I-YOUniverse

My family of origin was DYSfunctional. Like most of my blood relatives, Mom was an alcoholic. Dad chose to stay away from home a lot of the time. Having learned a little Freud, I blamed my mother for some of my problems. Though she was a dry drunk by my growing up years, she was difficult to live with.  I kept my distance.

A healing dream-vision

A few months after my mother died, I had a dream or vision, I don’t know which. I saw her as the woman clothed with the sun with a crown of 12 stars on her head (Revelation 12). She held me a baby in her arms and was singing “Mighty Lak a Rose.”

I actually remember a photo of me as a baby on the piano bench and that sheet music on the piano.

This vision healed the breach between my mother and me. I believe whatever was cruel or unpredictable in her is now gone, and she is the woman God created her to be. I feel very close to her.

Uncovering unwelcome truth

During my training in pastoral counseling I discovered some big sins of Dad’s. In the last ten years of his life, I lived across country. We talked on the phone now and then. When he was no longer able to live alone, my oldest sister and I worked together to get him into a nursing home of his choice.

She became his legal guardian. In court I stood beside his wheelchair, my hand on his shoulder, except for the moment when the judge asked him if he understood and agreed.

As we left the federal building in El Paso, the lawyer said, “Your father’s legally dead.”

Accepting and forgiving is a process

Dad’s mother was Mexican. He grew up in El Paso, speaking Spanish at home and hiding from the outside world his Mexican heritage. To this day the Hamilton roots are more prominent than the Mercado ones. I know a little of the Mexican story based on my Aunt Margaret’s remembrances.

Dad did some wonderful things. He was a Major in the Army, serving in World War II. He founded five Spanish-speaking missions in Juarez, Mexico, and one in El Paso. He was a lay preacher, and for awhile ministered among migrant workers. He was devoted to his grandchildren, rearing two.

I realize it’s not up to me to forgive Dad. It’s between him, those he wronged, and God. I’m certain he spent the last years of his life trying to atone for his sins.

Yet … I’m still in the process of accepting. On my graduating from Seminary Dad gave me an 1862 Greek New Testament, edited by Constantin von Tischendorf. On the cover leaf are the signatures of my great grandfather B. B. Hamilton, a Baptist minister, another Hamilton preacher, my father, and me. I have put this book away for now; though precious, it has very complicated meanings for me.

I am a Father, too

I’m a sinner, too. My sins aren’t like Dad’s. But nevertheless I stand in need of God’s grace.

I hope and pray my son, who will discover no surprises about me, has a Dad whom he can look up to, though not perfect. But one who loved him and loved his Mom more than life itself.

When I get to glory, I look forward to meeting the man God created my father to be.

Healing, blessing memories of Dad

For now, I have two memories:

One. As a ten year old I accompanied Dad to the San Juan Mission, where he preached in Spanish and English. One communion Sunday, I felt unworthy to partake. Dad noticed, stopped the service, and directed the servers to serve me.

Two. Dad and several fathers took a group of us boys camping in the desert. Early in the morning Buzzy Parks the PK and several of us set off on a trek by ourselves and got lost. I recall clearly seeing Dad coming toward us late in the day, red-faced, having searched for us in the scorching heat for long hours. That evening, I heard him on the phone with other parents defending me from being blamed for the misadventure.

So, my image of God is not of the waiting Father, but of the searching Father, who treated me in a no-fault way. In that as in many things he’s an example.

I love you, Dad.