MISSING MY DAD

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CLYDE HAROLD LEE -- and me

My sister, Niki, called in September, 1983, to tell me that my Dad had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and wasn't expected to live more than three months. As she was hanging up she said, "Write a poem for Dad. I know you can." 

I left for work, driving about 20 miles to Oklahoma City, and on the way I saw sunlight "swords" cutting through the clouds, which lifted me out of the heavy dumpiness I was feeling. Before I reached the office I had the majority of the poem running through my head. That very day, I sent the poem to Niki and she put a photo of Dad with it and framed it and gave it to him. He kept it until he died, and it was given to me after his memorial service. I've had it on a shelf for twenty eight years -- same old scruffy frame, same old paper.

Now, for most of our years, Dad and I had a pretty intense, frequently angry and violent, relationship. We rarely saw each other or spoke or wrote for most of the last twenty years of his life.

Dad had been raised in a violent and addictive family.  When the Great Depression hit, his poor family became poorer.  He had to quit school after 8th grade, because he needed to work any way he could.  I've been told that he, as a teen, hit the freight trains, trying to get quick jobs or stealing what was needed.


I honestly think my dad had good intentions. However, with no proper upbringing and all the stress, he entered alcoholism, among other "evilistic" behaviors -- fighter, womanizer, thief -- as a young man.  I didn't know him well as a young girl, because my parents weren't married until I was 3-1/2 and went back and forth between their families in Portland and Tacoma, either together or separately.  Back in 1945, when I was born, that was extremely unusual and most certainly not acceptable, socially or otherwise.


The physical abuse began when I was 5.  He was drunk and he and Mom fighting and I'd end up in the middle.  When I was 7 and babysitting my sisters [3 by then, 2 to come], both Dad and Mom would come home drunk and "discipline" me for not doing a good enough job.  I was one angry, bitter, fighting kid.  And, so disappointed to have a Dad like him.  And so desiring for him to have life turn a good way.  I DID see him wanting to do better, and he would try for a while -- and then a binge would hit him, and my world would fall apart again.


During graduation, May, 1963, in Klickitat, WA, I was a salutatorian, speaking for a few minutes.  My Dad showed up right before the ceremony and sat in the front row -- and was so drunk he could hardly stay on his chair.  When I was speaking, I could see him slumping, starting to fall to the side aisle. I was embarrassed... and furious.

I left home the next day; had a nanny job in Tacoma for summer before college.  I saw him occasionally during the next few years, but most of the time it wasn't a cheerful stretch.  Later, I lived in other parts of the country.  I couldn't afford to travel to Washington in those days, so it was years without seeing him or the rest of my family.  He called a couple of times, but was drunk, and always screaming at me for some reason I never knew.  After I had come to the Lord I had hoped to bring our lives together somehow, but it wasn't happening.

THEN the blessing I had desired hit my life. On a Saturday here in Omaha I received a letter from him dated March 17, 1979, with the following: 

"I finally gave up my solo fight against alcohol and went to church ... I came away with an awful load off my back; I hadn't realized how heavy it was. My problems are still here, but the Lord is sharing my burden. I am really surprised at the feeling.

"Things are looking up for me now, but it wouldn't hurt for you to say a small prayer for me, I need all the help I can get."

After Niki called me in September, and Dad had remained alive, our whole family decided to get together for Thanksgiving, 1983, just to be with him, and we all hadn't met together for many years. Blessedly, I was given an airplane ticket between Oklahoma and Sea-Tac.  I could never have done it otherwise.  I had a short, but sweet, alone time with him; he was giving a Thanksgiving-eve testimony at his church and we simply sat and enjoyed each other and then someone took a photo for me. I returned to Oklahoma a couple days later.

He died May 22, 1984, living several months longer than anticipated.

 
As I've often said, I'm looking forward to eternity in heaven, partly to enjoy some TRUE time with my Dad, who I miss very much.
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TO DAD

We’re so much alike – you and I –

We think and we feel much the same.
When we love, it’s a deep, soul-filling love,
When we hurt, it’s with soul-rending pain.

We’re like mirrors – mirror images.

Two needn’t be close –
If you’re counting the miles –
To Share this world’s Days and its Night.
There are soul-mates
Who travel life’s path side by side
Though mountains and plains bar their sight.
 
And we’re mirrors – you and I – mirror images.

Without Jesus to keep us, we’d Die – you and I
Eternally lost from our Lord.
Our hurts closed our hearts
to the goodness of God,
And we turned our backs to His Word...

We’re SO alike – like mirrors – mirror images
 
But He reached us – He found us
And He healed our hearts –
The greatest of healings provided.
We opened our hearts to receive 
that great love,
And now He walks closely beside us.

We walk hand-in-hand,
But with Jesus between –
As He looks in our hearts, we can say
It’s not just the one,
or the Two,
But the THREE of us,
Who will love through Eternity’s Day.

Shining like mirrors – mirror images.

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The Peter Pollock Word Carnival choice is "Missing"