A Light Went Out
One of the things I’ve yet to write about is what happened with
Dad’s job when we first started discovering Dad had dementia. I haven’t written
about this part of the story because it hurts; it felt like betrayal. Yet, I am
realizing it is a part of the story I have been holding too tight for too long;
it is a part of the story that has been holding me captive for too long. There
comes a time when you need to name it, face it, forgive it, and lay it down. I’m
working on it…
The journey for Dad to become a pastor was not easy for our
family. He commuted 1 ½ hours to seminary, money was tight, and we traveled
around to different churches. When Dad was ordained and installed, I was finishing
high school, deciding on a college, etc… We were fortunate that we didn’t have
to move and in a time that felt a bit chaotic, I felt we now had a church to
call home. For several years, I was one of the organists and my sister
and I traded accompanying for the choir. I was thankful to have a job and to be
doing something I loved in a place where I felt welcomed. But here’s the thing,
sometimes people don’t get along in families. Sometimes people blindside you. Sometimes
you no longer feel welcomed.
I’ve struggled with this part of the story because in all
honesty, I still don’t know the entire story and I don’t want to place blame
where there shouldn’t be blame. I know that some people of the congregation had
no part and were blindsided as much as our family was. I don’t want to make up
parts of the story when I don’t have the facts. Yet, there are things that I
know to be true.
Late 2014 into early 2015 some people started talking.
And it gets tricky here because while I have no doubt that some parishioners
were legitimately concerned about my Dad becoming forgetful, unfortunately that
church also has parishioners who like to hear their own voice and they like to
push their own agenda far enough that even pastor’s before my Dad did not leave
on happy terms. There were council meetings behind his back. There were staff
meetings (excluding my sister, who was on staff) behind his back. I don’t
know the whole story, I don’t know what people's motivations were. What I do
know is that my Dad spent the last several months of his time at church feeling
targeted all the while grappling with something that at that point none of us,
not even him understood what was going on.
My Dad was given an ultimatum; he was forced to retire. They wanted him to resign, under the definition that he was giving up that position with them determining when he was done and what would be provided. We insisted he retire and leave on his terms. Regardless, my Dad did not want to leave the church that way and he most certainly did not want to walk away from his calling. Yet, that’s exactly what happened.
A light went out in my Dad that spring. A light that never came back on.
My family sat in the front pews his last Sunday, right before Holy Week 2015. His sermon was filled with grace and though I don’t really remember the words, I remember him being kind and calm all the while sensing he was angry and sad on the inside. As he preached, I was so filled with anger and sadness and anything but love in my heart. I willingly admit that as the service ended that day, I turned around, looked square in the eyes of the man who spearheaded this undoing and quietly spoke unkind words. Something about I hope he got what he wanted and that someday he would have to answer to God. Hindsight tells me it was mean of me and sometimes I think I would take it back. But, I was grieving loss of relationship, community, belonging. All things that are so important when you’re beginning to experience life with a family member with dementia.
And I grieved for my Dad for all he lost. I still do.
During the winter earlier this year, I started going through boxes of Dad’s sermons. One night, I stumbled upon 3 documents all giving mention to retirement.You see as far back as 2012, my Dad had started conversations and was thinking about helping the congregation when he transitioned into retirement. I make an assumption here, but I think he knew having been there for 15 years, he felt it important to help the congregation go through a smooth transition as it had not happened with the previous 2 or 3 pastors. As I looked at a timeline in his familiar scribble, the year that caused a catch in my throat was 2019. Underneath he had written this would be the year he planned to be fully retired. What a sad realization of dreams unfulfilled, of things that would not come to be, of loss.
I think about what the world would have missed had my Dad not shared his interpretation of the Gospel; had my Dad not tried to live the Gospel in the best imperfect way he knew how. He mourned with people as their loved ones slipped away. As police chaplain he had to knock on the front door and be that person of compassion as he told someone their loved one had died. He officiated my sister and brother in law’s wedding. He spoke of joy and my snort laugh and fishing at mine and Jon’s wedding. His face lit up as he baptized my girls and my nieces. Those things cannot be taken away and yet, in the blink of an eye it seemed gone.
Finding those papers that winter night, I think the bitter cold and raging snow outside seeped inside my bones and wrapped around my heart and I got mad, really mad. I don't know if I've thawed out yet.
I think about how Dad was treated and how hard that must have been and how scared he must have felt. And he never really talked about it and at times, he seemed at peace with it. But other times he did talk for a few moments and he shed a tear and asked why God had forsaken him. And who could blame him? Not only was he discovering that something not good was happening to him, he was forced out of a career that gave him purpose.
I know nothing could/can change the dementia diagnosis, but I have to go to that place of wondering and what-if’s. Would dealing with his dementia have looked different if this wouldn’t have happened? I wonder some days what it might have looked like had the church been willing to work with him rather than give him an ultimatum. What if they would have allowed our family the time to deal with what was happening? What if they would have let him continue to do Eucharist ministry, which he loved so much? What if they would have allowed him to guest preach as he was able? What if they would have let him hold onto something, at least one thing, when he was beginning to lose so much?
Sometimes I feel they stole my Dad from me. A light went out in my Dad that spring. A light that never turned back on.
It's been difficult to say out loud how much this felt like a betrayal. At the time, I think I just numbed the pain because so many plates were being flung in the air and I just didn’t know how to keep them all spinning. For months following I felt completely helpless (as did the rest of the family) as I sat with Dad knowing he felt like he had made no impact. I mean that alone is heartbreaking but then to have him slowly slip away from us, not remember what he did for others, not remember us…
At times, I have had moments of forgiveness; of understanding that maybe everyone was just doing the best they could with what they had. I'm still working on laying this down and it helps that there were the others. There were other people who sent cards and letters. Every once in a while I run into someone from the church and it feels awkward for me and yet all they have to say is how much he meant to them and how they miss Dad. I wish so bad he could hear these stories more. Not long ago I ran into a woman who walked a hard road after her husband had a stroke and Dad often walked alongside her on that road. She hugged me and asked how Dad was doing and and in an endearing way simply said, “I miss that guy.”
In so many ways, I do too.
I gain nothing from sharing this part of the story. In fact, right now I feel worse off than when I first started writing this. I honestly seek no sympathy. I just implore you to understand a person's need for purpose in the midst of difficult things, especially a dementia diagnosis. Don't be that person that puts out the light of someone struggling with dementia, rather help them keep that light shining on.
My Dad was given an ultimatum; he was forced to retire. They wanted him to resign, under the definition that he was giving up that position with them determining when he was done and what would be provided. We insisted he retire and leave on his terms. Regardless, my Dad did not want to leave the church that way and he most certainly did not want to walk away from his calling. Yet, that’s exactly what happened.
A light went out in my Dad that spring. A light that never came back on.
My family sat in the front pews his last Sunday, right before Holy Week 2015. His sermon was filled with grace and though I don’t really remember the words, I remember him being kind and calm all the while sensing he was angry and sad on the inside. As he preached, I was so filled with anger and sadness and anything but love in my heart. I willingly admit that as the service ended that day, I turned around, looked square in the eyes of the man who spearheaded this undoing and quietly spoke unkind words. Something about I hope he got what he wanted and that someday he would have to answer to God. Hindsight tells me it was mean of me and sometimes I think I would take it back. But, I was grieving loss of relationship, community, belonging. All things that are so important when you’re beginning to experience life with a family member with dementia.
And I grieved for my Dad for all he lost. I still do.
During the winter earlier this year, I started going through boxes of Dad’s sermons. One night, I stumbled upon 3 documents all giving mention to retirement.You see as far back as 2012, my Dad had started conversations and was thinking about helping the congregation when he transitioned into retirement. I make an assumption here, but I think he knew having been there for 15 years, he felt it important to help the congregation go through a smooth transition as it had not happened with the previous 2 or 3 pastors. As I looked at a timeline in his familiar scribble, the year that caused a catch in my throat was 2019. Underneath he had written this would be the year he planned to be fully retired. What a sad realization of dreams unfulfilled, of things that would not come to be, of loss.
I think about what the world would have missed had my Dad not shared his interpretation of the Gospel; had my Dad not tried to live the Gospel in the best imperfect way he knew how. He mourned with people as their loved ones slipped away. As police chaplain he had to knock on the front door and be that person of compassion as he told someone their loved one had died. He officiated my sister and brother in law’s wedding. He spoke of joy and my snort laugh and fishing at mine and Jon’s wedding. His face lit up as he baptized my girls and my nieces. Those things cannot be taken away and yet, in the blink of an eye it seemed gone.
Finding those papers that winter night, I think the bitter cold and raging snow outside seeped inside my bones and wrapped around my heart and I got mad, really mad. I don't know if I've thawed out yet.
I think about how Dad was treated and how hard that must have been and how scared he must have felt. And he never really talked about it and at times, he seemed at peace with it. But other times he did talk for a few moments and he shed a tear and asked why God had forsaken him. And who could blame him? Not only was he discovering that something not good was happening to him, he was forced out of a career that gave him purpose.
I know nothing could/can change the dementia diagnosis, but I have to go to that place of wondering and what-if’s. Would dealing with his dementia have looked different if this wouldn’t have happened? I wonder some days what it might have looked like had the church been willing to work with him rather than give him an ultimatum. What if they would have allowed our family the time to deal with what was happening? What if they would have let him continue to do Eucharist ministry, which he loved so much? What if they would have allowed him to guest preach as he was able? What if they would have let him hold onto something, at least one thing, when he was beginning to lose so much?
Sometimes I feel they stole my Dad from me. A light went out in my Dad that spring. A light that never turned back on.
It's been difficult to say out loud how much this felt like a betrayal. At the time, I think I just numbed the pain because so many plates were being flung in the air and I just didn’t know how to keep them all spinning. For months following I felt completely helpless (as did the rest of the family) as I sat with Dad knowing he felt like he had made no impact. I mean that alone is heartbreaking but then to have him slowly slip away from us, not remember what he did for others, not remember us…
At times, I have had moments of forgiveness; of understanding that maybe everyone was just doing the best they could with what they had. I'm still working on laying this down and it helps that there were the others. There were other people who sent cards and letters. Every once in a while I run into someone from the church and it feels awkward for me and yet all they have to say is how much he meant to them and how they miss Dad. I wish so bad he could hear these stories more. Not long ago I ran into a woman who walked a hard road after her husband had a stroke and Dad often walked alongside her on that road. She hugged me and asked how Dad was doing and and in an endearing way simply said, “I miss that guy.”
In so many ways, I do too.
I gain nothing from sharing this part of the story. In fact, right now I feel worse off than when I first started writing this. I honestly seek no sympathy. I just implore you to understand a person's need for purpose in the midst of difficult things, especially a dementia diagnosis. Don't be that person that puts out the light of someone struggling with dementia, rather help them keep that light shining on.
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