God the Father and Fathers – the Jerks...
The previous post included looking at God conceived as person vs. God conceived of as Nature or Being itself. It’s possible for people to feel and express spirituality either way – or both. Here’s some background on a poem I wrote that employs the traditional Judeo-Christian image of God the Father.
Amy, let’s call her, was a first-grader whose teacher brought her to me one morning because she’d been crying non-stop ever since she’d arrived in class. It took some time for me to get Amy’s attention focused on me to the point where her tears subsided enough for her to talk. When she finally did, I was able to figure out that her father had left – suddenly and recently. Amy had tried to send him a letter, and it had been returned because the jerk (I, uh, avoided using this word with Amy) wasn’t at that address. The returned letter was the immediate cause of her tears.
She was practically inconsolable – this was a really bad day for her – and all I wanted to do was make her feel a little better to get past the immediate crisis and make it through the rest of her school day. I had crayons and paper at the table and found myself trying to diminish her feeling of abandonment by explaining that sometimes a kid’s father can move SO far away that it’s hard to stay in touch. (Yeah, right . . . I know . . .)
I drew an outline of North America. I put a dot on about the spot that our small town in New Hampshire was located. I put a second dot in the middle of the Florida peninsula and explained that when I was little, my dad moved away too, and we didn’t get to see him or talk to him much because even though he loved us he was so far away.
Amy thought about that, looked up at me with big dark eyes that were much darker than they should have been, and quietly spoke the words, “I know where my father lives.” She picked up a crayon. She placed a dot on the farthest possible point away from the dot marking our location – it would have been northwest Alaska.
I had to struggle to keep from losing it myself.
Up next, poem: I Know Where My Father Lives
Amy, let’s call her, was a first-grader whose teacher brought her to me one morning because she’d been crying non-stop ever since she’d arrived in class. It took some time for me to get Amy’s attention focused on me to the point where her tears subsided enough for her to talk. When she finally did, I was able to figure out that her father had left – suddenly and recently. Amy had tried to send him a letter, and it had been returned because the jerk (I, uh, avoided using this word with Amy) wasn’t at that address. The returned letter was the immediate cause of her tears.
She was practically inconsolable – this was a really bad day for her – and all I wanted to do was make her feel a little better to get past the immediate crisis and make it through the rest of her school day. I had crayons and paper at the table and found myself trying to diminish her feeling of abandonment by explaining that sometimes a kid’s father can move SO far away that it’s hard to stay in touch. (Yeah, right . . . I know . . .)
I drew an outline of North America. I put a dot on about the spot that our small town in New Hampshire was located. I put a second dot in the middle of the Florida peninsula and explained that when I was little, my dad moved away too, and we didn’t get to see him or talk to him much because even though he loved us he was so far away.
Amy thought about that, looked up at me with big dark eyes that were much darker than they should have been, and quietly spoke the words, “I know where my father lives.” She picked up a crayon. She placed a dot on the farthest possible point away from the dot marking our location – it would have been northwest Alaska.
I had to struggle to keep from losing it myself.
Up next, poem: I Know Where My Father Lives
Posted by Paul at 1:06 PM Permalink
20 Comments:
Why would a person wish to explore suffering or pain? We can choose to love unconditionally too, teach ourselves to remember what we forgot, focus on what we have, not on what we appear to have lost. Some people believe we never lose anything. Who invented amnesia? Perhaps human beings did...
CRYSTAL: I do think there’s a relationship between psychology and spirituality; also, that the two can be distinguished.
Paternal abandonment and sequential stepfathers, often with no apparent interest in the well being of the children, was unfortunately common in my experience as a counselor. I found maternal abandonment rare, but did see some of that as well.
LIARA: This was an actual separation, and what you suggest here is that it's a metaphor not for separation, but for choosing to feel separated. Since Amy was immediately and strongly impacted by an event over which she had no control, I don’t follow how this works as a metaphor for choice.
One thing this post reminds us is everyone is not an effective communicator. Everyone has not learned how to express love or receive it. Everyone doesn't express and understand love in the same way. When people run away from sources of love, this often happens when that's precisely what they need to heal inside. A parent has to be willing to recognize the impact of fear, to be willing to believe that their behavior is hurtful. Ironically, many parents who "abandon" their children are mistakenly convinced the children will be better off without them. Abandonment can thus be seen by a parent as a gesture of love when the child left behind may disagree.
I used the metaphor of separation in my last post to express my view that every feeling expressed by a human being is a choice. This includes children. We do not have the power to influence everything that happens to us, but we always decide how to react. We choose to believe in love or not, based in part on the signs all around us and if we listen inside.
I don't know to what extent mental illness/painful emotions are chosen, but don't share the belief that choice is central. I'd continue to see Amy's tears, and similar incidents/situations that I've witnessed with young children, as particularly poor illustrations of personal choice.
Yes, the parent in a situation like this has his or her issues too. I go for catchy post titles when I can, lol, but "jerk" is definitely an oversimplification!
JULIE, thanks for stopping by - that sounds like an interesting course.
VISHESH: Pretty much... but as qualified per my reply to Liara.
Great post as always Paul.
Love.
Suzy
ALMOSTGOTIT, thanks for dropping by, and I'll be clicking on your link again -
this isn't the same as saying she can choose to forgive, or choose to understand his reasons.
The fact of abandonment and heartbreak is the central truth here. Were she to denying her emotions or dress them up in new language would be counter-productive.
First step is to experience what is: the second, adult step is to decide how to live with it.
It seems to me that you overstate the case – or the way you phrase it is easily misheard by others as overstatement. For example, see Hayden’s comment and my reply.
CARRIE: In my experience also, that's the emotional worst. Those lines from the Bible are worth noting: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
HAYDEN: I agree. I don’t see a child that age, in the moment of registering the direct hit of such a large emotional experience, as possibly being able to choose to feel otherwise, even if that were somehow desirable.
And the situation is similar in adulthood with severe enough adversity. That’s why, for example, there are well-described “stages of grief.” We can't simply choose to skip over all unpleasant emotions, nor do I think it would be wise to try to do so. Processing difficult experiences is a very different sort of thing from wallowing in negativity.
I think many adults would be astonished to realize how much their mere presence means to the children in their lives. Perhaps if they knew, they would take parenting/mentoring more seriously.
((aarrgghh))
How do you tell a child that they are better off living without a callous selfish twat? It's nearly impossible because most kids inflate the value of their Dad to near mythical proportions.
I did and I can clearly remember how devastated I was the instant that I realised MY Dad wasn't perfect.
Man was I pissed off.
Amy's actions were so wrenching, so it's good I was able to convey that. I've seen other situations that were arguably as sad (this girl also ended up with other massive stuff dumped on her the following year). But her utterance of that one line followed by putting that dot on the map in silence - it just got to me. It was the most trouble I had not crying in my career. I would have gladly cried if I'd thought it would have helped her, but my strong sense was that this was the last thing she needed at that particular time; it would have been like adding oil to the fire.
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