TEXARKANA MAGAZINE
father means nothing when I have Jesus, a ‘Father to the fatherless.’” I knew I wanted to believe this, but did I? Spoiler alert—not really. A song came on in my car a few years ago that I didn’t mean to play, and it—once and for all—revealed to me the answer to those doubts. I could pretend to be tough and that I didn’t need a dad, until all the sudden I was transported back to being eight years old, sitting in the back seat of my dad’s car watching him from behind sing “Voice of Truth” by Casting Crowns. It’s a gorgeous worship song packed with so much truth. It induced tears streaming down my face, as I realized for the very first time, “WOW! Not having a present father in my life has truly affected me.” I’ve had male influences through my grandparents, uncles, and teachers. Even until now, in my early adulthood, I have had men who have stepped up and offered to mentor me. Through tears, I would tell my mom that as much as I want to allow myself to grow close to them, I was afraid. When will they get bored of me? When will they realize I have nothing in common with them? When will they get frustrated or annoyed with me and back off? Through this, I’ve come to terms with the dangers of not healing old wounds. My dad is an absolute genius—a brilliant musician. He can pick up any instrument and know how to play it in no time. He primarily played saxophone in bands across the country, including the famous MGM Grand in Las Vegas, where my parents grew roots for 14 years and my hometown. I just like to say I was born in Las Vegas. I think it’s really cool. People usually expect a story involving Elvis and a drive-thru chapel, but nope! It was just the music and neon lights. My fondest memory of my dad was a New Year’s Eve night in San Antonio, Texas, where he had taken my brother Parker and me to one of his friend’s houses. We literally played music from after dinner ‘til two or three in the morning. It was fun, loud, spontaneous, and captured my dad’s colorful, boisterous personality. He shuffled from playing bongos, to guitar, to the sax. It was just us and a group of his friends in a circle making all kinds of beautiful sounds and music. It was so pure. The sad thing about mental illness is that while those highs, like we experienced that New Year’s Eve, are really high, the lows are also really low. Unfortunately, the lows, more often than not, outweigh memories of the highs… especially when all offered help is rejected. For us, there came a time when we as kids could no longer handle the depths of the lows, putting us in harm’s way and because of that, we lost our relationship altogether. I knew, though, that if I wanted to release my inability to trust any men who would enter my life in the future, I would have to begin with the first man, the source, the root cause of this pain. I didn’t just have to forgive my dad; I wanted to forgive him. I yearned for the experience Rihanna had, where “all kinds of emotions” rose to the surface after she made the choice to forgive her father. If Rihanna could do it, so could I! God is well-known for bringing beauty from even the ugliest of circumstances. The beauty in this whole mess has been my dad’s precious new wife and her biological daughter, who my family absolutely adores. It was through my open communication with her that I retrieved my dad’s phone number. Eventually, I called to speak to him for the first time in ten years to tell him I forgave him, and that I wanted him to forgive himself, too.
GOOD EVENING TXK COLUMN BY BAILEY GRAVITT
I had an epiphany one day while watching an Oprah interview on YouTube. Maybe this sounds odd to some but growing up in a household with a mother who dished out Oprah and Dr. Phil quotes like they were pieces of Halloween candy, this was hardly anything out of the ordinary for me. In a 2011 interview, Rihanna tearfully told Oprah that the only way she could allow herself to be vulnerable enough to let a man romantically pursue her was by first “repairing her relationship with her dad.” After she forgave her father, she could finally work on trusting men again. This was a concept I found utterly fascinating. For years, as Father’s Day would roll around, I would buck up and shuffle through the emotions while replaying the same tired, faulty script in my head, telling myself vehemently, “I do not hold resentment towards my dad for not being a part of my life since I was 14 years old. I have reflected and moved on from the years of abuse at his hands during my childhood, and not having an earthly
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