The Half-Abandoned Child

For me, Father's Day is bittersweet. It is a day filled with both happy memories and the realization that there will be no more of them. It's a day to thank God for the stepfather who is adopting me as his own, and to ask God why the father whose blood I carry wouldn't love me the way a father should.

I cannot fit into the category of those who have the love of both of their parents. And I cannot fit into the category of those who were orphaned. You see, I have a Mom who has always loved me and been by my side. For that, I am beyond grateful. But on this day every year, I wonder why I couldn't have that love from my father as well.

The word "Dad" isn't one I use. I've tried, but cannot bring myself to call my wonderful stepdad by that name yet... and it doesn't apply to the father who gave me life. Usually, that doesn't bother me... but on Father's Day, quite frankly, it does.

How do you celebrate such a day when the father God gave you abused you for 11 years and then kidnapped you? How do you celebrate him when he left you, literally pushed you away, and scarred you for life? How do you celebrate a man who hurt you so much that you're not capable of having normal relationships with anybody around you?

Most of the time, these thoughts are kept at bay. But once a year, I unleash them... or, rather, I don't try to stop them.

My first stepfather was great at first - I called him "Dad" for years - but he was a dry drunk, worse sober than wasted, and soon became abusive. By the time he left, I was 15, and my impression of older men was less than good. I literally trembled when men became loud around me, even if it was just loud laughter - I had & still have no problems at all with guys my own age, some of my best friends are guys, but I always saw guys my father's age as threatening. Not even men older than that, just ones who were about 50 years old... thankfully that's gone now that I have my new stepdad.

The closest thing to a father-figure I had growing up was my Grandpa. My Mom, sister & I lived with him for nearly 4 years after the divorce, and there was NOTHING we lacked in the physical sense during that time - we lived in a mansion, had maids, spent weekends at the country club, and mingled with the children of diplomats & Congressmen while our family mingled with Senators & President Reagan and his family. But more importantly, we had the love of a man who fiercely defended us and protected us. When I look at what I gained from those 4 years, it is not the physical surroundings I remember... it is the love. I remember the mansion not because of its size, but because it was filled with an incredible amount of love. I remember the maids because my Grandpa always wanted us to have the easiest time possible after what we'd been through in our short (2 & 5 years) lives. I remember the weekends at the Club because my Grandpa, who knew all those "important" people, chose to spend time with us little kids, taking us to the Club to show us off because he was THAT PROUD of us. We were just kids, but to him, we were the world. Today I took his framed portrait off the table in the living room and tears welled up in my eyes... partly sad tears because he's gone, but partly happy because of the impact he had on me without even knowing it.

Thankfully, I do have a Father how has never abandoned me... and never will. A Father who loves me no matter what and forgives me unconditionally - and believe me, I NEED that love & forgiveness! Today I remember Him as well as the other men who have filled the role of "father" in my life.

And that's how a child like me... a half-abandoned child... a child who lost not one but 3 father figures... can have the PERFECT Father.

Pretty awesome, huh?