didn’t tell anyone who loved him that he had lung cancer. He didn’t tell the hospital that he had children. It felt like the most extreme act of abandonment.

Throughout the evening, I received updates from Miranda. The papers were faxed and Hospice was involved. His lungs were 85% saturated, but he was resting comfortably.

I felt like something was broken inside me.

January 1, 2016: I awoke in the morning feeling like a zombie. I drove to the mall with my mother to pick up a few things for the wedding, then helped my future daughter-in-law and her parents decorate the reception hall. We finished with a couple of hours to spare before decorating the chapel. I tried to take a nap, but couldn’t sleep. My mind was numb.

After decorating the chapel that evening, David and I went to McDonald’s to talk. I told him, “I’m not okay. I’m not okay. I can’t even cry. I’m not okay.” He put his arm around me and encouraged me to let it out, but I couldn’t. A dam of anger and pain held back the tears.

A&K Reception

“Rain and rainbows always come together. Focusing on my rainbow today.” Reception hall photo and social media post 1/1/2016