Facing Failure at Christmas

By Cec Murphey

My father failed me in many ways. He was an alcoholic and regularly beat me. Even worse was that I didn’t believe my father loved me. He never used the word love—I’m not sure it was part of his vocabulary.

I left home at eighteen and I was in my early forties before I faced the pain that had built up since childhood. During those years I excused him by saying, “He did the best he could.”

Perhaps that was true, but it resolved nothing. About six months before he died, I had a strong feeling that if I didn’t visit him, I wouldn’t see him alive again. Within a week I flew the thousand miles to my hometown. It was difficult to find him sober and alone, but on the second afternoon the house was empty except for him and me.

I pulled my chair up next to his rocker. For about twenty minutes, I talked to him. “The one thing I’ve wanted from you is to feel you loved me. If I knew that, I could get past other things.” I didn’t talk about the beatings or the verbal abuse. I didn’t expect my dad to change. I did hope, however, that he would at least say he loved me or appreciated me—that he would give me a kind or encouraging word.

When I paused, Dad got out of his rocking chair and walked out of the room. Behind me, the bedroom door closed. I sat in the empty room. Old, familiar feelings of rejection and anguish surged through me.

After that, he avoided me and we weren’t alone again. He arranged for my nephew Larry to take me to the airport.

The following March, my mother called. “Your dad has had a stroke. He’s in the hospital.” When I asked if I should come, she suggested I wait. “We’ll keep you informed.” A few days later Dad was out of the hospital and home for a week. He suffered a second stroke. “This one seems worse,” my mother said.

“I’ll book the next flight.” On the plane, I sensed I was already too late to see him alive. When I arrived at the airport, my nephew waited for me.

When I saw his face I knew. “Dad’s dead, isn’t he?”

Larry nodded. “About an hour ago.”

I shed tears as I realized there would never be another opportunity for us to connect.

I went through the funeral with the family. One of his drinking buddies said, “Your dad was proud of you. He talked a lot about you.” He told me some of the things Dad told them.

“I wish he’d said some of those things to me,” I said when I stopped crying.

Afterward, I kept thinking of the many ways Dad had failed me. Apparently, he hadn’t hated me, but how could I have known? He had been proud of me and what I had accomplished in my life, but he had never given me the slightest sign.

For seven or eight months I struggled with my pain. I wanted to forgive him, but it was difficult. Too many painful memories blocked me. I had tried when I visited him and he thwarted me. It took me several months to be able to say, “Dad, I forgive you.” And when I said those words I meant it.

The year my father died, we celebrated Christmas Eve with our children. As we sat in a circle, I stared at the tree and the decorations, feeling grateful to the season. I silently thanked God for my family. Together we sang, “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”

As I gazed around the circle, I thought about Dad failing me and that I had also failed my children. I hadn’t always been physically available; I was busy making a living and staying on the go. There were times when I could have hugged my three kids more, listened more attentively, or just hung out with them.

I had resolved the issues with Dad, but what about the issues with my children? After I died, would they have to struggle over forgiving me? I wanted them to be able to forgive me while I was still alive.

Before we opened presents, I told them of my battle to forgive my dad, but that I had finally succeeded. “I’ve failed you in many ways, and I don’t want you to have to go through what I did. Please forgive me. I don’t want you to struggle with forgiving me after I’m dead. Please tell me now where I’ve hurt or failed you and forgive me.”

When I finished, I closed my eyes and waited for their outbursts of pain. I silently prayed that they would be able to forgive me.

Wanda, our oldest, had always been the sensitive one. “You aren’t perfect,” she said, “but you’ve always tried to be a good father.”

John Mark, our youngest, shrugged. He was the quiet one and it meant he was all right.

When I spoke, I had particularly thought of Cecile, our middle child. She had been the rebel of the family and seemed to be in and out of trouble until she met Alan, the man she married. I worried more about her than the others. I felt that of all the kids, I had failed her the most.

After a long silence, Cecile said, “I remember that no matter what I did, you always loved me.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

Then my tears flowed.

I learned a valuable lesson that Christmas Eve. I had focused on my failures and the things I did wrong; my children focused on my love for them and what I did right. My children knew I loved them and that knowledge enabled them to forgive my shortcomings.

Now, years later, I still thank God for the blessedness of that Christmas Eve. That night I learned I didn’t have to be a perfect parent; I only had to be a loving father. I did my best parenting by the way I lived; and my children didn’t judge me by the mistakes I’d made.