daddy God and my daddy

My daddy was a complicated man and a difficult father. His childhood, much of it wiped from his memory by the pain, was spent suffering at the abusive hands of his father, Daddy Vance. My Uncle Harold has told us stories of beatings daddy received... his running away from home several times... his refusal to let his spirit be broken by the pain inflicted on his body. When it was his turn to be a father, there was no healthy model for fathering in his memory bank. So I grew up with a father who loved me... I knew that... but a father who was driven by inner pain neither he nor his children could understand or speak.
When daddy got mad, silence descended upon the house. You never knew whether you or someone else was the cause and as a child, you were afraid to ask. My mother would ask... she wasn’t afraid but often would not get an answer. Sometimes daddy’s anger with us would be more than he could manage and he would whip us with a belt. Mama put a stop to that after one whipping that came close to a beating. Her parents did not use whipping and she refused to let him do that again... I remember.
Daddy could also be fun... charming... outgoing and friendly. Mama’s shyness kept her from feeling comfortable with many people outside the family so when we had company for dinner, it was at daddy’s urging. You could never find a more faithful friend or steadfast father. When the chips were down... when all else failed... if you had enough nerve to ask, daddy would come through for you... a small man in size but a large man in every other way.
As a child my image for father and my feelings for fathers were confused, as you can imagine. It would have been easier if daddy had been a thorough going son of a bitch... but he wasn’t. He was a man who loved children but was terrified to hold a baby... didn’t have a clue how to talk to a child but would teach his grandson, at age nine, how to drive the old Dodge pick-up out in the hay field... loved having his daughters and grandchildren come home to the farm to spend two weeks canning and freezing from the huge garden he grew for us. This same man offered frequent opinions and rendered judgements on how fast we were speeding down the road to hell in the way we were rearing our children.
During one of our twice a year revivals in the church of my childhood, I was caught by the visiting preacher’s description of a prayer from Jesus when he called God "Abba"... daddy. Suddenly I had a new place to find a daddy... one whom I need not fear... one who knew me before I knew myself... one who would always be present when I was in need or happy or sad... one who would hear my small, determined voice that, like my father, refused to be denied. My daddy, damaged and hurt, might not always be able to be the father I needed (no father can ever be) but Daddy God could. The strength... the safety... the assurance of my essential value as a girl child... the joy in my being... came from both Daddies... Daddy God was my safety net when my daddy couldn’t be there.
Daddy endured several crucifixions that transformed his soul. One crucifixion was the suicide of my sister. It ripped him asunder... his daughter in such pain and she couldn’t tell him or mama... For weeks and months, his co-workers at the paper mill had him under their watchful eyes, fearing he would take his own life to end the pain and grief he felt. Another crucifixion came at the end of his life as he lived with a terminal disease for three years. Each of these experiences helped crack the hardened shell daddy had built around his heart and soul for protection until the real person was able to shine through. He lived the last years of his life with grace and dignity... and love. We laughed, cried, told stories, apologized for hurts, hugged, spoke of our love for one another, made up for lost time...
So, somehow, by the grace of God, I was able to find healing for my hurt at the hands of my father... forgive him... forgive myself.... forgive God... I could never have found my way through my childhood without a Daddy God... could never have seen another way to be father without the identification with the masculine part of God. I needed and still need a God who represents the whole of the human being... male and female we were created in the image of God. To remove the feminine and masculine from our understanding of God is to deny the joy of our creation as men and women... wonderfully and fearfully made in His and Her image... our Father and Mother God... different and yet the same... what a paradox of grace and puzzlement.