Holding the Storm

If there was one word that would sum up my entire childhood it would have to be Misunderstood. I had a knack for expressing myself in ways that very few people related to. I was angry, dramatic and resentful and I let everyone know about it. In spite of an obviously traumatic childhood, my emotional outbursts were always cast off as typical rebellion, hormones or a bad attitude. Of course, as a teenage girl, I did have a bad attitude, I was rebellious and I had enough hormones to supply a dairy farm.  Living with me was like living in a teenage hurricane. So, I don’t blame anyone for taking my behavior at face value and moving on, rather than sending me to a shrink. But, I probably needed the shrink.

During this turbulent time I remember one particular event in which I had gotten angry over some small thing and had screamed at my Mom and brother, threw some random objects at the wall, slammed a couple doors all just before severely stabbing my pillow with a  #2 pencil . They were disgusted with me and I was in truth, disgusted with myself. When my Daddy got home he heard about what happened. Now, my father was a man with a terrifying temper that sometimes turned violent towards inanimate objects, rather like my temper actually.  Incurring his wrath was always an unpredictable situation. But of all the nonsensical things in my crazy weirdo childhood universe, my relationship with Daddy made the least sense. While he was by far the scariest person I have ever known, he was also the kindest and most intuitive. I have never known anyone who could see through me to my inner self with such ease. He could cut right through the anger and see straight to the hurt and chaos within me. He did not listen to the wild words I would throw at people, he seemed to hear my heart breaking and honored the source of my trouble.

That day when Daddy came home I heard Mama telling him about what had happened and I quickly hid in my bedroom. I cleverly left my bedroom light off so that he would never suspect that I was hiding in there.  But it didn’t matter, he never came. I sat in the dark corner of my cold unfinished bedroom until my fear went away. Where I had been terrified to see Daddy before I suddenly was desperate to talk to him. I got up and went to his room.  He was laying on his bed, worn out, with yellow skin and sunken eyes watching TV. His face was gaunt and narrow, his voice weak and raspy. The cancer had changed my Dad so much that he seemed a stranger when I looked at him.

As soon as I walked in Daddy turned the TV off. He shifted in his bed and looked at me with his crooked smile, he knew I would come. He knew things like that about me.  I sat at the bottom of the bed and told him about what had happened through tears and sobs. I blamed Mom and my brother for making me upset. They were just so irritating! Why must I continue living with these people!? They never listen to me! I am going to run away if things don’t change! I will just burn this house down and dance in the ashes! (Told you I was dramatic). Daddy just listened so patient and calm. He let me cry it all out, he let me say whatever I wanted even if it was lies, hate, or cruelty. Finally all the anger and hate seemed to bleed out, I felt empty and quiet on the inside. I whispered how sorry I was through my aching throat and dry lips.

Daddy just looked at me and smiled softly. Then he said beautiful words. Words that only he could say to me and mean anything at all. He told me, “You should not say hurtful things to your Mom or brother. They are the people who will always be there for you even when I am not. I am sorry that you are feeling so bad today, why don’t you go take a shower and stay in there until the hot water runs out. You will feel better tomorrow.” And so I did take a shower and I did feel better the next day.

Now, my Dad could have told me so many other things. He could have told me to apologize to my family, or he could have given me detailed advice on how to manage my temper, or he could have disciplined me for my awful behavior.  But, he didn’t. He simply listened and honored the hurt I was feeling. It was magic. In a time where I was surrounded by people who saw me as a trouble maker, Daddy saw me as a hurt little girl. I suspect he felt my pain the same way I feel my son’s pain. I have been there, I know what it is like and I love you so much that your pain is mine too. There is something in the knowing; knowing someone’s pain like it is your own. And Daddy knew that listening and that knowing was enough to help me.

I look back now and see that Daddy knew my pain because he had felt the same confusion over life and emotion as I did then and often do now. He knew that there was no solution, no right answer to fix my brokenness. So, he listened. And his listening was

the safest place in the world for me.  His listening was big and his words were few. His ability to hear me and hold my anger for me when it was more than I could bear still heals me today.

Authoress Rachel Remen says “Listening is like the rain”. I have thought about those words a great deal, trying to decipher the meaning. I think it means that when it rains, the Earth will hold it. When the clouds let go the Earth will make room for however much the sky throws down. When we listen, we make room for someone else to empty themselves. A great listener will not tell you, ‘that is enough’, just as the rain is not finished until it is finished.  My Daddy had a great capacity to hold my storms for me. I miss him terribly.

My sons are nearing their teenage years and already I see their turmoil beginning. It is like watching dark clouds form on the near horizon. Soon the rains will come.  I prepare by putting my lectures away, trimming down all of my great advice and creating  soul space for these boys to fill. I nervously step into this next beautiful chapter of parenting hoping that I possess the same knowing that my Daddy did. Hoping that like him, I will know how to hold the storm.