DADDY'S ROAR

Part of my spiritual journey the last few years has involved an emotional journey, an unwrapping and unpacking of things I never thought needed to addressed.  But coming to terms with my past has opened the door to coming to terms with my today.  Or at least cracked the window.  Why do I want to bare my soul like this post and the previous one?  Because I'm learning I'm not alone.  Maybe, just maybe, if someone had bared their soul to me years ago, I'd be further along on my journey.  So I pray that my openness may bring someone further along on their walk.

I grew up on a small family farm. During my early years it was a dairy farm. During my adolescent years it was a little of everything: beef cattle, goat, chickens, rabbits, ducks, you name it. Daddy simply enjoyed the country and raising animals. He was proud to provide sustenance for his family from the fruits of his labor. Milk (both cow and goat!), meat, eggs, butter, as well as money from the sale of those.

I have vivid memories of Daddy coming to my rescue on that farm. One time as I was sitting on top of a stack of hay he was pulling with a tractor, we hit a bump and I tumbled. In a split second Daddy was off the tractor and able to catch me before I hit the ground. Another time I decided to ride a young calf. I remember sneaking up behind that yellow hefer and jumping on its back. It bucked me off, I hit the ground hard, and the next thing I remember is Daddy picking me up off the manure-covered lot and cradling me in his arms. Yet another time while most of the family was at the barn, I was home jumping on my bed. I took a tumble, busting my head on the corner of the bed frame. I remember running down the path to the barn, screaming with blood pouring out of my head, and Daddy racing toward me, then scooping me up with Momma close behind. Daddy wanted my best. He wanted to protect me and take care of me.

But Daddy had another side. You see, he was a roar-er. You never knew when he would have a burst of anger or impatience and let out a roar. It may be toward one of the farm animals, or it may be toward one of us.

He would break cows’ tails. Seriously. In case you’ve never been in an active dairy barn, cows are lured (with a trough of grain) one at a time into a stanchion, which is a device that a cow will stick its head through, then the farmer will lock it to keep them immobilized during the milking process while they munch their grain. We had two rows of stanchions, and each row held about 8 cows. The stanchions were fairly close together. Sometimes, while locked in its stanchion, a cow would swing its tail at just the right second and knock Daddy’s cigarette out of his mouth. Or they would kick out with their hind legs and give him a whack on the leg. Dad’s response would be to roar loudly, then grab the poor creature’s tail and wrench it, sometimes breaking it. We had more than a few cows with crooked tails. Or sometimes he would beat the cow’s hind quarters with his fist and forearm while they twisted and jumped and bellowed.

Daddy would roar at us too. I always hated when cows escaped their pasture. That meant we had to chase them down and round them up, often the whole family involved in the process. Imagine that you’re a little seven-year-old kid with a bunch of cows running toward you, and your job was to not let them get past you. It’s cold, it’s dark, your rubber boots are slipping in the mud, and Daddy’s roaring. Roaring at the cows, and then roaring at you because they ran past you and you couldn’t stop them. Roaring at you as he ran past, having to undo what you did wrong.

Other roaring incidents stand out in my memory.  Many times during family get-togethers, something would happen that would cause Daddy to roar and storm out of the house, leaving the rest of us in awkward silence and tears around the dinner table. In my later teens, I started going after him, finding him and begging him to stop and come back inside. More often than not he would turn that roar on me for bothering him.

Daddy would roar if I didn’t hold the flashlight steady while he worked on something. He would roar at my mom and tell her he was going to leave us. He would roar at my brother-in-law for who knows what. (I think it was simply because there were finally other men in the family who weren’t afraid to question him.) He would roar at my sisters. He would roar at his father, Granddaddy Chapman, when they would talk St. Helena Parish politics.

Please don’t misread me…I loved my Daddy. But I was scared of him. The roars terrified me. Even after he made a life-changing commitment to Christ during my later high school years. Even after he became known in his senior adult years as a gentle, kindly man. It was engrained in me to be scared of him. Until his last days on this earth and I was already a middle-aged man, if I had to question him or disagree with him about something, my voice would shake and my heart would race.

As far back as I can remember, I’ve sung songs about God the Father. Abba Father. Loving, faithful Father. I’ve always wanted to feel those songs, to connect with the image of that father-figure God. But it’s been like a distant fog. It will not click. I believe in God. I believe He loves me. I believe He knows me. I believe He desires a relationship with me. But God the Father? That’s not a good thing for me. I don’t like to hear or read about God the Father.

My journey these last few years has provided me the opportunity to seek counseling, and a common thread has included coming to terms with Daddy. Before, I poo-pooed the idea that his behaviors would have any affect on my adult life. That was just psycho babble...an excuse...someone to blame for my own weaknesses and lack of character. But I'm slowly learning it’s not psycho babble, nor an excuse. I’m slowly accepting that the affects of a roaring daddy are long-term and real on his children.

Why does that matter at this stage of my life? I think because I want to understand, accept, and trust God as my heavenly Father. I need to understand, accept, and trust God as my heavenly Father.

But also because I inherited some of my Daddy’s roaring tendencies, and I hate it. I want to cap those roars, to tender those red-hot responses that sometimes make their way up my throat, over my vocal cords, and past my lips.

And I want my kids to have a healthy understanding and acceptance of God the Father.

Are you a roar-er? If so, I welcome you to the journey of silencing those roars.  Your life may not depend on it, but someone else's may.