God commanded me to write, so I am writing.
Dad
My dad is self-employed in construction. He’s achieved some success in life. At times it seemed like his financial life was golden… but many times, it wasn’t.
I started working full-time with my dad when I was 12. We were homeschooled anyway, so I did my homework at night when I got home, so I could go with him every day.
That schedule was not easy.
Dad wanted to leave around 5:30 AM, and we generally didn’t get home until 9 or 10 PM. I was motivated to go though, because I didn’t like my mom… long story… I’ll write a post about mom another day.
Dad is a hard worker. At 70, he can outwork most 20–30 year olds. He has something in him that is driven to get things done. Because he has always worked for himself, that’s what defined his worth as a father, husband, and provider.
Before I went to work with Dad, I missed him. He was always gone—before I woke up, and he would often not get home until my mom insisted that we be in bed. So if I wanted a relationship with my dad, it was on me to make it happen.
So I started working with him at 12.
What I found quickly was that I wasn’t good enough to work with Dad.
Dad worked hard, and he expected everyone on the job to work as hard as him. That was tough on my 12-year-old body, but not working with Dad was worse than the work… so I worked hard.
When Dad wasn’t on the job, I became his eyes and ears. He got me a cell phone so I could call him if people started slacking off. Over time, people listened to me like they listened to my dad.
I was so driven to make him happy—or at least not earn his ire—that by the time I stopped working with him, I knew what he needed before he asked. I had it ready, right there, every time.
If you spend enough time around someone, this is common. People get to know each other.
But I saw some things. I heard some things on the job that broke my heart. The pristine image of my superman father became dirty.
He was faithful to his wife, to the best of my knowledge… but he wasn’t there for her much. He was a provider, but he didn’t schedule time to be a husband or a father.
When Dad got home, everybody got out of bed and ran to meet him. He would lay down on the floor and ask us to untie his boots and take them off. I did that often. I wanted his attention, even for just a few moments. I could never get enough of my dad’s time.
Even on the job he would say, “On the job, we work. This isn’t the place to be father and son. We have to be business owner and employee, ok?”
Then his visage would harden, and the tyrant that I began to know as my dad would come out.
Although he messed up often, he didn’t tolerate that with us.
When he was around, I watched and listened intently, with purpose—not to learn the trade. I couldn’t have cared less about being a carpenter or plumber. I wanted to please my dad and get to know him. Spend time with him. Maybe get his approval from time to time.
It wasn’t all bad.
There were lots of times that we had long rides where we could just chat on the way to work, or on the way home. Sometimes we’d pray, listen to preaching, or worship on cassette tapes, and God was there in those moments.
I remember one time we were doing a job and a storm was coming. The weathermen were forecasting tornadoes. We had the roof off.
Dad walked a few steps away from the site, toward the storm, and commanded it to go away… and it did.
Another time, he fell off a three-story roof. He rode a piece of plywood down like a magic carpet. When he landed three stories below, he ran right back up the ladder and got back to work.
He’s been in multiple accidents where photos and stories would say there’s no way anyone walked away… but he did.
Before he married my mom, he was in Bible school and was working night shift at a gas station to help pay the bills… and the store was robbed.
The robber said, “Hands in the air.”
Dad got his hands up, twirled away from him, and screamed, “JESUS!”
He got shot twice in the back.
He woke up in the hospital a quadriplegic. Mom, the college, and the church were devastated, so they started 24-hour, round-the-clock prayer services for Dad.
During one of those services, Dad woke up and needed to use the restroom… and halfway there he realized he was walking, and he screamed.
The nurses and doctors didn’t know what to say, but the church did.
I wrote all that to say this:
I believe Dad sincerely wanted a relationship with God and was trying to live for God. I believe he had good intentions, mostly, to be a good father and husband.
However, good intentions don’t seal the deal.
Dad saw himself as a good dad because he provided, but he wasn’t there for his family until many of his kids left… like me.
Kicked Out
I left home at 18.
I was asked to leave—no. I was kicked out.
When I became 16, I had my license, so I could drive to get parts, pick up help, and drop them off. About then it became my job to take all the helpers home.
Dad almost always hired homeless people from downtown because he wanted to keep labor costs down.
That said, I got to know those homeless people. I picked them up, took them home, and stopped on the way so they could run into the store to get drinks or smokes.
Years later, when I was 18, I had a bad day. At the end of the day I was angry. One of these guys bought me some cheap wine from the gas station, and I drank it.
Dad could smell it on me as soon as I got home, and that was it.
He couldn’t believe I’d do that to him and his children. He said I was a bad example. He said, “Get your things. I want you out.”
He gave me a timeframe. I don’t remember how long. Five minutes? Something like that.
So I got a trash bag, threw my clothes in it, and walked out.
It was only a few months past my 18th birthday.
I remember two houses down, at the stop sign. I stopped on the corner and cried. I didn’t know where to go or what to do.
I asked a neighbor around my age if I could sleep over for a day or two until I figured out what to do, and they said yes.
I wore out my welcome quick. They had a house full of people already, overcrowded… so I took another walk. A long walk.
I ended up on the other side of town. It was getting dark, so I found myself sleeping on a park bench.
The next morning, I decided I’d had enough of being a bum and started knocking doors—door to door.
I don’t remember my exact spiel, but it was something like:
“Hey, I’m 18. My dad kicked me out. I don’t have any money. I need enough to get a hotel so I can clean up and wash my clothes so I can apply for a job.”
Most said sorry, no.
But one didn’t.
I’d spent most of the day knocking doors with no luck. The guy who ended up saying yes was standing outside looking at a house he’d bought sight unseen from out of state as an investment property.
It needed a lot of work. The grass was several feet high. It needed a roof. Inside, rain had eroded the sheetrock ceiling in several rooms.
I asked if he’d do a deal where he bought material and I supplied labor.
He said yes: a year of free rent if I fixed the place up.
He put his credit card on file at the local supply house.
I told him it needed a roof before I could move in.
He agreed and offered a ridiculous amount—maybe $5,000.
I cashed the check, bought a truck, bought material to fix the roof, and even paid for a dumpster to haul off the shingles… all for less than $5,000.
So at 18, I had a paid-for truck and a place to stay for a year.
I did fix up a lot of that house.
But I started partying.
Depression
I ended up working a bunch of jobs: flooring, roofing, decks, framing, electrical, Census Bureau… I did a lot of jobs, but not many of them very long.
I got depressed.
Partying all the time. I was around people, but I wasn’t close to any of them. They used my house to party, but none helped pay bills.
I was trying to use a rifle to end it all.
My roommates saw it and took the firing pin out.
So I was trying to use a hammer and screwdriver to hit the back of the bullet, while holding the gun with my mouth…
…and my mom walked in.
She called an ambulance and admitted me to the psych ward at a local hospital.
This was probably the next-to-lowest time in my life.
I was mostly catatonic. I didn’t respond. I knew I was down, but really… I was trying to process where I was in life, how I got there, and if there was any direction left for me to go.
Once a day, a psychiatrist would come talk to me for 30 minutes or so.
Over a couple of days, I noticed everyone else on the floor with me. Many were old, but there was one younger person there—a girl my age.
We hit it off.
We both had issues with parents that directly or indirectly led to our situation.
I memorized her number, and after we got out, I hit her up.
Michigan and Marriage
The landlord came by while I was in the hospital and told me I was evicted because I hadn’t gotten enough work done.
So I was homeless again.
I had maybe $100.
I’d heard from my parents that it would take three fill-ups to make it to Michigan where my grandparents lived (my grandpa on my dad’s side).
Life was in shambles where I was, so I left town.
I moved in with my grandparents and got a job at a grocery store as a night-shift stocker.
My grandparents gave me all the attention I’d ever wanted.
I loved my grandparents.
After a few weeks, they said I should be thinking about what’s next. I suppose I was wearing out my welcome.
This whole time I was in Michigan, maybe six weeks, I talked on the phone with my long-distance girlfriend that I’d met in the psych ward.
It was a marriage of convenience.
Neither of us could afford to be independent for real… but together, with both of us working, we could.
So we were going to elope.
But she and her parents talked us into getting married at their church.
And so I was married three months after meeting my wife at the time.
A match made in hell.
We didn’t know each other. We were in a lot of things. We were in a bind financially, living separately, in lust… not real love.
But we did like each other a lot.
My Dad, Again
My dad… this whole time… I worked with him on and off.
It was a love/hate relationship after he kicked me out. Also a relationship of convenience. He needed help, and I needed money.
After working for chump change—maybe $100/week—for 6–8 weeks on a job, I asked Dad to get paid in full.
He said he didn’t have it. That he’d spent the money. That he was probably going to have to ask the owner for more money just to finish the job.
I wanted to hurt my dad.
I chased him with a roofing hammer with the intention of using it.
He called the cops.
I stopped running when I saw that. I walked to my truck and peeled out of there.
I didn’t talk to my dad again for years. Maybe ten years.
Now
Twenty-seven to thirty years later… somewhere in there… I go to the same church as my dad, but we mostly say hey in passing.
Occasionally we’ll pray together at church.
Maybe twice a year I go out to eat with them to satisfy the little boy in me that still wants my dad’s approval.
I never did get his approval.
And I’m angry with myself that I care enough about him still to admit that I still want his approval.
What do you do with a parent that never admits fault, and gaslights you when you confront them?
My answer has been to cut them off.
But almost 30 years later, many of those old wounds are still open.
Time went by, but I didn’t get over it.
God, Help Me Forgive
God, how do I move on from this to the point that when I think of my parents I’m not angry… that I can forgive them?
God, they don’t deserve my forgiveness… but I need to give it anyway, for my sake.
God, I need You.
Please save my soul.
I’m not much of anything but a hot mess.
It’s been Your sustaining grace that’s kept me afloat all these years.
I have imposter syndrome in every aspect of life.
God, I don’t understand the point of my life.
Everyone that knows me thinks I’m dirty—stained with all my butt-hurt feelings, inadequacies, and self-loathing.
I’ve prayed for death. For You to take me so many times I can’t number them.
But You’ve instead asked me to write.
I don’t know if anyone will ever read this, or why I should even post this online.
Maybe because there are other people with similar situations?
Or maybe this is just me putting my feelings down on paper so I can go back and read them later… and hopefully compare those feelings to my current feelings… and see a delta.
God, please save me.
Please wash away all the shame, self-loathing, and desire for cessation of my being.
Put it under the blood.
God, I have kids.
A daughter with my ex-wife, who has babies of her own.
Two boys with my wife of 21 years.
Please save my family, and erase these hidden personal, spiritual, and life issues.
God, I want to be clean, holy, righteous.
I want to be able to help Your Kingdom grow.
I don’t understand how this could help, but the only thing I hear back is to write.
This is what I can think to write today.
Good night, God.
I’ll write tomorrow.