Check Point

I got screamed at by border patrol today. HEY! It was obvious he meant to say it in all caps, bolded, and font size 72 as he ran towards my rental car. The vein popping out of his forehead was pulsing. Was he sweating because it was 102 degrees outside or because his temper ran hot? His spit pellets fall a centimeter short of my rolled down window.

Apparently you can’t pass through the stop signs at check point even when the first officer gives you the green light. You’ve been warned.

I confirm I am a U.S. citizen and I’m off. As I drive away I wonder if he’s a father. Do his girls run towards him with their arms up? “Daddy, daddy!”. Or do they slam their doors shut and hold their breath as his leather boots march up the stairs. I hope he leaves his work at the door.

I’ve been thinking a lot about fathers lately. The biological ones, figurative ones, the men who step in and step up. They come in all flavors.

I can’t recall being yelled at by my father or father figure. All I can clearly see now is that I was in second place. In all caps, bolded, and font size 72. Actually, I didn’t even get a participation ribbon. What’s worse? A volatile father or a selfish one? In a sense, they are one and the same. Disappointing and unpredictable.

It’s not as painful when you don’t know otherwise. If there was always a void, you don’t know what to miss.

I kept my distance, more emotional than proximal, from both paternal placeholders growing up. Father is what I call God. A word too heavy to ascribe to them. Why did I build a wall? Was it because somewhere in the depths of me I knew they couldn’t and wouldn’t fulfill the part? And perfection is not the point. Accountability and consistency headline the job description. Admission and reconciliation may be even more important. Because when they fall short, and they will, if there is not a disaster relief strategy, there is nothing.

I don’t what it’s like to experience a terrestrial father’s love, but I am acutely in tune with what it is not. It is not a decision born from convenience. It is not the egotistic choices you make when your world falls apart. It is not avoiding hard conversations. It is not letting others decide your life for you. It is not being a coward. It’s not choosing to do the wrong thing over and over and over. It is not forgoing every ounce of dignity in your body. It is not being a liar.

All I do know is love is not conditional.

I’m in a season of excavating my subconscious and learning to trust myself. Somewhere and sometime in recent history I became tolerable. Tolerable for the sake of being forgiving is one thing. Tolerable to where you begin to shave down your integrity is another. My habits prove I’m inclined to the latter.

Don’t deny the whispers of your knowing. I repeat this to myself with expectation the mantra and my actions will one day meld as they did once upon a time. When your heart sinks or your mouth goes dry it is not a coincidence. I can’t say with conviction that the presence of the fathers in my life inched me towards denying what I knew was right, but self-doubt slowly began to seduce me. Has there always been a steady decline in my intuition since the first time I tolerated the intolerable? The incongruence of a so-called parent can only cause confusion. Even those who raise you don’t learn from mistakes.

As I pick up pieces of a counterfeit reality that finally shattered I am ironically relieved. With clarity at the forefront I begin to create my own mosaic. The pieces jagged, but aligned to the inner knowing within me as I place them where they belonged all along. I begin to feel whole.

I look back in the rearview mirror until the check point tent becomes a speck of dust. I can’t see him any longer but his effect lingers with whispers as my heart pounds and my ears keep ringing. I have 47 minutes until I’m back at the hotel.