Guilt Also? Isn't Grief Enough?

[My Son, Brian, and I, at the International Peace Gardens, 1987]

                          

In my last post I wrote about the events leading up to the death of my Father. That series of events raises a question.  If my Father was dying of cancer the summer of 1965, why would I have chosen to spend the last summer of his life working away from home at a bible camp?  Why would I wait until just three days before my Dad’s death to finally return home?

Well, those questions are painful and they reflect reality.  But I was not conscious of this at the time.  Like a swimmer who has gone out into the ocean too far and is struggling to return to shore, at that time I was struggling just to keep my head above water.  One of the ways I did that was by not allowing myself to consciously process what had just taken place.  But neglecting an issue never leads to healing.

In my post of July 31, 2015, about the death of my first wife, I talked about the repressed anger I had at God which complicated my grieving process after the deaths of both my Father and Mother.  Well, after my Dad died, I repressed the guilt I felt inside about not being with him the last summer of his life.

Who knows what toll repressed anger and grief take on our lives, but I carried both for many years.  In the case of my anger at God, that lasted some 15 years.  As for the guilt I felt about my Dad, that lasted 10 years.

As part of my studies to become a pastor, in 1975 I spent the summer in Boston taking a required course called Clinical Pastoral Education (CPE).  I was doing pastoral care in a geriatric hospital and also spending time in a small, ecumenical group of other clergy: a Catholic sister, a UCC female pastor, a UCC male pastor, who was our supervisor, and a male Baptist pastor.  In that group we not only critiqued each other’s pastoral visitation techniques, but we discussed our families of origin and how they had affected our approach to ministry.

That summer I had begun to have a dream about my Father.  I would receive the news that I was going to be granted a period of 24 hours to be with him, during which I could discuss anything I wanted.  I was elated and I could barely wait for my Dad to appear.  However, each time, just as I thought he was about to appear, I would awaken from my dream.  I was so disappointed!  I felt so empty and helpless!

This dream repeated itself several times, and each time it was almost exactly the same.

One day in group the assignment seemed rather simple.  I was supposed to tell everyone about my Father and our relationship.  I began to talk about Dad and then I began to feel this surge of emotion welling up from deep inside me.  All of a sudden I was convulsing in grief, and I looked up and addressed Dad:  “Dad, I’m sorry for abandoning you.  I am so sorry!  Can you ever forgive me?”

Then there was silence, and the group got up and gathered around me.  Finally one of them said, “You know, Brian, you feel you did not love your Dad enough to stand by him as he was dying.  The truth is you loved him so much you could not stand to see him die.”

That was the truth.  It took awhile for it to sink in, but it was the truth, and I knew it was the truth.  I never had that dream again, and, for the most part, I have been able to live the last 40 years without feeling guilty about my last days with my Father.  Once again I have been able to celebrate the wonderful relationship we always had.   But, as so often happens in life, the pain of grief had been compounded by another unresolved emotion: in this case, guilt.

It did, however, make me a better pastor.  I can smell guilt when it is mixed in with the other emotions of grieving, and sometimes am able to draw it out in a helpful way, and, if need be, to pronounce absolution.

[Golfing with Brian, ca. 1996]

                                                   

A few years later, in 1985, the year after my son was born, I went into therapy to deal, in part, with the losses I had experienced.  I brought up my relationship with my Father.  Gail, my therapist, helped me work through what had happened, and when I said that I still regretted what I had lost by not having spent more time with Dad as he was dying, she replied:  “Brian, you were 14-years old then.  You coped the best you could.  Your task now is not to look back, but to look ahead.  The way you will continue to love your Father is by loving your son, and being the best Father you can to him.  This is how healing comes: not by going back, but by going forward with what we have experienced and learned, painful though it may have been.”

My Father Died Fifty Years Ago Today

             

[Edrei Arnold Erickson, 1911-1965]

                                                               

Fifty years ago today my Father died.  He had been battling cancer for nearly a year.  Typical of most 14 year-olds, I had no idea how to deal with his illness and what it was doing to him and to us.  I wanted to be with him, but it was so painful to see how the disease was ravaging his body.  How much do I live my life as normal, and how much do I adjust it to be with him?

Of course, those are the reflective thoughts of an adult, looking back all those years.  At the time I had little ability to reflect; I was just reacting to events the best I could.

I adored by Dad.  He was my hero.  He spent endless time with my younger brother and me.  We played baseball catch in the summer, football in the fall.  He taught me how to play golf.  He took us hunting each fall.  He attended nearly all of our baseball, football, and basketball games.

He took us to scouts.  To junior choir rehearsals.  And, with Mom, to church every Sunday.  During the summer we always left for church a bit earlier than usual.  Dad’s goal was to get a seat by one of the open windows in our non-air conditioned sanctuary in hopes of catching a bit of a breeze.

I didn’t talk much about religion or faith or church with my Dad.  He left those discussions to Mom, the daughter of a Methodist pastor.

That changed when he became ill.  He spent many long hours alone.  He read his Bible and devotional books.  He listened to his favorite hymns, sung by George Beverly Shea.  I think my older brother might even have gotten him a record of Elvis Presley singing gospel songs.  That took a bit of adjustment by Dad, but he was hungry for the Gospel wherever he could find it.

I had gone to Bible Camp the past two summers, and applied to be a Counselor in Training at that camp the summer after Dad had been diagnosed with cancer.  I can still remember the moment the Camp Director walked into my high school shop class, as I was building a ping pong table, to inform me that I had been accepted as a counselor.

This created a conflict at home.  My Mom wanted me to stay home that summer.  Dad thought it would be good for me to go and work at camp.  I ended up going to camp.

Early in August Mom called to tell me Dad was getting worse, and I needed to leave camp early and come home.  She picked me up in Dad’s pride and joy, his 1958 pink Buick Special.

When I got home I found that Dad could hardly eat anything and was restricted to bed. He called for me to come into his bedroom.  He then told me the story of his faith journey.

He said he had been quite serious about his faith growing up and especially when he was a student at Wheaton College in Chicago, where he had gone on a baseball scholarship.  He then explained that, over the years, church had become something to belong to and be involved in, but he had not focused much on his relationship to God.

That had changed in the past year.  Through Bible reading, listening to Christian music, having visits with our pastor, Elmo Anderson, and discussions with Mom his faith had deepened again, and he had realized what he had been missing the past several years.  He told me that is why he had wanted me to go to Bible camp that summer, because he felt it would be important to my own faith journey. 

I thanked Dad for letting me go to camp and told him of some of the deeply spiritual experiences I had had, and how I was beginning to think that maybe I should consider becoming a pastor.

Dad died on August 12, 1965.   I tried to be strong.  I tried to trust my faith.  I tried to let my family and friends console me.  But I was broken.  Totally broken.  And lost.  Like a good Norwegian boy, I tried to hide my pain.

Anne Lamott writes:  “When I die, the people to whom I am closest should grieve forever.  They should never quite get over me.  Otherwise I will seem dead to them, no matter how close I may secretly be.” [Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair, 40.]

Dad, I have never gotten over your death.   I never will.  And I don’t want to. 

Thanks for not only sharing your faith with me, but even more so, for the unconditional grace and love I always felt from you.  I don’t know how you did it, but there has never been a moment in my life when I did not feel loved by you.