Making Peace With Our Pasts

Often, I have met people who have been raised as children in almost idyllic circumstances. Their parents listened to them, went to their ballgames and their piano recitals. The parents baked cookies for their events and took interest in their lives. Every Sunday, the family went together to church.

Of course, there were some bumps in the road. Remember your adolescence? You wanted to forge your own identity. You were not sure that you wanted to be seen in public with mom and dad. At the same time mom and dad were wishing that you were 8 years old again. But other than the normal bumps, the road from birth to when you left home was filled with good smells, good vacations, doing things together as a family, stability at home and great love for each other.

But what if the family system of which you were a child wasn't like that? What if you were playing baseball in the street in front of your house when your dad came home, got out of the car, and staggered into the house. You were his son, and you felt embarrassed.

The fact that your dad drank too much was the "dirty little family secret." How many of your friends may have seen your dad, and if they did, could they even begin to comprehend what was happening to him and what was churning inside of you? Someone has said that children are good observers but poor interpreters.

I really had no frame to interpret my dad's behaviour. I concluded that my dad was simply weak. Why couldn't he just stop drinking so much, and I wouldn't have to live with the inner turmoil and uncertainty that I felt? I didn't have any understanding of alcoholism as a sickness rather than a weakness.

One of my most haunting memories occurred when I was 10 years old and my brother was 2. We lived in Miami, Florida, where we had a screen door in the front of the house. It was turning dark outside and my parents had not come home. My brother and I had our faces pressed against the screen door looking for our mom and dad. Bob was crying, and more than anything else, I wanted to cry also. But I felt that my duty was to comfort my little brother. I put my arms around his neck and reassured him that our parents would come home soon. They did come home from a neighborhood bar just as it got dark. Their response was that we should have known that they would be home eventually.

When I was 12, my parents, through the intervention of our family physician and the help of Alcoholics Anonymous, were brought into the world of sobriety. The three of us were baptized together. Later, my brother Bob made his profession of faith and was baptized in the same church. What has this taught me about myself and leaving the rest to God?

• Almost all of us have had some experiences and bear some scars that make it more difficult to live into the truths of our faith. As a pastor, I used to wonder why everybody didn't respond when I preached on Grace, God's unconditional love. I thought I was saying it so clearly that everybody would understand. However, when we preach we don't put words on blank slates of people's lives. People come to church, and they have grown up without a human face to that kind of love. Some of us who preach need to remember that the service concludes with a hymn of invitation, not a hymn of imposition. Thus, we leave the rest to God. 
• We have to learn to forgive. My dad had a tough life himself. His own mother died when he was 12. He was shuttled from one relative to another. Maybe, alcohol became an anesthetic to deaden his pain. I preached his funeral service. While I didn't say this in the service, I thought to myself before the funeral, "I have to make peace with the past." I don't believe that even now I have made complete peace, but I'm trying to let go and to leave the rest to God.
• When Jesus died on the cross, one of his seven last sayings, recorded in the gospels of Matthew and Mark, was, "My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?". Excruciating pain, whether physical, mental or emotional, may make us feel isolated and abandoned, even by God. All of my life I have wanted an intimate relationship with God. I have worked hard at it. Now, I believe it's time for me to relax, to trust God more... and leave the rest to God.
• Several years after I had graduated from seminary, I read the book, The Wounded Healer. I knew nothing about Father Henri Nouwen except that he was a Roman Catholic priest. For me, the "Wounded Healer" became a metaphor for ministry. As Nouwen described it, we are always bandaging our own wounds even as we try to bandage the wounds of others. Recently, our family went to visit our daughter and her family in Toronto, Canada. The L'Arche Community, located in Richmond Hill outside Toronto, was where Nouwen spent the last years of his ministry. The L'Arche Community is comprised of people with physical and mental challenges. I went to the cemetery where Nouwen is buried, sat on a bench near his gravesite and thought to myself about his influence on my life. I have always been a "Wounded Healer", which means more than anything I need to leave the rest to God.

Live simply,
Love generously,
Care deeply,
Speak kindly,
Pray daily,
And then... leave the rest to God.