Not My Father's Son (Alan Cumming)
Recently, I've been reviewing old posts, refurbishing some, marveling at others. One was a Father's Day post from 2021, shortly before I moved to Nebraska. (The ones I wrote to Cindy always floor me, as how can a human being say no to someone who loved them that much? I simply don't understand. My girlfriend simply said she was a "dumb b*tch," but the truth is perhaps more nuanced. One thing about narcissism is it’s basically the outcome of living in chronic fear. But fear is still a choice, so they are choosing their behavior.) For some reason, I became aware of my father's state of late. He turned 80 in February. When I tell people his age, they cringe. Old Vietnam War vets don't live as long as others from the same era. Living in and breathing in Agent Orange does that to you.
Alan Cumming's memoir is not for everyone, though I think we all can relate to some degree. I was drawn to the book, which I found on a bookshelf in the clubhouse where my parents live. I always felt I didn't belong to my father. Mostly because he made it clear we had nothing in common. There was abuse, too, of many colors. I'm not into rehashing for the sake of rehashing. This blog was an open diary, and I reserve the right to use it in the future. It's where I processed untold grief and humiliation. I was raised in a household where my voice was silenced. Here, I speak, though lowly, and to whomever wanders in. Sometimes strangers are closer than kinfolk.
I feel my heart preparing itself for loss. It's not that I'm getting ahead of anyone. It's that I see the signs. I feel what is couched in words. In the unsaid. Signs my father is not himself. That he's nearly given up. That he doesn't care anymore. And there's always the possibility the love of a woman may escape me yet again. If God got me through one, I know He will get me through the rest.
Last November, I was told my old boss (a horrible man, by the way) was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, a virtual death sentence with a range of six months to four years. It was Saturday night or Sunday morning before last when I had a dream of this man. The dream was odd because I never dream about him. I admit he was in my prayers because I sent him a note with the sinner's prayer when I heard about his diagnosis. But this dream was like a shudder that went through the spirit world and landed on my shore. I recalled the dream though didn't mention it to anyone, not even my girlfriend. Instead, I reached out to a friend who I worked with who was still in touch with the man's longtime friend. The night I had that dream is when he became suddenly ill and went to the ER, from which he did not return. He died last Wednesday. I have this strange sense of feeling across distance. Maybe in that moment of despair, he thought of the note I sent, how I told him I wanted to see him on the other side of this cruel world. I hope he took Jesus's hand and now feels God's love for all eternity. Whatever happened, I felt it.
I can't wait to join my friends and ancestors in my heavenly home and to be surrounded by pure, perfect love. Love that never wavers or disappoints. It's that kind of love I seek to show others. Friends, loving that way is a little reminder that the best is yet to come. Show the world God's love. It's worth it. If not here, then someday. "It will be worth it all when we get home," as the song says.
If you haven't asked Jesus into your heart, wouldn't you like to? You can say a simple prayer like this: "Lord Jesus, if I've never asked you into my heart before, please come into my heart now and save me from all my sins." If you mean it, He will, and you just started your walk with God.
Thank you for reading. And God bless.
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