Loss Control

Loss Control

I went to sleep last night with loss on my mind. My mom died when I was 17 years old, and that loss burdened my heart and soul for a long time. Grief and sorrow were a painful journey; letting go of her was monumental. When I finally released her, she’d been gone for four years. Until I let go of her, though, my heart was not ready to heal or move on with life. She died before I was ready to lose her, but I had to let her go anyway.

Since when does anyone we love die when we’re ready to lose him or her? Mum was dying of cancer, and we were losing her for a few months before she was gone, but it was still all too soon. She was only 51; I was still in high school. It was just a few months before my sister’s wedding. The heartache for all of us could not be measured, but for one saving grace: Mum’s suffering was over, and she was with Jesus. She knew “Whom she believed and was persuaded that He was able to keep that which was committed unto Him against that Day.”

That loss was 32 years ago. The one on my mind last night concerned someone else. My father turned 86 earlier this month. My interactions with Dad boil down to this: I love Dad, and he loves me. Whenever we talk, we tell each other that. In the six years between Mum’s death and Dad’s remarriage, I enjoyed a special relationship with Dad. We hadn’t been close before losing Mum, but we became very close afterward. However, when he remarried, his new wife became a gatekeeper, and the free access I once had to my father evaporated. She tells others that I don’t want to see him, but she tells me not to drop by. Subsequently, Dad and I don’t talk or visit often, but when we do, I make sure to tell him that I love him.

Dad has had several health issues arise in the last few years, and with each one, his recovery has been a little less full than the time before. I recognize that the ravages of time and disease are taking their toll on his body. He is a strong man, but he is weakening.

As our interactions have changed in the last few years, I have recognized that while he is my dad and I am his son–and that will never change this side of eternity–the nature of our relationship won’t return to what it was in those six years when he was a widower. I no longer have the roles in his life that he needed from me 30 years ago. I’m thankful for my dad, and for the life God’s granted him. I’m sorry to see his health weakening, and that I cannot be more involved in helping him at this point in our lives.

At the same time, given all the circumstances involved, I’m beginning to let Dad go. The precious relationship from my college years is just a memory now. The gatekeeper prevents the restoration of the relationship to that level of parent-child intimacy out of fear that he won’t love her anymore. It’s ridiculous and irrational, but that’s how she is. My siblings and I work hard to honor our dad and his wife, but we recognize the reality that we’re up against.

We mourn the ongoing loss. Though he yet lives, we’re barred from meaningful interaction with him. He could have lived these two-and-a-half decades surrounded by his children and grandchildren, but instead, there’s been conflict and lies. In private, he acknowledges that the situation’s not right, but he avoids confrontations, and he abhors divorce. True haters will say, “He made his bed; he has to sleep in it now,” but it doesn’t end the pain or sorrow for we who have loved him for so many decades. I’m trying to let that go.

He is never going to return to haying as he did even five years ago, so there’s no reason to wish for that. I’m letting that go. He’s not likely to return to using his workshop, so there’s little reason to hope for that. I’m letting that go. The list goes on and on, really.

It’s HARD. But this world isn’t his home, so there’s no point in hanging on to the things that hold him in it. I’m not ready for Dad to leave this world, but when God calls Dad to his REAL home, Dad will gladly go.

That was in 2019.

In truth, it is a loss, and we have no control over how or when it happens. We control only how we respond. And when Dad reached the end of his days in 2021, he was 88. His gatekeeper had prevented us, my siblings and me, from knowing how ill he was. She drove every wedge she could conjure to keep us from him. She blocked us from visiting when he was in the hospital. She refused to inform us when he was on his deathbed at home. She threatened the neighbors against telling us, too.

My last visit with Dad was in November 2020 for about twenty minutes. I dropped by on my way home from work. He sat at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich. His wife was in the barn, selling hay to a customer. I knew I had only moments to speak openly before she returned to the house and sent me on my way.

“I don’t have much time today, Dad. Because of the pandemic, I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I needed to see you today. Work won’t allow me to come see you again for a long time.” He nodded. “I want you to know how grateful I am to be your son. I love you, Dad.” I kissed him on the forehead and gave him a hug.

I never saw him again.

When he died, his wife asked my siblings and me to help with the memorial service. The day I delivered the material she asked me for, she said, “I’m sure you and your siblings are relieved he’s finally gone, so that you can stop pretending to love him.”

I won’t tell you what I said, but I did not leave it unchallenged. By the end of our discussion, she had left the house by the front door, and I had left by the side door, and we were still hollering at each other. I did not speak to her again for more than a year.

The memorial service was at the end of that week. My brother preached. My eldest sister played the piano. The gatekeeper’s family, most of whom had never met us, watched our conduct throughout the day. When we were gone, they turned on her. They called her out for lying to them for 28 years. “You told us that his children hated him and wanted nothing to do with him! You lied to us! They clearly loved him! You should be ashamed of yourself!”

One of them later contacted us and revealed this to us. “We’re so sorry that we ever believed her, and we are so sorry for your loss. Your father was a wonderful man. She didn’t deserve him.”

I demurred. “She made him very happy in many ways. There were difficulties, yes, but there were many happy memories, too. But thank you for telling us.” In the pain of our loss, the affirmation that her mask had slipped made a difference.

We remain ready to be her family, but she refuses—as she ever has—to believe that we can love her as family. She has never comprehended forgiveness. Since she is unable to forgive and move on, she believes that no one else can, either. Therefore, stretching into 2026, she struggles in lonely misery, while her late husband’s family grows larger and could offer her such comfort in her loss.

But that loss is not in my control.