Читать книгу Longing for a Father - Michael Stahl - Страница 5

It was a rainy, late summer morning in the late seventies, my birthday. I was standing dreamily at the window of our little old house and was looking out onto the street.

I felt as if Heaven was crying along with my soul. Birthdays are always something special, just a little like Christmas. Days on which you might think you’d be treated specially. The world around you treats you differently, as if you were more valuable. Things often turn out differently than you’d have thought or wished it would. I wasn’t expecting a cake with candles to blow out, or a festively decorated room. No, just a smile, a gesture, a soft touch or a nice word, especially from the most important man in my life, my father, and hero. Lost in my thoughts, I was staring out of the window. Life out there seemed sad and gloomy to me. What would the day be like?

A party, a very special day, the day of days for millions of children.

Excitement welled up in me. My thoughts circled insecurely till the door of the living room opened and ripped me out of my dreams. There he stood, just a few steps away from me, my father.

His face was firm, striking—void of any emotion. I sensed it was not a special day for him, not a party day, not a reason to celebrate, no feeling of Christmas. Our eyes met. With the confidence of a ‘birthday boy’—a boy who is under special protection because of that day—I went towards him, this big strong man, and dared to ask, “Dad, what do I get for my birthday today?” We faced each other, father and son. You could have heard a pin drop. Seconds became an eternity. I could have asked anything, just not that question, on that day, at that time, at that place. Overwhelming and powerful, he stood across from me. I was completely at the mercy of his answer and everything that was now going to happen.

I knew right then that I would not get a present, wrestle with the wrapping paper, or cut a ribbon. I knew that I would get something very different than what I had wished and longed for.

The world seemed to stand still, as if it had stopped breathing, as if the whole universe was waiting spellbound for what was going to happen.

My father looked firmly into my eyes. His face was full of contempt. It appeared to me as if he were taking a breath. But no, that’s not what it was.

He spit right in my face. His saliva ran down my face. In my deepest grief, I heard his voice,

“Is that enough? Do you want more of it?” Then he left the room.

There I stood, my soul pierced by a spear of disdain and malice.

I felt no hate or rage, I was simply broken and defenseless.

My tears mingled with my father’s saliva.

At the age of five, I had become aware of God through an 8 x 10 inch picture of Jesus. At that time, I had asked myself why this Jesus in the picture was looking at me with so much love, and why he had holes in his hands. The more I found out about this Jesus, the more I loved and trusted him. I started to pray, to tell him everything, and to trust in him.

I stood at the window again looking up to the sky, showing him my pain. I didn’t wipe the spit off. God himself should see what had happened to me. Jesus was spit at too. I felt very close to him then. I never read in his Word that he wiped the spit off. Spitting at someone is an act that originates from the deepest contempt. This deepest contempt he carried up to Calvary. So I also took the contempt I suffered to him.

He sympathized with me. The same thing had happened to him. That’s what I thought and felt in that moment.

The more I cried, the more the spit of contempt from my father was washed from my face by the tears. Now I cried with all of Heaven.

I felt I was not alone. God himself was grieving with me. I blamed myself, wondering if this escalation was my fault, as so often. I had made my dad angry, and it was my fault that he maybe felt guilty.

Actually, I wanted to make him proud of me. Once again I had failed; I was not good enough. But a feeling of warmth and sympathy intermingled with the weeping, grief and self-accusation. I felt God was by my side and was weeping with me.

I looked out of the window. Endless tears ran down my face, dropping to the floor like water out of a leaking faucet.

The song, Adieu mein kleiner Gardeoffizier (‘Goodbye My Little Guard Officer’), was playing on our ancient radio.

This song became a synonym to me for contempt and grief, but also for being close to God. My father was my first hero, the love of my life. No matter what he did or didn’t do, he could be sure of my love.