Mixed

Certain childhood memories I kept to myself. We were probably both 4-5 years old. I remember her name to this day - Jenny. She was blonde. I think she was a neighbor. There were two other children there and they were doing the same thing. For years, I was ashamed because I knew I did something that I shouldn’t do. It was my fault and my sick curiosity - at least that’s what I believed for nearly 35 years.

Then one day, my world was flipped upside down. I was shocked to hear what had happened to our four year old son. I was again reminded of my own childhood memories. Certainly, 4-5 year olds don’t do such things - at least on their own initiative. It was this thought which finally prompted me - at the age of forty-one - to share my buried memories with my parents. “We’re so sorry to hear that happened to you.” Why did their response feel so understated and insincere? Certainly, my memory was news to them - but in some instinctive way, it felt like they already knew. A later email was even more puzzling. Oddly, my parents wanted more information to verify if my memories were accurate. I had already explained the memory in detail - the odor, the awkward position of the other children, the small rectangular window with cascades of light pouring over the oval rug. There are times when I wish I could focus the picture further. Who else was in the room? Where were we exactly? It’s probably better I don’t know. I have to assume God scrubbed my brain for a reason.

This childhood memory was one of many which I suppressed while growing up. There were so many dramatic images and feelings I didn’t know what to do with. But among the many disturbing memories were the good memories - our family trips to my grandparents’ cottage in upper peninsula Michigan, the deep conversations with my dad over coffee, my mom’s blueberry buckle and spaghetti and meatballs. I looked up to my parents. I was proud to be their son. My dad was an exceptional artist and my mom was a beloved elementary school art teacher. My dad spoke French fluently and dabbled in German, Italian and even Arabic. My parents read their Bibles every morning and hosted internationals in their home. I always admired them for their dedication to Christianity and their love for people.

But life took a 180 degrees turn in 2016. Our son’s words were earth shattering - I just couldn’t imagine my own father hurting our child. I spent many restless nights analyzing every angle possible. How could this be? This was my dad. The artist. The missionary. The same man who swam with me and dove off the dock with me at Piatt Lake. The same man who designed the covers for my first two rap cassettes. Certainly there was something I was missing. But I couldn’t discount our son’s story. Our son wasn’t a teenager looking for attention. He was a four year old boy who was innocently repeating foreign phrases and recounting obscene images which made no sense to him.

How could I reconcile these conflicting emotions, memories and revelations? How could the good memories coexist with this new nightmare? It’s as if my identity, trust and faith were thrown in a vicious blender of confusion, betrayal and anger and stirred to a muddy pulp. Somehow, in my Christian ecosystem, I had determined that I must drink the mixture with a smile on my face. This was humanly impossible. So many questions flooded my mind. Who were my parents and who was I to them? Was there any connection between my son’s account and my childhood recollections?

I wish life was more black and white. I certainly believe in right and wrong, and my faith in Jesus hasn’t changed. Yet so much of life resides in the grey. Some questions can’t be answered - at least to my satisfaction. Some memories will always live in the fog. Some people will never make sense. I can’t put myself in their shoes and honestly don’t want to try. Human nature is a puzzle which only God understands. Did my parents love me? Do they still love me? Is my dad a good person - or a bad person - or both? At the end of the day, is it even up to me to decide?

Recently, my daughter has been obsessed with fireflies. We punched about 20 holes in the top of a pickle jar, filled it with grass and called it a hotel. Depending on the night, we’ll catch a good 10-15 critters which make their home next to our daughter’s bed for the evening. The next morning, we let them go. I still don’t understand how lightning bugs do what they do. I’m not sure where they live during the day and wonder how we don’t smash them when we mow the lawn. Regardless, they are beautiful creatures not meant to be confined to a pickle jar. My daughter doesn’t know how the fireflies work, nor does she care to know. She catches them, admires them and lets them go. I wish I carried the same simple appreciation for life. Life has only become more complicated and the questions have only piled higher. I wish I could wake up, only to discover it was all just a bad dream. Yet every day, I wake up knowing that God is still with me - carrying me through the nightmares and the unknown - all the while, mysteriously working everything together for good.

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,” declares the Lord. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways and My thoughts than your thoughts.”   Isaiah 55:8-9

Pictured above is my mother and me in France - circa 1977.