The Song My Father Taught Me

When my brother, Jim, was born, it was clear that something big had happened in my family.  Apparently, having a boy after two girls was a cause for great celebration. One year later, when my youngest sister was born, Jim became firmly enthroned as “the only boy”. He was a big deal. I knew my parents loved me, but I would never have the status of “only” anything. I was just in grade school, but I began to learn the “song” that being male was part of being good enough. I realized that I could never be my father’s only son, but I could work hard to be as much of a companion to him as my brother. I watched whatever Daddy watched on TV (westerns, Sunday night Mystery Theater, and—years later—football). I watched/helped him work on his big semi-trucks. I learned to ride our small motorcycle and I loved riding with him on his big bike. Other than some questionable food choices of his (lima beans and liver), if Daddy liked something—so did I. If I couldn’t be his son, I would get as close as I could—I would learn to sing that song somehow!

Daddy and I always had fun together and I have many happy memories of times we spent together. My favorite is a practical joke we played on Barb one afternoon. Daddy was sitting on the porch and enjoying a beer. He had been working on his truck and I had been hanging out with him most of that time. He was joking with me and asking if I wanted a sip; he knew I would say no, because I thought it smelled nasty. All of a sudden, he said “I bet we can convince your sister that you like it”. I didn’t believe him, but it sounded intriguing, so I asked him how. He took the bottle that was nearly empty and rinsed it out and put lemonade in it. When Barb walked by, I took a long draw on that bottle and grinned at her, asking if she would like some, too. The look on her face said it all! She definitely didn’t want any, and it turned out to be hard to convince her it was actually lemonade.

Daddy was gone a lot when I was young; his job as an owner/operator long-distance truck driver meant that he had to go where the work was. We lived in Ohio, but often the work was on the West Coast and other times it was down in Texas. Many times, it took him away from home for three or four weeks at a time. His homecoming was special every single time. Daddy wasn’t like other fathers who were cold and distant; he was affectionate and gave wonderful bear hugs. When he came home, he would squat down and we would all run to him for the love we had missed while he was gone. I know now that my parents’ marriage had been troubled for years, but they never let their children glimpse the difficulty they were having. We never had a lot of money, but I always felt like my childhood was very rich in love and laughter.

Yes, I was definitely a “Daddy’s girl”. But, that all stopped a couple of months before my 14^th birthday—the day my whole world fell apart. The day my father moved out of our home, my broken heart took the blame. As I looked at the time we spent together through the eyes of a young girl I decided that I wasn’t enough. I would never be enough to keep him there. My brother went to visit Daddy two years later and never returned home. Jim was enough, he was the one that Daddy wanted to have with him all the time and I was not.

For six years, my father was mostly absent from my life. He missed teaching me to drive, seeing my performance at St. John’s Cathedral in Spokane, and my high school graduation. For a few years, my step-mom signed my birthday cards, until I told her to stop sending them, if he couldn’t sign them himself.

Since school was the one area I’d always felt I was able to prove my worthiness, I dove back into my schoolwork, trying to convince my father that I was worth coming back for. I told myself, irrationally, that if I could just keep that 4.0 GPA, he would be so proud of me that nothing could keep him away. Physical Education and Typing class became my academic nemeses—lowering my GPA to an unacceptable 3.8. I was so disappointed in myself, because I knew he would never come to my graduation. I didn’t want to invite him. I can’t even remember if I did.

All I could see was the glaring evidence that I would never be good enough, because I wasn’t a boy. All that effort was wasted. I could never be what my father wanted most. I could never be what Jim already was—a son.

You might think that I would never have forgiven my father for his absence. But, I did. Most of the people in my life didn’t understand it then, and some still don’t. When I was 19, I decided I wanted to see my father again. I can’t remember if I called or wrote to him, but the result was an invitation to visit for a month during the summer of 1983. It was a very good visit and, over the next year, Daddy and I repaired our relationship with grace and acceptance. I realized that even the gravest mistakes can be forgiven. I began to understand how the people we love the most are in the position to cause our greatest pain. I learned to accept him for who he was—good and bad. My father and I would gradually reestablish the comfortable companionship we had enjoyed when I was a child.  

But, it could never be the same. Choices have consequences. Wounds leave scars. During those five years apart, I had learned some painful songs that could never be “un-learned”. In his absence, other men had stepped into the role of father-figure in my life. Some of those experiences had hurt and some had healed, but all of them had changed me.

My father’s love will always be something I crave and his companionship will always be easy and comfortable. I will never be his son, but I can learn to sing my true song.

I’ve learned that Daddy loves me just the way I am.

The Song My Mother Taught Me (Verse One)

The first song that any of us learn to sing is for our mother, and is taught to us by our mother. It’s easy to understand, when you consider the sheer number of hours each day that we spend in physical contact with one another.  At first, a child sees her mother as an extension of herself. The part of her that enables her movement through this world and brings to her the things she desires. The yin/yang of this is that, as a child grows and develops, the mother begins to experience the pride and the distance that accompany each tiny step her child takes in life that leads them away from her.

This is the first “song” my mother taught me:  the drawing close—the intimate bond of mother and child. 

For the first two years of my life, my mother and I were inseparable. I am her oldest child, and we, quite literally, spent every single day together. Not just every day, but nearly every hour of every day. Our bond was so strong that I became inconsolable, when she was hospitalized, for just two days, when my sister, Barb, was born. No one could comfort me. Not my father. Not my grandparents. I cried for hours—until I was exhausted. By the time Mom came home, I was so “homesick” for her that I was running a fever. Miraculously, every symptom was remedied by her return home! 

I find it fascinating and sad that, even now, my mom feels she failed me during those first two years of my life, by not preparing me to be away from her. My mom, who devoted every day of her life to my needs, feels she let me down. She taught me to depend on her, to be confident in her love for me, to call out to her in my times of need—but she still regrets forgetting to teach me how to be apart from her.

And so, she began to teach me a new “song”:  the act and the art of letting go—showing me the steps to achieving my independence from her.

I know the arrival of my siblings spurred this on. Within three more years, a brother and another sister would join our family—four children under the age of 5!  As any mother knows, there are only so many hours in each day and so much that calls out for her attention, including her children.

And so, I learned to be her helper, to answer the cries for attention of my siblings, and to be a responsible big sister. Bit by bit, the dynamic of “the two of us” became “all four kids”. I learned to seek out their companionship to fill in the time she no longer had to lavish on me alone. In learning how to nurture from her, I was learning to bring other people into my life; the companionship she had used to draw me close became the way I learned to let go of her.

Drawing close—days of mirroring her mannerisms, her voice, and her loving care became decades of “that’s how Mom taught me to do it”.

Of course, when I became an adult—when I was so busy making my own way, my own marriage, my own family—I saw only the ways we were different. My eyes were fixed on the trivial things like music and clothing choices or movies that I loved and she hated. But, there were big differences, too.  Our marriage experiences were like night and day. My relationship with my father was a constant source of pain for her. I struggled with spiritual issues, at times, and she seemed frustrated with my lackadaisical church attendance. I hid some of my life choices from her—out of fear and respect—fear of discussing our differences and respect for the fact that she might be disappointed in me.

That was a big mistake. When I buried our differences, I buried our opportunity to truly know each other. I avoided being myself with her. Years later, in my 30s and 40s, I wondered how my mother could know so little about who I was and about what truly mattered to me. Even today, there are times when our differences can seem so strong, but on other days, they almost disappear.

Letting go—our relationships and choices drew us apart from one another. Her desire to teach me how to be independent developed into my relentless need to separate myself from her and become my own person.

One thing I am certain of—my mother is the one person whose disappointment in me cuts the deepest. And, her favor and approval are something I continue to crave, even in my 50s. 

For two years she was my world. And then, she helped me move out into the world.

And still today we practice the songs of drawing close. 

And letting go.

The Song We Begin With--My Story

Every girl’s story begins with her mom. She teaches you so much about life and how to live it. My mom taught me how to speak my first words and how to play with others; how to dress appropriately, how to cross my legs like a lady, how to cook, and how to fold fitted sheets. She taught me to sing and to love good music. She taught me how to be strong, and that it’s OK to cry when you don’t feel strong anymore. She taught me to love Jesus, read my Bible, and to be active at my church. In fact—because my Dad rejected church when I was very young—everything I understood about God, when I was a child, was learned from my mom. . . and then from my church. 

My spiritual wires got crossed somewhere along the way, and I began to see God as demanding, and my relationship with Him became performance based—based on fear of failure. I became acutely aware of my flaws, my temptations, and my mistakes. “Jesus loves me, this I know” became distorted into “Jesus (only) loves good little girls”—and I really struggled with being good. I mean, REALLY struggled!  

Every opinion I had about myself became grounded in worries about being good enough. Bible lessons about obedience became a spiritual earworm** that tormented me; a song stuck in my head that I could not resist and could never finish. I knew I was not always a “good little girl”. Some days I wasn’t good at all. Eventually, I began to wonder if there was even any point in trying to be good.

All of my spiritual struggles stood in sharp contrast to my sister, for whom being good just seemed to come naturally. She didn’t swear, or hit our little brother, or talk in the sassy tone that was my specialty. She loved to be in the kitchen helping our mom; I hated it. She was so good that it was clear (to my young brain and immature emotions) that she didn’t deal with the same temptations, and certainly didn’t make the same mistakes! To illustrate:  On ONE occasion, she uttered a curse word in my presence and I used that as blackmail over her for at least 3 years—“What would Mommy think if she knew you talked like that?” Yep, in the arena of being good enough to win Jesus’ love, I was clearly out-classed. She made it look easy.

There was, however, one area where I could excel. School. I still love school today—and long to return to college—because I know that is my place to shine. 

In school. . .

I could raise my hand and know the answer.

I could get the perfect test score.

I could be better than good enough.

I could be the best at something.

Yes, I was THAT student. The one you hated in school. But, oh were my parents proud!  They encouraged me, and when my grades faltered on a couple of tests, they asked if I’d really done my best. The lesson I internalized was that, if it wasn’t an “A” grade, it must not have been my best. I embraced the belief that, if I didn’t get that “A”, I was less of a person—less than I could be. Not living up to my potential. And so, I worked harder.

My report cards were decorated with “A” grades, but no grade can fill a heart that doesn’t feel good enough.  I know this is true, because none of mine did. There was this Jesus-shaped hole in my soul, and I was trying to fill it with straight “A” report cards and Honor Roll membership. Eventually, I would try to fill it with food, intimacy, and even being a “perfect” mother.

In time, I would learn that none of these things, and none of my relationships, could fill the place reserved for God.

And no one could teach me the song He wanted me to sing; one I wouldn’t mind having stuck in my head.

Jesus Loves Me, this I know.

**Earworm:  According to Wikipedia, an earworm is a catchy piece of music that continually repeats through a person's mind after it is no longer playing.

Mockingbird

I can remember the day I first became fascinated with mockingbirds. I’d seen them around my house in South Carolina for over a decade. I’d just never paid much attention to them because, honestly, they’re kind of plain. I love bird-watching; I learned to appreciate the beauty of birds from my mother-in-law. There was simply nothing intriguing to me about mockingbirds—they aren’t brilliantly colored and they have no interesting markings. 

The problem was that I was too busy looking at birds and hadn’t taken the time to really listen to them.

In the summer of 2013, I was enjoying a beautiful evening in Pennsylvania, sitting on the front porch at my in-law’s house, when my focus changed. It was almost dusk and the weather couldn’t have been more perfect. I was sitting there with my son, Ian, chatting about our day and how great the vacation had been. Out of the blue, he told me that he thought the mockingbird must have at least 20 songs that it could sing, because he was pretty sure he hadn’t heard one repeated yet. I really hadn’t been paying attention (there are always bird songs to be heard from that porch!), so I listened closely and, sure enough, I could hear the same bird singing one song after another. I must have heard at least 15 unique tunes; I was struck by this unusual talent, and began wondering:

Why does the mockingbird sing the songs of other birds?

How many songs does it know?

Why does it sing those songs—how does it pick a song to learn? 

Does the mockingbird even have its own song? 

As these thoughts unraveled in my head, I heard the Holy Spirit gently tell me that I was just like the mockingbird.  I have as many “roles” in my life as the mockingbird has songs.  I am a wife to Dave; mother to Scott, Ian, and Katie; daughter to JoAnn and Dave; daughter-in-law to Don and JoAnn; sister to Barb, Jim, and Linda; friend; church member; Bible study leader; nurse; co-worker; neighbor. 

Am I the same person in each of these roles?  

How does my “song” change with each role?

Are these roles that I chose, or ones that were assigned to me?

Are any of them the real me? 

Have I even found the real me?

Since that day, the mockingbird questions have been relentless and undeniable; repeatedly bubbling to the surface of my thoughts and prayers. I know I must try to answer them; it's the only way I will learn the song I was born to sing.

And, singing is very important to me. I've been singing for church and special events since I was a child. I love music and I love to sing. I love the flow of music and the harmony. I love the perfect blend of lyric and melody. 

When I began singing as a child, my Mom selected my songs. She appreciated good music and taught me that same appreciation. Naturally, her choices reflected her taste.  I grew up regularly attending church and learned the favorite hymns of my church family--adding more music to my life. In High School, I took vocal lessons and expanded my musical repertoire. These songs reflected the taste of my very serious Yugoslavian Choral Director. 

Eventually, I reached the point of making my own musical selections. Still, I chose my music carefully--always mindful of my audience and what they would find worshipful or appropriate.

But, on my own--in my car, on my iPod--that's where I express my true musical identity. I sing along with the radio and "dance" in the seat of my car.  I move to the music while I'm cleaning the house or ironing. Sometimes I wonder how I ever managed NOT to learn to dance!

I need music that "moves" me in other ways, too. Music that can reach right into my soul and find the me that is hiding there.  I know it touches me more than any sermon ever has.  Perhaps that is why God is using the mockingbirds to teach me about Him, and who He has called me to be.  

You see, I have a song to sing, and I can't allow it to lie dormant. I need to share it. I need to sing God's song.