The Little Lady Who Changed My Life
She was four years old when I first met her. She
was carrying a
bowl of soup. She had very, very fine golden hair
and a little pink
shawl around her shoulders. I was 29 at the time
and suffering from
the flu. Little did I realize that this little lady
was going to change
my life.
Her mom and I had been friends for many years. Eventually
that
friendship grew into care, from care into love,
to marriage, and
marriage brought the three of us together as a family.
At first I was
awkward because in the back of my mind, I thought
I would be
stuck with the dreaded label of "stepfather." And
stepfathers were
somehow mythically, or in a real sense, ogres as
well as an
emotional wedge in the special relationship between
the child and
the biological father.
Early on I tried hard to make a natural transition
from
bachelorhood to fatherhood. A year and a half before
we married, I
took an apartment a few blocks away from their home.
When it
became evident that we would marry, I tried to spend
time to
enable a smooth changeover from friend to father
figure. I tried not
to become a wall between my future daughter and
her natural
father. Still I longed to be something special in
her life.
Over the years, my appreciation for her grew. Her
honesty,
sincerity and directness were mature beyond her
years. I knew that
within this child lived a very giving and compassionate
adult. Still,
I lived in the fear that some day, when I had to
step in and be a
disciplinarian, I might have it thrown in my face
that I wasn’t her
"real" father. If I wasn’t real, why would she have
to listen to me?
My actions became measured. I was probably more
lenient than I
wanted to be. I acted in that way in order to be
liked, all the time
living out a role I felt I had to live - thinking
I wasn’t good enough
or worthy enough on my own terms.
During the turbulent teenage years, we seemed to
drift apart
emotionally. I seemed to lose control (or at least
the parental
illusion of control). She was searching for her
identity and so was
I. I found it increasingly hard to communicate with
her. I felt a
sense of loss and sadness because I was getting
further from the
feeling of oneness we had shared so easily in the
beginning.
Because she went to a parochial school, there was
an annual
retreat for all seniors. Evidently the students
thought that going on
retreat was like a week at Club Med. They boarded
the bus with
their guitars and racquetball gear. Little did they
realize that this
was going to be an emotional encounter that could
have a lasting
impression on them. As parents of the participants,
we were asked
to individually write a letter to our child, being
open and honest
and to write only positive things about our relationship.
I wrote a
letter about the little golden-haired girl who had
brought me a bowl
of soup when I needed care. During the course of
the week, the
students delved deeper into their real beings. They
had an
opportunity to read the letters we parents had prepared
for them.
The parents also got together one night during that
week to think
about and send good thoughts to our children. While
she was away,
I noticed something come out of me that I knew was
there all along,
but which I hadn’t faced. It was that in order to
be fully
appreciated I had to plainly be me. I didn’t have
to act like anyone
else. I wouldn’t be overlooked if I was true to
myself. I just had to
be the best me I could be. It may not sound like
much to anyone
else, but it was one of the biggest revelations
of my life.
The night arrived when they came home from their
retreat
experience. The parents and friends who had come
to pick them up
were asked to arrive early, and then invited into
a large room
where the lights were turned down low. Only the
lights in the front
of the room were shining brightly.
The students marched joyously in, all dirty-faced
as though they
had just come back from summer camp. They filed
in arm-in-arm,
singing a song they had designated as their theme
for the week.
Through their smudgy faces, they radiated a new
sense of belonging
and love and self-confidence.
When the lights were turned on, the kids realized
that their parents
and friends, who had come to collect them and share
their joy,
were also in the room. The students were allowed
to make a few
statements about their perceptions of the prior
week. At first they
reluctantly got up and said things like, "It was
cool," and
"Awesome week," but after a few moments you could
begin to see
a real vitality in the students’ eyes. They began
to reveal things that
underscored the importance of this rite of passage.
Soon they were
straining to get to the microphone. I noticed my
daughter was
anxious to say something. I was equally anxious
to hear what she
had to say.
I could see my daughter determinedly inching her
way up to the
microphone. Finally she got to the front of the
line. She said
something like, "I had a great time and I learned
a lot about
myself." She continued, "I want to say there are
people and things
we sometimes take for granted that we shouldn’t,
and I just want to
say...I love you, Tony."
At that moment my knees got weak. I had no expectations,
no
anticipation she would say anything so heartfelt.
Immediately
people around me started hugging me, and patting
me on the back
as though they also understood the depth of that
remarkable
statement. For a teenage girl to say openly in front
of a room full of
people, "I love you," took a great deal of courage.
If there were
something greater than being overwhelmed, I was
experiencing it.
Since then the magnitude of our relationship has
increased. I have
come to understand and appreciate that I didn’t
need to have any
fear about being a stepfather. I only have to concern
myself with
being the real person who can exchange honest love
with the same
little girl I met so many years before - carrying
a bowl full of what
turned out to be kindness.