A Celebration and A Remembering
Remembering My Father While Celebrating My Children's Father.
Today I celebrate having Scott here to share another Father’s Day with his children. Their love for him gave him the determination to fight for his life. His near brush with death the day my son and I took him to the Emergency Room at the University of Washington Medical Center seems to have renewed my grief from my father’s passing. I say renewed, but I am not sure that I could—at the time—allow myself to fully grieve. So, I took some time today to look through Facebook memories, and along with the pictures that I shared below, I found this article that I had written in response to a prompt about advice and submitted to a writing group. It eventually morphed into the dedication to my second book (also included below).
Advice from Heaven
Edited slightly because every author worth their salt becomes a better writer!
My father lived eleven months past the age of 100. He was the wisdom in my life. A quiet and thoughtful man, he taught me to ponder. He was a free thinker about almost everything—including God and politics. He didn’t express his opinions very often, but when he did, I listened.
When he left this earth a year ago [now nine years ago], I felt the void but sensed that he needed to be on the other side of life as I moved forward. I was in the midst of writing a book detailing my extensive and intensive therapy journey. My father and I had talked about everything except my abuse in a daycare at three. I think he always believed I had forgotten what happened and in many ways I had, but the trauma was stored in my body and exploded out of me two years before he died. He never knew because we had always protected each other.
I had been searching for answers to the hidden dysfunctions within me my entire life. I pursued degrees in early childhood education and completed research, culminating in a dissertation on the concept of child innocence. We could have had great discussions, but our secrets were held too tightly. He was proud of everything I accomplished and smiled with delight every time I walked in the door, but we never talked about the very thing that bound us together so tightly.
What I learned about the effects of early childhood abuse could fill many books, but the one I was writing when my father died, would turn out to be less than 300 pages [Brave: A Personal Story of Healing Childhood Trauma]. I wanted to make sure I didn’t lose the important points in rabbit trails. I wanted to tell my story for a purpose. I wanted to help others understand how to help both children and adults who had suffered abuse. To do that, I had to tell my story. To tell my story, I needed my father to be watching from Heaven because we had promised each other not to talk about what happened.
When I was little, my father taught me how to be brave. I had been brave every single day of my life, but what I was about to do would eclipse anything I had ever done before. I was going to be brave beyond my imagination, but I longed to have my father say it was OK.
Then a message came from Heaven.
Since my father had lived with my husband and me up until his last year of life, I was the keeper of the few things he still owned. He was a preacher and had several Bibles—most he couldn’t read at the end because of his eyesight. I divided them between my two brothers and me. My one brother who is also a pastor began to read his treasure and text us sections my father had underlined.
My father was a lover of words. He wrote poetry during his final years and delighted in finding the perfect word to express his thoughts. He also had a quick wit and sense of humor that often surprised and delighted me. All of this showed up in the picture my brother sent. He had found the following written in the front of one of my father’s Bibles:
“Joseph Pulitzer deserved his own prize for this advice: ‘Put it before them: briefly so they will hear it, clearly so they appreciate it, picturesquely so they will remember it (and above all) accurately so they will be guided by its light.’”
These words, written in my father’s distinctive script, settled deep into my soul. Yes, I needed to share what I had learned so others could be ‘guided by the light.’ I needed to write clearly and with accuracy, be brief (always a challenge), and in my best storytelling fashion to make it memorable. I will forever keep this advice in mind as I write!
It was a rather random quote to be so notable as to find its place in my father’s Bible. How odd that my brother would find and text at the time when I was deeply conflicted about telling my story. My father had been gone almost a year at that point, but somehow he was still giving me advice (and permission to write in order to fulfill a purpose).
Thank you, Daddy. Thank you for sending advice from Heaven. I will do exactly as you said and one day I will share about all of those who were helped by my words.
When the nursing home called to inform me of my father’s passing, I was in Indiana at this park near the edge of Lake Michigan. I posted these pictures on Facebook, along with the following thoughts:
This morning, at this beautiful spot along Lake Michigan, I received word that my father peacefully left this world as he slept. His longing for heaven grew greater each day. I could see him standing tall and straight again, walking across this bridge into the arms of Jesus. Well done Kenneth Lyle Jenkins. I am so proud to be your daughter.
I often mention my father in my writing; Trauma in the Pews begins with a conversation between us. The two blogs below are specifically about our relationship. My father will continue to be a foundational influence in my work because of his impact on my life.
I treasure the years that my father lived in our home. His final year in a nursing home was by his choice and though he had no idea that I was in therapy, I think he understood that his remarkably strong daughter was struggling. My father’s choice was crucial to my healing as I struggled to cope with a lifetime of unprocessed trauma. His storehouse of memories provided many helpful clues along the way though there was a chasm we could not cross.
My father and I kept our promise to each other not to talk about what happened to me at the river. We made the best choices for each other with the knowledge we had at the time. Understanding the impact of trauma would have helped us bridge the unspoken barrier that always stood between us—one that I didn’t understand because my subconscious had buried the memories so deeply.
My hope for this Father’s Day is that conversations will happen in other families as they have been happening between my children and their father. Their father is the bravest person I have ever known.