Today is Friday, September 5th, 2003; Karen's Korner #130

By now you have figured that I enjoy daily "Chicken Soup for the Soul" email messages. Here is one from several weeks ago; enjoy!

 

Never Too Late
By Debra Schmidt

The morning dawned sunny and warm; it was a perfect
day for a wedding. All of the preparations had gone
smoothly. My shining moment was near. My maid of honor
had just begun her walk down the aisle, stepping in perfect
time to the music. There I stood in a beautiful satin
wedding gown my mother had so lovingly made for me. It was
my turn. My heart filled with joy and anticipation as I
stood ready to walk down the aisle toward my new life.

Then I saw my father, Ralph, stagger drunkenly toward
me. I was sickened by the smell of alcohol on his breath.
He nearly fell as he hooked his arm through mine. Within
seconds, the "Wedding March" started playing - it was time
to go.

So I did the same thing I had done so many times
before - I faked it - just to keep up appearances. I glued
on my best smile, mustered all my strength to hold my dad
upright and then walked him down the aisle. Only when my
dad was safely seated, and I stood at the altar holding my
fiance's hand, could I concentrate on the ceremony. For
me, the most important part of my wedding had been ruined.

I was angry, embarrassed and extremely hurt. I decided
that day to never forgive my father.

 

My dad had been an alcoholic since I was a little
girl. His drinking just snuck up on our family - starting
quietly, but getting slowly worse each year. The
escalating problem became very real for me one beautiful
October day in 1963 when I was eight years old.
I sat on the back step of our home breathing in the
fragrance of the autumn leaves and admiring the perfect
blue sky. Then I saw my dad begin to load all of his
belongings in the car. I looked up at him in disbelief and
asked, "Daddy, where are you going?" With tears in his
eyes, he answered, "I'm taking a job downtown and need to
live there for a while. But I'll be back soon."

I held out a child's hope that he would return home
one day. But his out-of-control drinking led to a divorce.
He never moved back.

After that, I spent virtually every Saturday with my
dad - all the way through my teen years. I wish I could
say that those were happy days, but frequently they were
spent waiting in the car while my dad went into the tavern
to "make a few phone calls." My resentment toward him grew
and continued to increase until that fateful wedding day.

My resolve never to forgive my father lasted for more
than three years after my wedding. Then, something
happened. On his seventy-first birthday, my dad visited a
doctor to have a complete physical. Shocked at my dad's
condition, the doctor told him, "Ralph, unless you quit
drinking right now, you won't be alive to give your
daughter away at her wedding." My sister's wedding was
just six months from then.

Those words scared my father, so he checked himself
into a thirty-day, inpatient alcoholic treatment center.
Relieved he was finally getting the help he needed, my
sister and brothers and I rallied around my dad to give him
support. We attended family counseling sessions to learn
more about the disease. Although I was supporting his
attempt to get sober, I still felt a lot of anger toward
him and was unable to forgive him for past hurts.

One day the physicians and counselors met with us and
said, "Do not expect a miracle. Your dad is retired, lives
alone and has been drinking for over forty years. He will
relapse." So we didn't get our hopes up, but we did
continue to pray for a miracle.

Then, one day, the miraculous happened. Dad called me
and asked if he could meet with me. When we got together,
the first thing he said was, "I'm sorry for all the pain
I've caused you and the rest of the family. I know I don't
have a lot of years left on this earth, but I want to live
them sober." Dad took my hand, looked me in the eyes and
asked, "Will you say the Lord's Prayer with me?"
Crying together, we held hands and prayed. As I
recited the words of the prayer, I could feel the anger and
hurt begin to melt away. The healing had begun. From that
day on, Dad never took another drink. He read the Bible
daily, joined Alcoholics Anonymous and became involved in a
church. He frequently quoted scriptures to me and claimed
only one thing was standing between him and alcohol:
"Jesus." My own faith grew with each day of my dad's
recovery. As my faith strengthened, my ability to forgive
strengthened and I was finally able to let go of the past.

Dad remained sober for the next fourteen years and the
miracle continued. At age seventy-two he founded an alumni
association for recovering alcoholics and typed an
inspirational newsletter on an old typewriter, then mailed
it out monthly to nearly 100 people.

At age seventy-three, my dad helped organize an annual
hospital event where hundreds of recovering alcoholics and
their families gathered to celebrate their sobriety.

At seventy-six he became a proud Red-Coat volunteer at
a local hospital, delivering newspapers, flowers and
encouragement to patients, and pushing the wheelchairs of
new mothers holding new babies who were going home. Dad
volunteered there until he was seventy-nine, when he became
ill with prostate cancer and moved into a nursing home.
Instead of moping about his situation, however, he
appointed himself "the ambassador" for the home. My father
took newcomers under his wing, giving them tours of the
place and showing them humor in every corner. On holidays,
he occasionally called to say, "I'm going to be a little
late today because some people here have no visitors - and
I'm not leaving anyone alone on Christmas."

When my father died at eighty-five, my brothers,
sister and I expected only a few people at his funeral, but
over 100 people came. Most were strangers to us, yet one
by one, they shared their memories of my dad.

"Your dad is the reason my dad is sober today."

"Your dad is the reason my mom survived living in that
nursing home."

"Your father is the glue that held our family together
during our dad's drinking crisis."

Then seven men - all wearing red coats - quietly
walked in to pay tribute to Dad for inspiring them to
volunteer at the hospital. Many of them were over eighty
years old.

Had I not removed the blinders of anger and resentment
- had I not forgiven my dad - I'd never have witnessed the
positive ways he had touched the world.

I know now that it's never too late to forgive.


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