The Day My Daddy Died

The call from upstate New York came just as the men in my Christian household were setting the table for dinner. It was December 18th, 1973 about 5:30 pm. "Gary, you have a phone call" someone shouted from the kitchen. I went down the hall to the kitchen to take the call on our only phone (no cordless phones back then). "Is this Gary Gibson, the son of Earl Elery Gibson" queried the caller. "Yes" I answered. "Well, I have some very bad news to tell you Mr Gibson. Your father is dead. He passed away 35 minutes ago and this is our first opportunity to call you. I am sorry to tell you this news". By now my household brothers could read the look on my face. The room became quiet as I hung up the phone. "My Dad just died" I told them. No one could speak for a moment. Then Tom, a trained, compassionate social worker, came over to me, placed a hand on my shoulder, and said: "I'm so sorry, Gary". The others followed with their condolences. I had no immediate emotional reaction. There was a funeral to plan. Since I was the only contact that the hospital had, it fell to me to call the rest of the family, including my mother (Mom and Dad divorced in 1963 and had no contact at all).

As the next few days unfolded, I was very glad for some things that occurred in my life a few years before this. I made an adult decision to follow Christ in 1970, and one of the first things God prompted me to do was to work out my relationship with Dad - as much as was humanly possible. I had initiated contact with Dad after searching for him (literally!) in my late teen years. I found him a hundred miles away in Schenectady, NY (a story in itself - for another time). We were both happy to see each other when I burst back into his life, but there remained a barrier between us. My annual visits to see him were strained and somewhat limited. I kept on praying about what I should do. By happy "coincidence", my spiritual director and my favorite college professor, Dr Peter Kreeft, began to teach me about forgiveness. Their advice and teachings were compelling, but I was not sure I could forgive Dad. I placed all the blame for my family's collapse on him. Dad hurt me - physically, verbally, and emotionally. I ran away from home when I was 13 and never lived with my Mom or Dad or siblings again. That was very painful and traumatic for me. I was vaguely aware that some things were broken in me. I had fears and compulsions I did not understand. I lived with a great sadness and loneliness.

But the grace of God prevailed. Two months before Dad died, he was diagnosed with cancer and I was inspired to visit him. We managed to discuss the painful past, and I suddenly realized that I had to repent for my response to his behavior and failings. I had been filled with hatred and contempt for him. I told everyone a hundred reasons to justify my feelings and most people would agree with me. But I was a prisoner of my own hatred and there was only one way out : to forgive him. In an instant during this critical conversation with him, I heard myself say "Dad, I am sorry for some things I said and did in the past to hurt you". He got emotional. "I know I let you all down, Gary. Believe me, I am not proud or happy about that". We forgave one another. It was that simple. We each spoke out a sentence or two and that was the end of it. But the full import of this came later, and it took me years to understand what happened on that last visit before he died.

We never became really close as a father and son should be. We did not have the time to build a new and healthy relationship. I still carry some emotional scars and bad memories of my early days. But the power of hatred was broken in me. I felt as if a big burden was lifted off me. In time, I came to understand the nature of addiction, and its insidious power over those who surrender to it. I came to know a lot about my father's own troubled childhood. He was not equipped or empowered by his father. In fact, grandpa Gibson's example was horrendous. And this sad heritage probably goes back hundreds of years. By God's grace, the family curse was broken in me. I have never been the same since I forgave Dad. It was and remains a life altering decision. I thank God for His work in me and for the forgiveness I desperately need and receive - often! May you experience that great mercy in your own life too.

Gary