Halfway through my sophomore year of boarding school, my mother phoned to tell me she was divorcing my step-'father'. I could have cared less. I know that sounds cold-hearted but the truth is: I did NOT love him. I actually hated him and often prayed for his painful demise. Unchristian? You bet! At that stage of growth in my life it was also oddly fulfilling! He was my third dad. He was an alcoholic, abusive and (I learned later) that his "personality exhibited borderline paranoid schizophrenic tendencies"! I feel quite confident that his quest for wisdom from 'wise-Bud' only added to his 'condition'. Brown bottles, thick decanters and various juices for mixing were commonplace in our household.
Mike was a great friend of mine that lived one block behind me. We would share some of our fears about our drunk dads with one another and ultimately learned how to profit from their inebriated weekends. Mike and I realized that if we 'stiffened' the drinks our dads would reach drunken depths at a faster pace! After a few drinks, Mike's dad would prop himself in the easy chair, I would chat to distract his dad and Mike would add high 'proof' to his dad's drink. Just as he was 'half-lit' Mike would ask him for an allowance. His dad would gladly pay. Ten minutes later Mike would ask him for the allowance again. His dad would start a slurred routine speech, "Yourrrr kidding", (hiccup) I am soooooo sorry. I ffffforgot to pay you. Here you go"! He would hand Mike several bills. Perhaps it sounds a bit cruel but Mike would profit and his dad would spend LESS money on booze. After his dad passed out in the chair Mike would walk over and lift his dad's leg up...way up.......and drop it back on the cushioned footstool. It would hit hard and sometimes bounce and flop onto the carpet. He would do this several times. He would move his dad's arms around and place them in odd positions. First under his chin, then hands to the face, hands on his hips and then on his ears. We laughed so hard! It was inebriated aerobics! I always stood next to the door, ready to scramble outside if his dad woke. He never would. That following morning and for the next few days, Mike's dad would limp around and complain about a sore heel, arms and legs! Mike would go to the store and buy some new gizmo or device.
My third dad would binge. He had a few weeks of sobriety and then a week of insanity. He would never remember his antics. At first I cowered in fear but later learned it was the best times to pull some childhood antics and ask for money as well. The best trick was at picnics. We'd buy very small fire cracker-like poppers (not real fire crackers) and stick them in his cigarettes. While he was barbecuing his steaks he'd drink and light-up a smoke and then BAM! He'd be standing there like a cartoon; drunk with a frazzled nicotine stick in his mouth. It would anger him, he'd cuss, complain and tell all Christians to.....seek residence with their Satanic friend (not his words). Mike and I would hide around the corner laughing both knowing that in his inebriated state, he couldn't chase us.
My mother always took us kids to church. It was a time of reprieve. A time away from the angry dad that either wanted to drink, was drunk or was hungover. Church was a safe haven. A time when I could meet a real Father and appreciate true love and peace without fear. Watching the negative effects of alcohol on an earthly dad provided enough example for me to avoid it. Seeing the positive effects of prayer and the love of a heavenly Father on our family life, was enough of a witness for me to grow towards it.
One night I woke to drunken yells from my 'dad' and sobs from my mother. He sounded especially angry. "You Jees-less Christians! I will kill you ALL! How dare YOU tell me what I can do and can't do. Who needs YOUR God!" From there his language continued to depreciate as he spewed his venom on everyone and everything. He cursed God, the house, the car, the weather, each of us and, in his words, "the horse you rode in on". I have never forgotten that expression. It's oddly comical but it never, ever really makes any sense. There were many moments like this but I had never heard him threaten us. I was worried about our safety.
Firearms and hunting were a part of our lifestyle. I had rifles, handguns and shotguns. The yelling became more graphic. It was dark, I found the gun case, slowly opened the door and ran my fingers over the handgun. I recognized the feel of my semi-automatic .22 caliber German Luger P08. It was old but clean, very functional and a quick squeeze would quickly unload its cartridges. I loaded it and stood in the dark..... waiting. I was tired of the heartache, the alcohol, the abuse and now I was afraid for OUR lives. He stomped down the hallway and into his room. Through the opening in my door I could see him reach into his dresser drawer looking for something and bellowing about what he was going to do. I stood in the shadows waiting for his next move.
My mind flashed between his drunken yells and then to my mother, my brother and my sisters, all singing hymns in church. Then I saw my grandfather's face as he gave hunting instructions, "Whenever you point your gun, something will die. This is the goal! Focus on your target!."
The voices and family faces began to blur. I could hear 'dad' three yelling, the congregation singing, my grandfather saying, "Focus! Focus! FOCUS! Louder and LOUDER! I began to pray and then I panicked. I quickly slipped into bed and slid the pistol under my pillow and kept my hand resting on it, ready to use it. My eyes were closed but I was wide awake as I listened for answers that would determine my next move. The front door slammed and I knew he was gone; at least for now.
I often prayed for the opportunity to attend a Christian school somewhere, anywhere. I needed to leave. I was afraid of what might happen; of what I might do. I grew tired and prayed again. Suddenly! 'Dad' three crashed through the bedroom door. I sat up and screamed, "NOOO! I could feel the gun in my hand and my finger squeezing the trigger.... POP! POP! POP! POP! ....I woke up in a soaking cold sweat mumbling something and realized the shooting was just a dream.
Every decision of our youth affects our future as a future adult; all of it. What you see, you mimic. What you hear, you absorb. What you say/vocalize, becomes a habit. Blend the vision, auditory and speech together, throw in a little worldly gain and suddenly, an adolescent from a 'broken home' hardly has a chance. The reverse is also true: add a God loving, Jesus saved, church attending, praying parent(s) to the mix and EVERYTHING changes! Seeds take root and when you least expect it, the fruit appears!
The next morning I woke and removed the cartridges from the gun. I felt guilty for having a loaded gun in the house. On my way out the door my mother said, "He's gone and probably for quite awhile." I kissed her goodbye and made sure I stopped crying before I reached the bus stop. All the while praying to myself that the drinking would stop and that 'dad' three would die.
The next week I received an opportunity to attend a Christian boarding school. I jumped at the chance. It was three states away but, the further the better. After I had been there awhile I received the informative phone call from mum. It was 1973. They divorced and I never saw 'dad' three, his son (my step-brother) again. 'Dad' three died alone and is buried in a small cemetery in northern Maine. I hope he found Christ, I truly do. I hope he found peace. I hope he stopped viewing life through brown bottles and that he kicked his friend 'wise Bud' goodbye. I will always appreciate that 'dad' three taught me the best way NOT to be.
To this day I have no use for alcohol or profanity. My life's experience has shown me that cursing is a vocal admission of standing on the edge of insanity and proof of a very limited vocabulary. Drinking is a cushion against facing reality. I am sure this offends many people but the reality is, ALL of our experiences are unique. Mine is not yours and yours is not mine. I don't have answers but I do have a choice. I do know that if you breathe you can pray. Through your unique prayers you will be impressed to do what is correct. I pray that you never have to say a prayer while holding a gun in your hand, that you will always find time to attend church and that your weapon of choice will be your Bible. It makes a world of difference! ~Pray /\
