Dear Dad,
In my late teen years we didn’t often see eye-to-eye. I didn’t recognize the toll that the workplace took on you. You didn’t realize that I was struggling with issues of identity and future. Moments that should have been met with embrace were met with eruptions of anger. I would go to bed and pray that I would soon move on from the prison of my bedroom. I can only assume that you went to your room and struggled to make sense of your own life.
Your alcoholism brought out the absolute worst in you. You were not a violent man, but the alcohol enflamed a fury in you that terrified the rest of the house. I was afraid of the man it made you. I felt trapped in a Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde scenario. When the sun went down, we had no idea what type of mood we would find you in. When the sun rose, you went to work, blissfully ignorant of the night before because of your alcoholic amnesia. I’m glad the alcohol removed many of the memories for you. The rest of us struggled to emerge from the alcoholic trauma of the night before.
I left Virginia when I was 17. In retrospect, it was the only choice I had. It was time to move on. Time to separate. Time to emancipate myself from my past. Time to actually live outside the shadow of my family. I didn’t want to hate you, and I knew God was calling me away. In a spirit of honesty, I did not feel that we could inhabit the same house any longer. I loved you, but I needed to love from a distance.
Over the course of decades living states away, you lost the high paying job you had worked to achieve. You took a pay cut of over half your annual salary. I feared this would trigger a deeper move into your favored coping measures. But something else happened. You smiled more. You became gentler. You become more generous. And while alcohol still impeded your stride at times, you began to walk with a more relaxed gait. “Dad, what’s changed,” I asked you. “Barney boy,” you replied, “I’m happy.” The loss of a job took the stress associated with it away. You moved into a new job that suited you, a job that you loved.
I got married, bought a house, welcomed two children into the world, graduated three times, and eventually moved into the career of my dreams. We began to have more open conversations. We saw each other for who the other really was. In reality, we weren’t that different. Our drivenness came at a cost. We weren’t in competition. I was simply pushing myself the way you had pushed yourself for years.
We reconciled in profound ways. Topics that had long gone dormant were resurrected, discussed, and forgiven. We hugged. You texted me randomly of your love for me. We joked. We realized that despite the failings and misgivings of my childhood, that the possibility of a father-son relationship in adulthood was a real and viable option.
Then the diagnosis. The roller coaster of treatments. The false hope of remission. The failed treatments. The acceptance of defeat. The long good-bye. The absence.
But on your birthday, Dad, I celebrate your humble courage to model for me that forgiveness and reconciliation is possible. I celebrate that even though I was another man’s son, you loved me as your own. Amid the trauma of alcoholism, I find glimmers of immense beauty. Even in your late night rages, I was never a stepson. I was always your son.
My last name is Barnhart. It is a family heritage I prize. I wouldn’t give it up for the world. But I also approach life as the son of John Garrison. I’ve learned to be bi-familial. And my life is better for it.
I wish you could see your grandchildren grow up. You would be proud of teenage Miles, who you affectionately called “Milo-boy.” You would laugh at middle school Clementine who you referred to as “Clemenshine.” I wish you could have met your youngest grandchild, little Lou. You would celebrate that both Nathan and I have families of our own. We’re both happy. We’re both driven. We’ve both found ourselves in careers to which we feel called.
But your birthday marks another year of absence. Another year without texts and visits. I cannot call with my questions about all things home and engine repair. While I celebrate that you are no longer in pain, my celebration is still a reminder that you are not in the room.
On your birthday, Dad, I reflect on how you modeled for me that we are always a work in progress. It’s never too late to start over. Forgiveness is a pipe dream if it cannot permeate the very families in which we find ourselves. My story is one in which it was a transformative reality.
I am grateful that we fully reconciled. There was nothing left unsaid, and we found love on the other side of that journey.
Your birthday means nothing to you now. You’ve received your reward. But for those of us still waiting to experience what you have come to know as real, your birthday marks a moment to celebrate the gift you were to us. Those years of corporate climbing, alcohol abuse, and unrestrained anger do not get the last word.
Instead, the last word is that you were humble, generous, steady, and kind. You became a gentle giant who loved well. You reclaimed the role of father and took on the title of “Papa John” to your grandchildren. Well done, Dad. I will always give thanks for being your son.
Lovingly proud to be your son,
Barney Boy
Beautiful!
Oh wow!!! Powerful!