Thank You Father For You Have Sinned

I went to visit my father today. I see him maybe once a month, if we’re lucky. I was only going to be with him for two hours because I had a medical procedure to get done later in the day.

It will probably turn out to be nothing major, but it also could be something else.

After about 45 minutes, my father got up, said his goodbyes, and went to organize the garage—a task my mom confirmed had no urgency or hope of getting done that day.

On the train back home after my procedure, I sat with it. I watched the feeling of unimportance. I listened to the voice of unworthiness. They’re muted, I noticed with some relief. Still there, but blunt. Like being poked with a broom, rather than a sword.

I thanked the versions of me who got us here. The versions that carried the weight of it all for so long. The ones who had no choice but to learn the lessons of how not to be.

Then I thanked him, my father, for teaching me those lessons now that I’m a dad like him. For reminding me the importance of time spent. Of letting go of meaningless things. Of sacrificing your own anxiety, your own impulses, your own never-ending need to stay moving. For teaching me that the price of not stopping trumps everything else.

Thank you for showing me that I sometimes need to let go of all of me, so I can give it all to him.

Thank you father for you have sinned so that my son will never know the father I might have been: checked out, lost in self, tragically disconnected.

***

Maybe you have a version of this story. A parent who left the room when you needed them to stay. Who chose the garage, the tv, the next task over you. Who taught you that your presence was secondary.

Maybe all we can do is let those wounds teach us how to do things differently. To use the memory of the pain to catch ourself mid-distraction and tune all the way back in.

Maybe that’s where the healing hides: between who we decide we are and who we refuse to be.

- Will Watson

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