Beautiful, yet heartbreaking. Who are your people? Who will be by your bedside when you’re on your way out? Who truly loves you?
I just sat and pondered that and was completely humbled and thankful knowing how rare it is to have what I have. I have the craziest, most meaningful, seemingly random friendships with so many different people. The number of heart to hearts aka story time I’ve had that have meant something to me and someone else since I got divorced are too many to keep track of. So, I’ll go back to yesterday’s question…What the hell am I doing right?
I was at my daughter’s cheerleading game today. She was cheering on the third grade boys’ football team. It’s always an interesting people watching experience. Parents of third grade football players are very intense at times.
Today one parent screamed at the kids to tuck in their shirts. Another yelled at the coach that his defensive coaching was so bad that he should run with the kids. Still another complained that the refs were calling everything on us, but nothing on them.
Everybody was pointing fingers. It was the coach’s fault, no wait the refs…hold up, no if they just had their shirts tucked in…there we go, then things would start going our way.
One coach went to get the rule book after a flag was picked up after a horse collar tackle. He couldn’t find a rule to back himself up. He explained his conversation with the ref like this, “He told me I was wrong and he was right.”
I used to think I was the ref. I used to think it was my job to tell other people they were wrong. In my house growing up that was normal. If my mom said something slightly air-headed, we would all make fun of her and laugh. It took me going through all my shit to see how unhealthy that was.
I remember being on the phone one time with a dear friend and realizing that every time he made the slightest grammatical error, I’d point it out. It could not have been much fun to be friends with me. But, somehow in the middle of correcting him one time, I realized what I was doing and apologized.
I think a lot of my humor for much of my life was at other people’s expense. I was trying, subconsciously or not, to make myself feel better by making them look like a fool. But, what did that really do? It made me the kind of person who has no one to watch them die.
So, how did I go from asshole to someone who people find easy to talk to about anything? The simple answer is grace. Grace flipped my whole fucking world upside down. When I absolutely deserved to have fingers pointed at me…when I deserved judgment and condemnation…I got grace instead.
I no longer needed to justify myself and thank God, because there was no justifying who I was or what I’d done. I didn’t need to point fingers and shed light on other people’s faults. I could do the opposite. No one likes to be told, “I’m right and you’re wrong.” But, I’ve learned that people love to hear the wrong that I’ve done. So, I don’t shy away from telling people how fucked up I am. And I’m always amazed at the stuff people are willing to share with me. It’s fucking beautiful.
Probably my favorite ever mutual shit share was with my mom. She was dying. I drove through the night to be by her side. My phone wasn’t working (because I’d drunkenly knocked it in a glass of water) so I drove towards her not knowing if she’d be alive when I got there.
She was. But, she wasn’t herself. In a good way. I mean, she wasn’t herself in the obvious almost dead way. But, the warmth and grace and love that I felt from her were new. She was at the end. And she realized she fucked up a lot.
I told her my whole story about strippers and the divorce and she only had tears in her eyes for my pain not judgment for my missteps. She told me how sorry she was for what she’d fucked up for my sister and me. She was very specific and told me things I never knew. She was very remorseful to have felt like she lived much of her life justifying herself and finger pointing. She felt like she didn’t deserve grace from me. But, man I had grace to burn. And she felt it. Someone who got it was watching her die. Someone who loved her. Someone she could tell everything to. She had fucked up. But, it was okay. Grace won.
Since then I’ve had tons of great heart to hearts with people that happen to pop into my life. I’m not here to judge anybody. Lord knows I don’t have a leg to stand on. But, god damnit I’ll listen. And I’ll tell you my shit. And I know all the people that I’ve been blessed enough to be loved by and have felt loved by me. And it’s so fucking cool to know how many people love me enough to watch me die.
It’s like my therapist said last week, “If I can’t trust you, I can’t believe your love.” For some reason, people trust me, whether I deserve it or not. And it’s really overwhelming, because, as a recovering asshole and recovering Christian, I’m really lucky to even be capable of giving or receiving love.
As I was watching the football game today I was thinking about my dad, who used to stand on the sidelines during football games of the high school where he led Young Life. I remembered him telling me about telling a kid what a great block he noticed him make during a game. He said the kid just lit up. Someone noticed him. He was significant. It must have felt great to him.
I wish I had memories like that from my dad, but all the love he had and has for me, I had trouble feeling…I had trouble believing. The lasting memory is that he made some random kid feel special, but not me. The weird thing is he did great things for me. I remember hitting two home runs in t-ball and he made a big sign with my picture taped over my favorite ball player’s face.
But, the fucked up part of that is that I think I’d already given up on him. He’d already disappointed me or I felt like I disappointed him in a way that couldn’t be repaired. There was a distance I felt like I needed to create with him even as a kid. And we’re still just off. With my mom it took till the bitter end to get things straight. I hope to be able to work shit out before then with my dad, but I’m still just not ready.
I have wounds from childhood that got reopened this past spring. I haven’t figured out how to come to terms with the issue. I really hesitate to say this because I don’t want him to read it, but that’s me telling part of the story…not being what I claim to be…real. So, I’ll say it. When my dad got remarried in March, I was an afterthought. It was an all too familiar feeling. He does his life his own way and I’m left to settle for what’s left. That’s why I didn’t feel loved and still don’t.
I think there would be great healing for both of us if we could talk shit through. But, I just don’t fucking want to. And I really hope I mean that I don’t want to yet. And I guess all that is why I could hear that Deathcab song today and feel so great. I didn’t feel loved as a kid. But, I’m overwhelmed by all of your love these days. I’m a fuck up man. But, I’m loved anyway. I take after my mom.
After I wrote this I realized that if you point at people and say, "You're a sinner." They'll likely say, "Fuck You!" But, if you point at yourself and say, "I'm a sinner." They'll likely say, "I'll drink to that...because I am too."
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