I am more thankful than words can offer for the year I had with my son in the aftermath of his incarceration. Having been deprived of family, he was trying so hard to reconnect with each of us and in that sense he was in a very real way our benefactor, or at least he was mine.
For him and the 16 others of his generation, the roots of family ran deep and I was reminded that while family can be augmented with the closest of friends it cannot be altogether replaced. That whether your family ties are fine as thread or stout as iron, unless you sever them with determined intention, they will always call to you with a gentle tugging.
“These are the people of your youth” they say. “Keep them close, no matter how trying they and a relationship with them might seem at times; they are your people, your identity, a reminder of who you are.”
Tim became a living reminder of familial identity, and I can honestly say there is no greater blessing. If we are fortunate, we have many such blessings. The day we realize we that we have found love. The day our children are born. They day we realize they have become adults. But none of them is greater than a child lost and then returned. It is sometimes only in the losing that we can more completely comprehend the value of what was lost, and in its return, should we be so fortunate, there is an order of magnitude more joy.
That entire year, I yearned not only to reconnect with my son and to establish a renewed father-son bond, I also wanted to be like him. I wanted to emulate the strength he demonstrated in his tenacity to overcome adversity tempered by the tenderness of compassion for others. I wanted to follow his example in the continual forgiveness I saw him mete to everyone. I wanted to be the kind of man my son was becoming.
There was no better example than Father’s Day of that year, June 16, 2013.
I received an unexpected call from Tim that morning. He wished me happy Father’s Day and then announced he was in town, which was a surprise to me.
“Why aren’t you in Fort Worth with your mother? Is this OK with your parole officer?”
“Yes. I have permission to travel. I just have to check in and let him know my whereabouts.”
“So what brings you to town?”
“I’ve met someone, dad.”
“A girl no-doubt.”
“Yes, dad; she’s a girl, and I want you to meet her. Are you free for lunch?”
“Of course.”
I followed the directions to his girlfriend’s house and knocked on the door. He answered and standing behind him was a woman about his age.
“Dad, this is Donna. Donna, this is my father.”
In that moment, two things were remarkable. The smile on her face and the fact that he referred to me as father. Her smile, like his, was infectious, large and extending from chin to eyes. There was a closeness between the two of them I had never seen with him before, and it underscored his introductory choice, father.
He directed us to a Chili’s and on the way he and I made small talk as she sat quietly and attentively listening. The small talk continued as we were seated in a booth and the server asked to take our drink order. Tim ordered a beer, which I thought was a parole violation, but I said nothing. I chose instead to share this moment in the way my son chose to spend it and ordered a beer as well.
He raised a toast to me and wished me Happy Father’s day again.
And there we sat, he and I, sharing a beer and conversation, none of which I remember at all. As you might imagination, what was said was not important. It was the being there that counted. I listened and glanced at his new-found love interest as she quietly nodded and smiled.
She seemed to have a knowing that this was an important moment for the two of us and I imagined that the two of them spoke about it in anticipation of my arrival.
I wonder, were you nervous as I was? Did you wonder as I did about whether this might be the moment where we once again found each other? Did you think as I did that this meeting was perhaps divinely appointed to reunite father and son?
I experienced all of that, and when all was said and done, we shared a beer, a meal, and our lives such as they were in that moment. And I saw the need of a son to be connected to his father. It was so clearly a deep, burning need to feel the closeness we lost two decades prior. And in that moment I recalled my desire to be like him and all the wonderful things I could see in him.
It wasn’t until much, much later after his accident that I came to understand why this sense of his drive for re-connection was so clear to me. This understanding materialized during one of several conversations I had with his best friend, Amber.
“He wanted so badly to have that father-son bond with you. He craved it.”
“I sensed that in him.”
“You were the man he wanted to be. He wanted be just like you. He saw that you understood how to forgive and to love in spite of how you might have been wronged. He looked up to you and that’s why he wanted to be in your life, to live your example.”
There are moments when our children turn the tables on us. I thought I knew my son, and I did in the sense that I knew his character, his heart, his intention in nearly every circumstance, but this revelation momentarily shattered my thinking.
Until that moment it never occurred to me that he might want to be like me. Even in our deepest estrangement as I called to him in private moments of prayer, it never occurred to me that he might look at me and see a man he wanted to be.
And as is so often the case, life presents an amazing irony. In the bright moments, I wanted to be like him, without an awareness of his reciprocation. And while this more complete understanding of my son is a great blessing, I can only wish that we had this knowing together while he was still with us.
This is the thing I learned in the last year of my time with my son:
Life is filled with invaluable blessings tempered by regrets that underscore just how wonderful each blessing is.
