Introduction

I am working on it. Forgiveness is not easy, especially when you are wronged egregiously, and even more so if the person also hurt one of your children. It is beyond anger at times. Sometimes when I think about it, the anger comes back, like a flood of anger. What do you do when the person is gone, they have died? You can’t confront them. I am left holding the bag, so to speak. There is no resolution possible. No justice, from a temporal, this lifetime, point of view. It is something that some of us have to deal with, and it can be quite stressful.

The passing of a loved one is never easy, but when complicated emotions linger unresolved, it can add layers of complexity to the grieving process. In my case, the passing of my father brought forth a myriad of emotions, not all of them easily reconcilable. His departure unearthed buried grievances, shrouded in the shadows of our relationship, leaving me grappling with a cascade of emotions that ranged from sorrow to anger and everything in between.

As I navigate through the corridors of my grief, I find myself confronting not just the loss of my father but also the unveiling of painful truths that have long been dormant. It’s as though his departure lifted a veil, revealing aspects of our relationship that I had either chosen to ignore or was unaware of altogether. The revelation that he had caused harm, not just to me but also to one of my children, left me reeling in disbelief and outrage.

The instinct to seek resolution is primal, an innate desire to confront the wrongdoer and demand answers, retribution, or at the very least, an acknowledgment of the pain inflicted. Yet, in the aftermath of his passing, such avenues of recourse are forever closed. The silence of death offers no solace, only a hollow echo of what could have been.

In the wake of this realization, I find myself at a crossroads, grappling with the daunting task of forgiveness in the absence of closure. How does one forgive when the perpetrator is no longer present to witness the magnitude of their transgressions? How does one find peace when justice remains elusive, confined to the realm of unattainable ideals?

The journey towards healing is fraught with challenges, each step a delicate balance between honoring the pain of the past and embracing the promise of the future. It is a process that requires patience, resilience, and above all, self-compassion. For in forgiving others, we ultimately forgive ourselves, releasing the burdens that tether us to the pain of the past.  True freedom from the pain of the past.

As I embark on this journey of healing, I am reminded that forgiveness is not a one-time act but rather a continuous practice, a daily commitment to letting go of resentment and embracing the transformative power of compassion. It is a choice that I make not just for myself but also for the generations that will follow, breaking the cycle of hurt and embracing the possibility of healing.

In sharing my story, I hope to shine a light on the complexities of grief and the transformative power of forgiveness. For it is only through confronting our pain and embracing the vulnerability of forgiveness that we can truly find peace amidst the storm.

Revisiting the Shadows

My wife and I sat scrolling through our streaming options for something to watch over the Easter weekend. We both wanted something with a deeper, more spiritual resonance, not necessarily religious, but fitting for the season, particularly on Good Friday. That’s when we stumbled upon “I Can Only Imagine,” starring Dennis Quaid and Trace Adkins in supporting roles. Little did I know then that this seemingly innocuous movie would unearth a flood of memories and ignite a fierce resolve within me to finally confront and put to rest the unresolved issues I harbored with my father.

“I Can Only Imagine,” a poignant and powerful film that delves into the complexities of forgiveness and redemption. Before delving further, a quick spoiler alert: significant plot details will be discussed ahead. The movie centers around the life of Bart Millard, the lead singer of MercyMe, and the tumultuous relationship he shared with his abusive father, Arthur. Set against the backdrop of Bart’s upbringing in Texas, the story follows his journey from a young boy enduring the pain of his parents’ fractured marriage to his pursuit of music as a means of escape. As Bart grapples with the emotional scars left by his father’s abuse, he finds solace in his burgeoning relationship with Shannon and his passion for music. Despite his father’s disapproval, Bart embarks on a journey to pursue his dreams in the music industry, leaving behind the shadows of his past. However, it is only through confronting his father and ultimately extending forgiveness that Bart finds true healing and closure. The film serves as a poignant reminder of the transformative power of forgiveness, even in the face of deep-seated pain and trauma.

I Can Only Imagine (2018) | Full Movie

The movie stirred up a whirlwind of conflicting emotions regarding my relationship with my father. Others may have thought I had forgiven my father, the truth was far more complex. In reality, I had simply pushed him to the periphery of my thoughts, choosing to ignore his presence rather than confront the pain he had caused. My coping mechanism was to say fuck it and fuck him, but that is just unresolved feelings with bitterness and resentment. But as I watched the film and reflected on the significance of Easter, coupled with my introspection during Lent, I realized that this approach was far from healing. It became evident that true healing requires more than just saying fuck it; it demands confronting the past, acknowledging the pain, and extending forgiveness, not for his sake, but for my own.  But how do I get to that point?

The Tumultuous Past

Growing up, I was the intellectual outlier in my family, often dubbed the “nerd.” My interests leaned towards science fiction, classical music, and classic black-and-white films. Curiosity was my constant companion, propelling me to seek understanding in the “why” of things rather than just the “how.” In contrast, my father was a blue-collar worker, his intellect characterized by simplicity rather than complexity. He excelled in manual labor and woodworking, his hands crafting various wooden creations with artistic finesse. My younger brother, closest to my age, mirrored my father’s mindset, approaching life with a similar straightforwardness and diligence. Decisions were made swiftly, without much deliberation, resulting in seemingly simple solutions to complex problems.

During our childhood, my father crafted a wooden paddle to discipline us. His strikes were forceful enough to break one of the paddles, prompting him to fashion a replacement with holes to reduce wind resistance. In today’s context, such actions would undoubtedly be viewed as abusive.  I recall bearing black and blue bruises on my buttocks on multiple occasions. While I understand that discipline was likely warranted for my actions, the severity of the punishment felt excessive. I can’t recall the specific infractions that led to these disciplinary measures, but I do know that they were not on par with the legal troubles some of the neighborhood kids found themselves in.

During my teenage years, I vividly recall the ongoing tension surrounding my father’s seemingly preferential treatment towards my brother, who tended to unquestioningly follow my father’s lead. A particular incident stands out in my memory: as my father demonstrated how to operate a table saw, my brother complied without hesitation, while my inquisitive nature led me to ask numerous questions and suggest alternative approaches. This, unsurprisingly, frustrated my father immensely. In hindsight, I realize that my incessant questioning stemmed from genuine curiosity rather than any desire to challenge his authority or assert my own knowledge. Unfortunately, at the time, my father likely misinterpreted my inquiries as defiance or arrogance, leading to further discord between us.  I wasn’t like him and I wasn’t the son he had wanted.

Throughout my upbringing and into adulthood, my relationship with my father remained strained. It wasn’t marked by animosity or hatred, but rather a profound sense of disconnect. I came to realize that our differences ran deep: I embraced intellectual pursuits, while he was more accustomed to the practicalities of blue-collar work. I distinctly remember overhearing remarks from him and my brother about the perceived superiority of their “real” work, further highlighting our contrasting worlds. As a result, I resigned myself to maintaining an emotional distance from my father, not expecting much in terms of a paternal bond. This mindset shielded me from disappointment, yet deep down, I couldn’t shake the innate desire for a meaningful connection with my father that seemed to elude us both.

The Only True Connection

Later in life, we discovered common ground when I became involved with local veterans groups and extended an invitation for my father to join me. To my surprise, my once introverted father blossomed into an extrovert among his peers, and we began volunteering together. Over the course of a few years, we grew closer through our shared support for local veterans. Additionally, both of us acquired Jeeps and harbored grand plans for off-roading adventures. Unfortunately, my father’s back issues prevented him from enduring bumpy rides for too long. Tragically, his back injury was ultimately the cancer that claimed his life. Despite the setbacks, it seemed as though we had finally found solid footing in our relationship. My father had retired and remained actively engaged in the community, particularly with the veterans’ groups that we participated in together. For the first time, my father and I shared common interests and experiences that brought us closer together.

However, during that period, I even remarked to my dad about how it was refreshing that we were finally getting along. It felt like we had developed a healthy relationship for the first time. Everything appeared to be great, or at least good, at that time. Around then, my brothers and their families, along with my parents, regularly gathered for weekly meals, and we always convened for holidays alongside close family friends. It all seemed idyllic. Somehow, we projected the image of a resilient family unit, with friends even commenting on our strength. It felt like we could withstand any challenge. That is, until a series of unrelated events unfolded within the family. Firstly, my father was diagnosed with cancer, and secondly, I announced my impending divorce. Individually, perhaps the family could have weathered either one of these events, but facing both simultaneously proved to be overwhelming. Our once unshakeable family structure began to reveal cracks in its foundation.

Family Under Attack

Describing my father can only be done as portraying him as a fundamentalist, staunchly opposed to divorce under any circumstance, among other peculiar beliefs. He held the conviction that reading the Bible once was sufficient, after which he believed direct guidance from God would follow. He also entertained the notion that divine protection would shield him while drinking and driving. Another curious belief was that he rode a motorcycle so that Jesus could experience it vicariously through him, as if Jesus desired such an experience. Furthermore, he held the belief that, as the patriarch of the household, his wishes were to be obeyed, and he attributed the preservation of our household to his faith. He fervently believed that Trump was divinely appointed by God.  Engaging in debates with him about these beliefs was commonplace, and while he occasionally listened, it remains unclear whether his views evolved over time. These debates epitomized the classic struggles between father and son, pitting my theological background against his unorthodox and often self-serving perspectives.

As my ex-wife and I were in the midst of divorce proceedings, I found myself residing in a separate room within the household and had recently divulged the news of our impending divorce to my parents. Despite this, I was still residing in the same home with my ex-wife when I began a relationship with my current wife, adding further complexity to the situation. Regrettably, I chose not to disclose this to my ex-wife or my family, perhaps not the most rational decision, but one made in the midst of emotional turmoil and pain, seeking solace in the only thing I felt I could hold onto. When the truth eventually came to light, it was misconstrued as a longstanding affair, despite the fact that my ex-wife and I had already decided upon divorce, and I had been actively trying to move forward from that moment onward.

My ex-wife threatened to disclose to my parents some childhood abuse I had endured, a secret I had never shared with them. To this day, I remain uncertain of her motivations. Was it retaliation, or perhaps a bid to cast herself in a more favorable light amidst our divorce? Regardless, her actions confirmed to me that she was waging a campaign against me, painting me as the villain while portraying herself as the virtuous victim. She even went as far as attributing my past trauma as the primary cause of our divorce, a narrative that was not hers to dictate. My history was a deeply personal story that I had kept to myself, only confiding in one other person whom I had believed I could trust, only to discover otherwise. Consequently, I made the difficult decision to confront my parents about my trauma, despite not feeling emotionally prepared to do so. Up until that point, my family had been grappling with the inexplicable nature of our divorce. To them, I had always been the sturdy pillar of our family, and the realization that I couldn’t salvage my own marriage was bewildering. I had become adept at concealing my emotions, so much so that everyone believed I was coping well.

Following my conversation with my parents about the trauma, along with additional details – a tale for another time – they became convinced of my ex-wife’s perspective. This prompted them to embark on a crusade to salvage both me and the marriage. My father assumed the role of leader, employing emotional manipulation to coerce me into remaining with my ex-wife. Employing tactics such as emotional blackmail, he would often cite scripture and even went as far as to suggest that divorcing my ex-wife would lead her to damnation. The pressure was immense, with one of my younger brothers siding with him. During my visits, they would both relentlessly criticize me, making it clear why they believed I was wrong. The intensity of this pressure reached such extreme levels that I contemplated admitting myself to a hospital. The stress became unbearable.

I distinctly recall a particular incident when they cornered me in the room where I was staying at the house. They refused to give me any space, all of them standing at the doorway, relentlessly listing reasons for me to remain married. I felt utterly trapped; they wouldn’t budge, and all I wanted to do was escape. The urge to jump out the window and flee overwhelmed me. I longed to curl up into a ball, the emotional anguish becoming unbearable.

Under the weight of pressure, I succumbed and remained with my ex, attempting to salvage the relationship. However, this endeavor only reinforced the grim reality: the marriage was irreparably broken. My family’s treatment of me shifted, relegating me to the status of an outcast. It wasn’t until I made the decision to move out that the criticism resumed with heightened intensity. Concurrently, my father’s battle with cancer escalated in severity.

The issue wasn’t about being right or wrong; for all intents and purposes, he disowned me. And then he passed away. He never accepted my new wife, resorting to hurtful remarks whenever she was present, such as implying that he had three daughters-in-law and she wasn’t one of them. He placed the blame squarely on me, portraying me as the destroyer of the family. Indeed, after enduring this turmoil, the family is irreparably shattered. It was a culmination of numerous factors that led to the near-total breakdown of the family, with the seeds of discord sown long before my divorce.

During the final months of my father’s life, my daughter revealed to the family that she was a lesbian. This revelation posed a challenge for my extremely conservative father and brother. My divorce was also held responsible for this situation. To some extent, I had distanced myself from the family, primarily to focus on healing and addressing the lingering financial ramifications of my previous marriage. However, my stress levels remained elevated, and panic attacks became a regular occurrence. Even now, as I write this, I can feel the anxiety resurfacing.

The Entire Family Was Fractured

Undoubtedly, the entire family suffered from the turmoil. I had implored my brother to assume the leadership role that I typically occupied. I urged him to guide the family towards reconciliation, to be the one to construct bridges and to include not only my ex-wife but also my children, demonstrating the love necessary for healing. Historically, I had taken the lead in such situations. Whenever a divorce occurred or news emerged, I would remind everyone and set an example by affirming our continued love for those involved and the importance of supporting them. Unfortunately, my brother did not step into this role. Leadership wasn’t typically his forte, and while I understand, I found myself unable to lead the family, because I had lost all influence within the family.

My father once confided in me about his strained relationship with his own father, expressing regret that he had never conveyed his love to him. Despite recognizing the weight of this regret, he chose to leave our own relationship unresolved. In the final moments before his passing, I seized the opportunity to express my thoughts to him, addressing his actions and proposing a path towards healing for the family. However, he remained steadfast in rejecting me and disregarding anything I had to say. Whether it was the effects of chemotherapy or the ravages of cancer, his demeanor seemed transformed, almost as if he was possessed. Nevertheless, I found some solace in the fact that I had the chance to speak my truth before his departure.

During this period, I distinctly sensed that my father’s cancer worsened in tandem with his deteriorating treatment or sentiments towards me. It felt almost like a form of divine retribution. While I won’t assert causality, it appeared to me at the time that the more he distanced himself from me, the more aggressive the cancer became. I perceived the cancer as a tangible representation of the malignancy within his soul. It was as though his physical body and spiritual essence were intertwined, both decaying in unison. Let me clarify: I do not claim to speak for God on this matter, but rather can only express my own feelings.

On the day I spoke my mind to my father, the entire family was present, and heated arguments were erupting in every room. My brother was in the same room with my wife and me, but she had stepped out momentarily. In her absence, my daughter entered and began vehemently criticizing my father for his words to me. My brother intervened, advising her not to address her grandfather in such a manner. I came to her defense, prompting my brother to exit and retreat outside. Despite my attempts to reason with my father, it proved futile. Subsequently, my daughter confronted my brother, and in the moment, I assumed she was reproaching him as well.

Later, I discovered that my daughter had spoken with my brother and disclosed actions my father had committed against her when she was a child. I wasn’t aware of this until later on. However, during her confrontation with my father, I vividly recall her shouting that he was a hypocrite and had no right to label me or anyone else as a sinner because he was aware of his own transgressions. In retrospect, I now understand the weight of her words. Additionally, she whispered something into his ear, undoubtedly reminding him of his own faults.

Shortly afterward, my brother confronted my father, who was likely on his deathbed by that point, and he admitted to what he had done to my daughter. Later—though I’m uncertain how much time had elapsed—he informed me and our other brother. They had both already spoken with their daughters to determine if similar incidents had occurred with them. Both daughters confirmed that nothing had happened to them.

“Our fathers sinned, and are no more; It is we who have borne their iniquities.” Lamentations 5:7

Now, we understand that the true cancer that nearly tore apart our family wasn’t my divorce, my child coming out, or even the death of my father. The real cancer was the abuse that occurred over a decade ago. We are left to pick up the shattered fragments, if we can. My brother promptly relocated out of state and scarcely communicates with me anymore. I’m certain he took the news harshly. He had held my dad in high regard, and learning about the concealed monster shattered the pedestal he had placed my dad upon. I’m unsure if he has confronted this realization, as it appears he’s merely evading it. I could be mistaken, and it’s possible that this is only one of many contributing factors, but the revelation undoubtedly unsettled him.

How do I navigate the path towards forgiveness, both for myself and my child? While forgiving my father for his mistreatment of me is one thing, grappling with the molestation of my child presents an entirely different challenge. I’ve reached a point where I don’t seek my father’s validation for my divorce or my life; I believe I’ve come to terms with that. However, reconciling with the mistreatment inflicted upon my child is a struggle I cannot fathom. What steps can I take in such a situation? 

I still harbor anger about it. Even now, when I reflect on the past, I can feel that anger bubbling up inside me. I’m filled with an urge to lash out and scream! Yet, I’m unable to hold him accountable; he’s passed away. Perhaps his battle with cancer and eventual death served as his punishment, but that realization brings me no solace. I understand that forgiveness doesn’t mean condoning his actions or believing they were acceptable. It’s about liberating oneself from the grip of hatred, anger, resentment, and the desire for revenge that we cling onto. I detest the way it makes me feel and the emotions and thoughts it provokes within me. It’s like poison infiltrating my life, and I yearn to move forward. Not to dismiss what happened, but to reach a point where it can no longer inflict harm upon me. Each time it crosses my mind, I feel wounded anew. Even in death, he continues to haunt me, and by dwelling on it, I’m only adding to my suffering.

I recognize that both my child and I are bound by chains, unable to break free from this burden, and achieving true healing may necessitate assistance from both of us. I’m uncertain if I can fully heal until my child does. I witness the profound pain and suffering inflicted upon my child by this ordeal. I’m all too familiar with how such trauma can linger indefinitely, like a dark shadow that, even if concealed, continues to cast its ominous presence over every aspect of life.  If left unaddressed, it has the potential to gradually erode one’s well-being, regardless of how skillfully it’s concealed. It is the destroyer of relationships and peace.

I do have faith in miracles, and I believe that God has the power to bring healing to this situation. However, I don’t think my child shares the same perspective. Nonetheless, I pray fervently for my child’s healing every day. Many individuals attest to experiencing genuine healing through Christ. It’s as if we require an extraordinary infusion of love, and that’s precisely what Good Friday and Easter symbolize. Watching the movie, I found myself in tears for almost the entire duration. Witnessing the potential for healing depicted in the film reaffirmed my desire for both my child and myself.

Prayer

God, I come before you seeking healing for myself and my child. I acknowledge the pain and suffering that we have endured, and I humbly ask for your divine intervention to mend our wounds. Grant us the strength to confront our struggles and the courage to seek healing. May your love envelop us, bringing comfort and restoration to our hearts and minds. Guide us on the path towards healing and grant us peace as we journey forward. In Jesus name we pray, Amen.

Resources

• Helping Adult Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse to Disclose (Psychology Today)
• The Long-Lasting Consequences of Child Sexual Abuse (Psychology Today) 
• Resources and Support for Adults Who Experienced Sexual Abuse as Children (Stop It Now)