I used to

I used to be a runner. But I can't call myself a runner anymore. After all, a runner runs. With deserved pride, runners earn their title through sweat and time and miles. I walk; I jog. I can't yet call myself a runner.
I used to have a father. Having a father means you talk together and spend time together. Being a runner means you actually run. I want to run again, like I used to. I want to have my father back, like I used to. If I become a runner again, maybe I can get my father back.

I should be running

Every day I've been getting outside and attempting to run. (The hard part is changing into my running clothes and putting on my running shoes. Once I do that, there's no talking myself out of it). Most days I don't actually do much running. I hold my dad's watch in my hand but I don't use it because right now isn't about how far I go or how fast I go or whether I'm getting more running in than walking. Right now is about listening to my body and connecting with my grief. I take a deep breath and listen. I block out everything but the wind singing in my ears and let that carry me away. And walking feels really good. I'm silencing all thoughts that I should be running right now or I should just push myself when what my body is really saying is to ease into this. And then all of a sudden, my body actually feels a physical eagerness to begin to run. So I run. And I stop when I want to and start again when I want to. Again and again. And when I start tripping over my pride when a biker or a car comes into view, I have to remind myself what this time is about. I have to remind myself, this isn't about losing weight or getting back into shape. Those will be added benefits. There will come a time to push myself, but not today. Today is about listening to my body, connecting with my dad, breathing and moving through my grief, and coming back to life.
I walk down a long stretch of road and pass a cemetery on my left. But I barely notice it because my eyes are feasting on the sun setting over the lake.

Do we ever really know our parents?

I can't remember a single time my dad ever raised his voice. He was human though, he must have felt anger from time to time – was running his emotional outlet? I remember him crying twice as I was growing up and both times rocked my little world something fierce. The first time I saw my dad cry, it scared me so much I ran away from the dinner table. But when my dad became sick, he was a whole new man, he was free and open with his emotions, as if he was beyond the fears he had lived with his whole life. That must have felt so good to him. Towards the end, we cried on the phone together once. That's actually one of my favorite memories now – it was so raw and real and rare and redemptive. We didn't have many of those moments before he got sick.
I'm seeing more and more how I've become like my dad – so private and emotionally shutdown. It surprises me to see this. I never experienced my dad as an emotional person. Some of you who knew my dad before I did may be able to give me some insight into how he was back then. Was he ever emotional? Are there times you remember my dad angry? I don't know, maybe there was a switch for him or a shutting down. Or maybe he was always that way. For me, I know there has been a major change in me because up until the past 5 years, I've always been emotional. Shutting down is the opposite of who I want to be – the opposite of who I am! When I think about who I want to be (and hopefully who God is changing me into), I see myself as a butterfly or a wild flower – full of life and free with my emotions, free to give and receive and love and live wildly from my heart. That's who I feel I'm meant to be. I guess flowers have to grow before they bloom but right now I feel like a wilted flower. And even though I may not be a caterpillar anymore and I'm in the body of a butterfly, I don't fly. I don't show the colors on my wings. It's been so long that I don't know how to fly anymore. I don't try anymore. I feel much safer on the ground.
Was my dad's lack of emotion a protection for him? I don't remember him specifically talking about the fights between his parents - the yelling and pots and pans flying across the room - but I heard the stories from my mom. Did those fights just happen once or was it an ongoing thing? And I know a few of the scenes in my dad's life that hurt him deeply that he never seemed to get over. It's like one day he decided, I will never feel that scared again as I did as a little boy hiding behind the sofa while my parents fought. Or I will never be hurt or rejected again as I did when my girlfriend showed up at the school dance with another guy or when only a few of the classroom seats were filled when I taught a Sunday School class. Rather, he walked away from the dance and never spoke to the girl again. And he never taught a Sunday School class again.
I can see how shutting down has been a protection for me. But what am I protecting myself against? How have I refused to allow another to affect me? I was created sensitive and emotional and intense. I was created with such a depth to my emotions. I feel things so deeply. So what has happened to those feelings? I grew up feeling such a huge need for my dad. Such desperation and longing and pursuit... for what? I know my dad loved me. I always wanted more though... more of what? I just always felt this huge gaping need that I directed towards my dad. And yet as close as I wanted to be to him, I was even more scared of actually being close with him. I had a very ambivalent relationship with my dad. That seems to follow me into all of my relationships and in everything that I do. Was my dad ambivalent?
I couldn't ask directly from my dad what I wanted because for one, I didn't know myself what it was I wanted, and two, I was too scared of actually getting it (or of being hurt or rejected if I did risk to ask). Perhaps the huge gaping need should have been directed towards God rather than my dad. But instead, I directed it towards my first boyfriend. And I was deeply, deeply hurt in that relationship. I know I certainly limped away from that relationship making deals with the devil that I was never going to be that vulnerable again. I was never going to “love” that fiercely and give my heart away so completely like that again. So I involved myself in relationships with safe men – those who were also scared of intimacy, those who wouldn't require me to give much of my heart. And when a man came into my life who could potentially affect me deeply again, who could bring me healing and comfort, who wanted to truly know me and see me, well, I pushed that away. I froze up and shut down. I pushed and pulled – don't get too close but please, don't go away either.
And then, I went to grad school and was invited to enter into my own story more deeply (my heart and my pain) and allow others into those stories with me. I began to open up some of those doors that had been closed for so long. I stopped hanging out on the back porch waiting for those who were gone to return and instead started responding to the invitations at my front door. I stopped leaving my fence wide open for anyone and everyone to walk on in and tromp all over my rose bushes and liter all over my front lawn. I met Rob and was able to trust a little more and open my heart a little more and risk a little more. But then, my dad got sick and two months later he's dead.
And I'm back to square one. And now it's been four years. Four years of wondering, why am I so disconnected from my dad's death? Why do I feel like my life hasn't changed at all even though he's gone? Why have I not felt much of anything about his death? And now, if I were to open up that can of worms, what would come out? Yet, I'm finally at a place where it's worth it to me. Feeling dead and being stuck where I'm at is no longer ok with me. I want more. I want more for my marriage, for my counseling practice, for my relationships with family, friends, and God. I want more for my future, for the children I hope to one day have. I want more for me. I'm meant for more. I don't want to be on my deathbed before I realize and take in how loved I've been all these years. I don't want to wait until I'm dying to be able to express my feelings and give freely of my heart and my love. My dad was completely paralyzed and couldn't talk in the end, but as he was dying, he gave more of his heart and his love to me than he had while he was alive and well. I don't want to wait until everything is taken away from me – my health, my voice, my body, my life, my very breath. I want to begin today. Today, I will feel more in the moment and allow that to show on my face... even if, at first, I have to do it alone.

And what I keep coming back to, no matter how shut down I've become, God will not let me stay here. Without me knowing it, behind the scenes, he keeps fighting mightily for my heart. He's the One who's giving me desire for more and a heart for redemption and healing and life. And I'm so grateful for that. The battle is His and He's already won! If I truly believed that, I would live so differently, so fearlessly, so trustfully. So why am I still so scared to goto Him? How long has He been sitting on the beach, waiting for me to join Him? I know He's there; He keeps inviting me there. If I show up, would my dad be there too?

I miss you dad

April 2, 2006 will mark the four year anniversary of my dad's death. At age 64 he died from brain cancer. Not one, not two, not three, but four tumors in his brain. For years they didn't make a sound. By the time he was diagnosed he was already in end stage. And died two months later.
When I think about my dad, I think about running. Running was his life. He ran and ran and ran - 5k's, 10k's, marathons, triathlons, Thanksgiving Day turkey trots. He ran in Chicago, Las Vagas, LA, Maryland, Pennsylvania, Michigan. He planned business trips and vacations around races. He ran until he had to use the walls to steady himself as he walked down the hallway to his bedroom. Then came a wheelchair and then, completely paralyzed, he lay in his bed or the hospital's bed or the hospice's bed and then, his coffin bed.
Four years and yet, it's still not real that he's gone or perhaps more so, the way that he left. It doesn't make any sense, as if one could talk sense into cancer.
When I think about my dad, I don't see him sick. I see him running or biking or during our summer vacations in Charlevoix, Michigan, watching the boats in the harbor, sipping coffee from 7-11. Or I see him in the evenings, at home in Maryland, after a long day at work, sitting in the living room, eating sardines and a glass of wine in front of the TV, watching Dan Rather on the evening news, or The Dick Van Dyke Show, or the Mary Tyler Moore Show, the Bob Newhart Show or the Andy Griffith Show. His favorites. Now, in my own TV room, in my own home, I watch the reruns and think about my dad.
When I think about my relationship with my dad, I think about running. I grew up running with my dad. And as all father-daughter relationships go, it wasn't without it's rollercoaster of emotions. I didn't always enjoy it. I didn't always want to spend time away from my friends to run with my dad; I didn't always want to get up early Saturday mornings to run races. And at the time, I didn't know it but looking back now I can see that I didn't have to. I thought I had to. But really, I wanted to. It was what we did, together. It was time with dad. So, I ran through middle school, through four years of high school cross country, through my college years, my first heartbreak, my eating disorder and too many sad relationships with boys. Then I moved to Seattle for grad school and me and my running shoes explored the city. And though my dad was on the east coast and I was on the west coast, it was still our thing, our connection.
Then my dad died. And I haven't run since. Sure, I've jogged a little here & there. I've tried to start up again here and there. But I haven't been able to stick to it. So now, many pounds heavier and totally out of shape, I guess you could call this grief. Or I should say, unexpressed grief. Grief I'm holding onto as a last attempt to hold onto my dad. So with this blog, I begin. I lace up my shoes, wear my dad's racing watch, and begin again, in hopes that this time, I stick with it. After all, it's still our connection. It always will be.