I hope that it is never too late to say thank you. Even when death reminds you of the chances you missed to do so.
I recently received sad news.
My longtime friend let me know that her father had passed away. And although I hadn’t seen him since her wedding day 25 years ago, I was struck with a deep sadness.
Sadness that a very good man's work on Earth is now done, of course. But far more so, sadness that I had not thanked him for the significant role he played in re-shaping my definitions of father and family.
I’m not going to use names in this writing. This is out of respect for the very private moment that is a family's grief. But it is also out of the understanding that my memories of 40 years ago are like my hair these days: graying and tangled and sometimes falling out. And some of those hairs retain the false hues of years of fake color.
So, today I walk backwards up a mountain of memories.
I met my friend and her family when I was in junior high school and living on a small Army base outside of Frankfurt, Germany. Her father was the new commander of the base; my step-father was an enlisted Air Force soldier assigned to a tiny radio relay station nearby.
When I peer through the fog of memory, I see my friend and her siblings stepping onto the school bus soon after arriving on that tiny island in the middle of a country that was not our own. I see their shy smiles, their faces set against the sure scrutiny that came with not only being new on the bus, but also “the commander’s kids.”
In the replay of this moment I see myself scooching over on the green leather bus seat hoping the youngest of the trio would sit beside me. She had kind eyes and red hair and I thought she was beautiful. I was fairly new too and didn’t have many friends. I picture our immediate connection. But like I said, it’s likely I have re-colored that day and the others I’ll describe here. Maybe it took a while for us to put down any guards we carried and connect. I had a whole lot of guards up at 12 and 13, the last few years having been deeply troubled in my home.
For this walk today, I think I’ll stay with the image of instant friendship — of an instant meeting of minds and deep companionship for the next two-plus years as we tumbled together through the awkward passages of early teendom: Our first periods, first dances, first yearbooks, first crushes, and, sadly, ultimately, the beginning of an eating disorder that would have consumed me had my mother, my friend, and her dad not intervened.
I am grateful to my parents, especially to my mom, for so many happy childhood memories. But it is not an overstatement to say my step-father’s anger was the third and dominant parent in our house. His rage was especially acute during my early adolescence. I only mention this to say that while I know I was a really good kid, the girl my friend met that day was deeply troubled.
Grace is a candle that lights the dark so you can find your way.
The commander’s house, which sat up on a hill overlooking the tiny camp, became a sanctuary for me during this tumultuous time. My friend, her father, and her mother were candles. In their home I was exposed to something altogether different than what I knew: a healthy, loving, connected family.
It was clear to me, always, that my friend and her siblings really loved each other even if they might not always like each other. Their mother was kind and giving and protective and loving and I knew, even if I could not have put my finger on it then, that she nurtured these same qualities in them. And here was a father, the General, who despite being in a commanding position, did not abuse power. He was beloved by his family and I have no doubt by his command. In watching him, I realized there was another way to carry that powerful title “dad” — one that did not rely on screaming and punishing. The General was firm but fair, loving even as he was directive, easy to laugh behind dark-rimmed glasses yet quick to listen. I learned that this kind of father has high expectations of his kids.He believes in them. Including the ones who show up on his doorstep as hangers on.
“Where will you go to college?” the General asked me somewhere near the beginning of our freshman year of high school.
I was either sleeping over or crashing yet another family dinner. Maybe he didn't use those words exactly; it doesn’t matter. Such a small question, one asked in families all over the world every day. But my parents had never asked me about college. As far as I know, they had no expectation of me in this regard. My older sister became a teen mother and my father often, angrily, intimated I’d likely do the same.
In asking his question, I realized the General had high expectations. It was hope and direction that he proffered in that question.
And I carried that hope — and this expectation of myself — from that night forward, through rocky years of anorexic recovery. I was there, glowing inside me, as I stepped onto the University of Washington campus as a freshman. I credit my beloved grandparents for seeing me into college, but I thank the General for planting that seed of belief in me and in doing so positively altering the course of my life.
In the months before I left Germany I was hospitalized for anorexia. The military health system, however, is not set up to deal teenagers in a food fight with death. Getting me to a U.S. hospital equipped to deal with the disorder very quickly became urgent. Oh the sacrifices my mother made to make it happen. But ultimately, it was the General’s order that got my mother and I on a plane at record speed — I want to say it happened in just a day or even hours, but that may be too dramatic. It was absolutely faster than the usual military protocol which would have taken weeks I did not have.
So here is where I right the wrong of 40 years. Here is my thanks.
I lift my heart in gratitude to you General, to your wife, and to my still dear friend with whom visits have been too few and far between.
You cannot know the impact your presence and caring during that short window of my life had on the whole of it. But I do. It has been lasting and profound and always felt.
If I am a loving, giving person, if I am of hope, as I strive to be, I was inspired by these traits in you.
If I raised my children with encouraging, positive parenting (which I surely aspired to do), you gave me a glimpse of how to achieve it.
Where I am of service to others, your kindness, compassion, and example are also present.
In fact, just yesterday, General, you were there, as I sat with a young woman at the shelter where I volunteer and listened to her story about being kicked out of her father’s house. Without trying to tell her what to do, what is not my place, I offered what I know to be true.
“All will be well,” I told her.
I know because one evening, when I was 14, or maybe it was 15, I can’t exactly remember, and lost in ways I didn’t then understand, you offered me similar words.
And it was. And I thank you for your part.
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