chasing the sun

I’ve been reading a book that, though I am not its target audience, has been comforting and thought-provoking in its way. It’s called To Own a Dragon, and it’s written by one of my favorite authors, Donald Miller. His style is not for everyone. He’s honest, sometimes awkwardly so, and writes in such a way that you think maybe someone got a hold of his journal without him knowing and published it to spite him.

The book is written for men who, like Miller, grew up without a father around. And although I am a woman and my father was around, the feelings of insecurity, inadequacy and resentment he relates mirror my own in many respects.

My father was around, but he was a dictator who regularly lost his temper, threw tantrums, and occasionally hit my sisters and me out of shear rage and frustration. Oddly, he was also a deacon in our church and well-thought of by most everyone who knew him. My distrust and fear of men is likely a byproduct of my strained relationship with him.

To my father, I think, I was a disappointment because I was not more athletic or beautiful. I was not like him in the ways he wanted me to be and I was like him in the ways he did not want me to be. I was stubborn, head-strong and, as he used to say, too smart for my own good, which I think meant I was a smart-ass.

I was not a son, which he desperately wanted and never had.

There were good times too and good lessons he taught his daughters. I know how to change a flat tire and check the oil in my car. I can grill a steak, catch a fish and pitch a tent. I’m not opposed to being dirty or muddy and I don’t throw like a girl. In fact, I’d say my sisters and I are strong women because of him, not in spite of him.

And while I understand my father’s short-comings are because he had a harsh father and because his mother died when he was young, I still cannot help but wish I’d known what it was like not to have to walk around on pins and needles in my own home.

I have moments when I doubt so much that any man has or will ever love me unconditionally.

And I blame God for it because how am I supposed to understand that God is my Father when my only framework for a father-type is the one He gave me – a flawed, angry Texas cowboy whom everyone else loved, but whose children feared and hated him.

My father is still alive, though he suffered a severe brain injury 7 years ago and hardly knows me anymore. He can’t recognize my voice on the phone or my face unless I’m standing less than 10 feet away.

So, as I struggle to find my confidence in the world and come to the realization that it should have been my father who helped instill that in me, I am learning that I also have to figure out how to forgive God and my father and how to move on from wishful regret.