Dad never spoke much about his growing up years, not to mom, not to us kids. But we've learned enough about those years to know that they set him on the path to a life of abuse and failure.
It wasn't just that he and his two younger sisters grew up in a tiny two-bedroom home or that their Dad worked in a pottery factory making toilets and sinks. Rather, it was that Dad felt like he could never please his parents. He was the oldest and only son, yet they poured what time and money they had into his sisters. The girls had a bedroom, he had a roll away bed in the dining area just off of the front room; they had dance lessons and beautiful dance costumes for recitals, he had boy scouts at school. I eventually discovered the physical, mental, and emotional abuse he endured, doused with lots of ridicule.
I didn't know my paternal grandparents well. My images of them come from a collection of Christmas Eves that, sadly, don't equal even a couple of days' worth of time. They were drinkers and smokers who liked playing cards and socializing at the local club. We would stop by their house every Christmas Eve, usually catching them getting ready to celebrate at the club.
"Well look here, Jimmy. It's Mel and the family. Look how big the kids have grown," grandma would holler, as grandpa sort of wobbled in from the back of the house. Back then I thought he was feeble; now I know he had probably been drinking. Smoke streamed from their noses and mouths, and for an hour we sat in the fog, opened gifts, and listened to their raucous laughter and talk as they caught up on the past year. We never stayed long and even though my mom was friendly, I always sensed that she didn't like my Dad's parents much. I thought it was because they were "sinners" and we were "Christians." I'm sure the different lifestyles played a role, but it was more than that.
Dad's past
One night when I was fifteen or so, Dad took me to a youth event at a church a couple of hours away. To fill the driving time, he told me the story of how his parents had kicked him out of the house when he was a teen. "You know I met your mom in high school and started going to church with her." Yes, I knew. That story was part of the "be not unequally yoked" lesson mom and Dad told us in our early teens. They clearly explained that mom couldn't date Dad until he became saved and neither could we date anyone who was unsaved.
"Well, my mom and Dad got pretty upset that I wanted to go to church instead of to the club," he continued. "They started making fun of me and calling me 'church-boy.' They thought I was a sissy for wanting to go to church instead of drinking with them at the club. But I never did like going to the club with them. They'd get drunk and loud. It embarrassed me." I had visions of them on Christmas Eve, and when I pictured a crowd of people like them smoking, drinking, talking, and laughing in that loud, exaggerated way, I could understand.
"At first I went to church because I liked your mom, but then I got saved and that really made them mad. They gave me an ultimatum. I had to choose between home and family or church and God. I chose God so they kicked me out. That's just how they were. I went home from church one night and there were my clothes, sitting on the front porch." I sat stunned. I couldn't imagine being kicked out of my home by my parents. Dad moved in with an aunt and uncle until he could graduate from high school, get a job, and get his own home when he and my mom married.
I had seen pictures of their wedding ceremony, set in the living room of grandma and grandpa's house where my mom had been raised. Mom and Dad, both nineteen years old, grinned as they stood behind a table in the living room and fed one another cake. As a little girl, I even tried on the pale pink wool dress that my mom had worn for her December wedding. I grew up thinking that all weddings from that era took place in homes, without the formality of tuxes and white wedding gowns.
I asked Dad how he and his parents had made up. "It took a while," he said. "They wouldn't speak to me at all for two or three years. Then after you were born, I decided to take you to their house so they could see you. I knew they might slam the door in our faces, but I hoped it would bring reconciliation and it did. When they opened the door and saw us standing there with a baby, they welcomed us in and that was that. They acted like nothing had ever happened."
And that's as much as Dad ever told me about his past, but I could hear the pain and embarrassment in his voice, so I never asked for more. What further information I discovered came in bits and pieces.
I'm not sure whether Dad realized he had been a victim of child abuse. He never acted like a victim, never acted entitled to special concessions. And I'm sure he never realized that many of his struggles in life were the results of that abuse.
The constant ridicule and mistreatment by his parents kindled a frustration that exploded in a temper and singed much of our family life. One of my earliest memories is of a fight between my mom and Dad. I must have been about four years old then. I heard a crash and ran into the kitchen where I saw a dinner plate shattered on the floor between them. I started toward my mom, drawn by her tears, but stopped at Dad's booming "Go out, now!" That was my introduction to my Dad's temper. As his self-control strengthened, Dad stopped breaking things, but his temper seemed to simmer beneath the surface and would flare whenever we got too rowdy or when my mom nagged.
Dad's love for us poured out with his prayers.
Dad's prayer life was, no doubt, instrumental in his ability to reign in his temper. Though his anger would bubble up, it eventually stopped spilling out in physical action. Yet, as loud as he raised his voice in anger, he also raised it in prayer daily. He repented often for his anger, his temper, his lack of patience, and he prayed for his church, his family, and himself. He never failed to mention each of our names as he prayed that "God's will" would be done in our lives. Dad's love for us poured out with his prayers.
A less recognizable effect of his childhood was his struggles as a pastor. His abusive childhood had fostered a lack of identity and self-confidence, qualities needed for leadership that can't be taught in a Bible class. Dad's zeal for God, his passion to do God's will, and his ability to work well with people made him seem like leader material, but at that time lay leadership was rare, at least within our fellowship. So in his desire to help people, and probably subconsciously to find identity, he became pastor of a couple of small churches. Unfortunately, his pastorates were short lived, further escalating his lack of identity and self-confidence. Although he related well with the church members and made great friends, that wasn't enough to grow or sustain a church.
Through the joys and pains of taking and leaving churches, Dad remained faithful to God, and he never lost his great desire to do God's will and to help people.
Through the joys and pains of taking and leaving churches, Dad remained faithful to God, and he never lost his great desire to do God's will and to help people. He spent hours talking to various pastor friends about finding and doing God's will, and eventually moved to a church where he found healing and identity. He discovered that he could minister to and influence more people through lay ministry within a larger church than by trying to pastor a small church. Within the safety of co-laboring with a group of leaders, Dad's ministry began finally to flourish.
Dad's reconciliation
As Dad struggled to find his place in life, my brothers and I also struggled with the changes in cities, homes, schools, and churches. Probably most painful to Dad were the difficulties he felt he had with establishing relationships with his three sons. Dad knew how to relate to me, having seen his parents relate well with his sisters, but relating to my brothers seemed to be a different story. We have multiple home video shots of his wrestling on the floor with them and their laughing and loving that contact with Dad. As they grew, each took his turn working long hours with Dad on his building and carpet laying jobs, but the long hours of work, lack of patience, and quick anger hindered the kind of relationship Dad would have liked with his sons—another measure of his self-worth.
Unfortunately, Dad never considered the many imperfect patriarchs whom he so admired. He taught lessons about the faith of Abraham who was willing to sacrifice his son Isaac, and Moses who led the Israelites from Egypt to the Promised Land, and God's beloved David who faced and conquered mighty Goliath. Yet he never taught how Abraham told multiple lies to protect himself and Sarah from foreign kings, how he failed to recognize that the God who directed their steps could also protect their lives. Dad didn't preach about Abraham's poor parenting of Ishmael, the son of the concubine Hagar, he'd taken in his impatience to see God's promise. Then there's Moses who refused to obey God without Aaron acting as his voice and later disobeyed God by striking the rock instead of speaking to it. Dad certainly didn't consider the mess King David made in his family and his kingdom by not dealing with the incest, anger, and murder that took place amongst his children. If Dad ever considered the paradox of these patriarchs' lives, he could have seen himself as a Moses, Abraham, or David.
The Bible doesn't record these patriarchs ever reconciling or making restitution, but Dad did finally make peace with the failures and disappointments of his early years and develop strong relationships with his sons. Today, they recall fond memories of their times wrestling in the floor and laying carpet with Dad.
About ten years after Dad and mom moved to their final church, my husband, Mike, agreed to become the senior pastor there, so I was blessed once again to attend church with my parents. My children spent much time at Mamaw and Papaw's house; in those first years they saw Papaw's temper touch the surface occasionally, but they heard him pray much more often. Over the next twenty-one years, I watched Dad's anger and frustration diminish and his confidence and ministry grow as he gained his identity.
Dad never missed a church service, a prayer meeting, or an offering pan, and he reaped great blessings for his faithfulness and commitment.
On the other hand, many things remained the same. Dad never missed a church service, a prayer meeting, or an offering pan, and he reaped great blessings for his faithfulness and commitment. He enjoyed seeing first his children, then his grandchildren, and finally his great grandchildren in various ministry roles in the church. At any Sunday service, he might sing along with his children and grandchildren who play instruments and sing on the praise team, then watch his great grandchildren worshipping in dance with one of the dance teams, and finally hear his son-in-law preach. Those were answers to his prayers and the rewards of his consistent sowing into God's kingdom.
Dad did not bequeath anger, abuse, or failure to his children and grandchildren. Instead, we inherited a love for God and a desire to be faithful and committed in our service to him.
Behavioral scientists tell us that anger and abuse perpetuate from generation to generation, that children of abusers become abusers or marry abusers, but in spite of the abuse and resulting struggles and failures, Dad did not bequeath anger, abuse, or failure to his children and grandchildren. Instead, we inherited a love for God and a desire to be faithful and committed in our service to him. Consequently, our lives escaped the path established by genetics and environment.
Dad's legacy
On November 1, All Saints' Day, my father slipped out of his mortal garment and into his immortal one. I stood at the foot of the casket, my mom at the head, and my brothers in line beside her as person after person walked by to pay respect. I later learned that hundreds of people had lined down the center church aisle, out the door into the lobby, wound down one hall, turned the corner and ended halfway down another. For hours, we shook hands, hugged, and cried as these precious folks told story after story about how my Dad had influenced their lives.
Many of them told me, "Your Dad was the first person who spoke to me and welcomed me when I started coming to this church. I joined because of him." Or "Not a Sunday went by that your Dad didn't shake my hand and spend time talking to me. He even played with my kids." And best of all, "I'm serving God today because of your Dad."
The most telling comment came after the funeral at which Dad's children and grandchildren had honored him with music and tributes. A young father told me, "I admire your Dad so much. To have served God faithfully all these years, to see his children, his grandchildren, and his great-grandchildren serving God, that's an amazing accomplishment. I want my daughters to talk about hearing me pray and know that I've had that kind of influence on their lives. I want to leave that kind of legacy."
When we think about Dad's life, we see—as with Abraham, Moses, and David—the results of his faithfulness not his problems.
With that, I realized Dad had joined the ranks of the patriarchs, at least in the minds of his family and this congregation of people. When we think about Dad's life, we see—as with Abraham, Moses, and David—the results of his faithfulness not his problems. We see that God continues to turn the unlikeliest of lives into patterns for others to follow.
Roberta Henson is professor of English and the director of the Writing Center at Indiana Wesleyan University.
