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After many years of struggling, my dad lost his battle with alcohol addiction last weekend. We had his funeral service Thursday night, and while there was some closure as we said goodbye to him, I feel like the grieving process has only just started. I process things best when I write or talk about them, so this post is incredibly personal as I pour my heart out and begin to walk through the enormity of my grief.
SAYING GOODBYE.
As we were preparing for my dad’s funeral last week, thinking about how to best honor his memory and say goodbye to him well, we knew that we wanted to address Dad’s battle with alcoholism, but do so in a way that would preserve his dignity and offer the hope we have (and he had) in Christ. Somehow, I found just enough courage to stand up in front of everyone and say a few words.
Here’s what I said:
“My brother and I found my dad’s notebook where he was writing down some thoughts to us in his last few weeks. We believe that he knew that his body was really and truly failing him, so he wanted to get his thoughts on paper for us. But one of the questions he wrote was, “How do you sum up a life?” Like father, like daughter I guess, because every time I sat down to write this, I was at a loss for words, which may surprise some of you and would certainly surprise him. But how do I sum up his 63 years in just a few words?
Do I talk about his battle with alcohol addiction that ultimately claimed his life? No, while his addiction was a beast that made things complicated and messy over the past decade, his addiction didn’t define him and certainly wasn’t who he was.
Do I talk about his hobbies and the things he loved to do? I could, because as my Uncle Greg said, he had more talent in just his pinky than a lot of people have in their whole bodies. He loved drawing, he made beautiful cabinetry and furniture, he could fix anything, and I don’t know if he ever loved doing anything more than sitting on the back of a horse.
Do I talk about his work ethic and his commitment to the sheet metal trade? While he was one of the hardest workers I’ve ever known and while he could take almost anything and turn it into something that was either functional or beautiful – and many times both – that still wasn’t the essence of who he was.
Do I talk about what a goofball he was? Those who knew him well knew that teasing and inside jokes seemed to be my dad’s love language. I could tell you about the one time I cut my hair short and then my name was Bob for the next decade or the number of photos we found of Dad with his underwear on his head. He really seemed to understand that laughter is good medicine for how hard life can be.
Do I talk about our shared affections? I could tell you about how much we both loved reading, loved history, and loved horses. I could even tell you how much we both absolutely loved to Q-tip our ears, because as we both could attest, few things in life feel so good.
All of those things are true of my dad and they’re things that I will never forget. But, really, the best way to sum up my dad’s life is to steal Pastor Kevin’s words and say that he loved his family and he loved the Lord.
He was a man after God’s own heart, who loved us fiercely. I had an amazing childhood with an amazing dad. I was always his little girl and I never questioned how much he loved me. Even when he was battling addiction from the pits of despair, he still reached out. Even then, he was thinking about us.
He wasn’t a very talkative or emotive man, but he was a strong force in my life. He was solid, dependable, and trustworthy. He had more integrity than anyone I knew and he was the kind of person who, like the widow in Luke 21, gave more than most, even when he had so little to give. He really seemed to grasp the enormity of the gift of grace he had been given and he knew that everything he had was God’s anyway. He was defined by his generosity, honesty, and gentleness.
Because of the way he provided for and loved us, I never struggled with or questioned the breadth and depth of God’s love for me. When Scripture compares God’s love for us with a father’s love for his children, how deeply that resonates! My dad loved me and I was secure in that love.
Several years ago, I finally watched my dad’s favorite movie, Lonesome Dove, and it taught me a lot about him. He was a cowboy at heart. Not the bar-fighting kind, but the fence-mending kind: strong and stoic, who worked with his hands and lived with deep loyalty to those he loved.
Was it messy in the end? Yes.
Was it hard to see his love for us sometimes? Yes.
But I never doubted that he loved us and he loved the Lord.
One of the final conversations I had with my dad was actually about salvation. I think he worried about the choices he had made and the hold addiction had over him, and whether it might affect his eternal security. I’m not worried about that, though, because he never stopped clinging to the hope he had in Christ.
I was going through his Bible a couple of days ago, and he had highlighted, underlined, and bracketed Psalm 55:16-18. It clearly impacted him, so I thought I would share it here. It says:
As for me, I shall call upon God,
And the Lord will save me.
Evening and morning
And at noon, I will complain and murmur,
And He will hear my voice.
He will redeem my soul
In peace from the battle which is against me…
May Dad’s memory be eternal!”
MY DAD’S STRUGGLE WITH ALCOHOLISM.
I didn’t grow up with an alcoholic dad. I always feel like that’s an important disclaimer, because I have the most amazing memories of him and he was such a good dad to my brother and I. I had an amazing childhood and it wasn’t until my senior year of high school, after my grandpa died suddenly and my brother was diagnosed with cancer that my dad started drinking. And even then, no one knew about it. It was a difficult year for our family, and even though my dad had the hope of Christ, he sought solace in alcohol. Just a drink to take the edge off of his own grief and stress in the evenings. But the enemy seeks to steal, kill, and destroy, so over time, those drinks turned into a battle that would ultimately claim his life.
He was a “closet alcoholic” for more than a decade. He was still functioning normally during the day – working full-time and fully engaged in the rest of his life. After admitting to his addiction and seeking help, though, things actually got a lot messier as the struggle came into the light and we all saw just how strong a grip alcohol had on him.
The past decade has been especially turbulent, as my parents eventually got divorced and we watched my dad spiral deeper into addiction. He would claw his way to sobriety, engage with his family as much as he was able, and then fall back into the pits of despair – again and again. It was difficult terrain for us to navigate, too, because when he was sober for stretches of time, we’d see the man he truly was come back. He’d be a fun Papaw to the kids and an engaged and supportive dad to my brother and I. But when the darkness was winning, his phone calls and text messages were confusing, we couldn’t be around him with the kids, and his personality would change.
Over the years, we warred in prayer for him, did our best to support him, and continued to love him through his addiction. But alcoholism feels like a thousand little deaths. Over the past decade, we grieved the loss of my dad many times and in many ways. Sometimes, we grieved him showing up to a birthday party inebriated. Sometimes, we grieved that we could no longer depend on him the way we used to. Sometimes, we grieved because he missed out on a child’s birth. Sometimes, we grieved because a long stretch of sobriety would give us hope, only to feel crushed and helpless when the darkness pulled him back under. Sometimes, we grieved because we knew we were losing him, but were powerless to stop it.
Addiction stole so much from my dad and our family.
THE GIFT OF TIME.
One night at the end of November, my dad called me because he was having trouble breathing. Blaise drove him to the ER where they diagnosed him with pneumonia and admitted him for treatment. After just a few short days, he was discharged from the hospital. Instead of going home, though, we convinced him to come stay at our house so that we could take care of him as he completed his antibiotics and recovered, and so we could put his house back in order.
That week was a gift.
We sat up late a few nights talking about spiritual things, my kids would snuggle up with him in his chair in the mornings, and he even gave my boys his leather-working tools and started teaching them how to use them. He was here over Thanksgiving, and got to share in putting up our Christmas tree and kicking off the Advent season. We prayed together, just my dad and I, and he joined us for our family prayers. My dad was completely sober that week and so much like the dad I grew up with that I will forever be thankful for the time he spent here.
But even during that week, I saw up close and personal how broken his body really was and it both terrified and crushed me. My once robust dad was a mere shell of his former self and it was clear that his addiction had ravaged his body. Yet his death still feels so sudden.
He was just here. And now he’s gone.
His death feels far too grievous to comprehend. We should have had years left with him. He should have been one of my kids’ favorite people in the world. No matter the circumstances, death is a violent separation of soul from body, but I’ve never felt that violence more acutely than I have this past week.
At times, it feels like the grief will swallow me whole – how can I survive this depth of pain?
I was also unprepared for the amount of guilt I would feel – did I do enough to help him?
I have faith in Christ, the Resurrection, and life everlasting, but I just keep wondering where he is. I believe that he’s with Christ – but where is that? Is he near? Is he far?
I’m told that while the grief never truly goes away, it does get easier to bear as time goes by. Right now, that feels impossible. The grief feels enormous and there are so many complicated layers of emotions to work through.
But what I said at his funeral will forever hold true: Dad loved his family and he loved the Lord.
So I’m trusting in the Lord’s sovereignty. Even over this.
