The morning dawned sunny and warm; it was a perfect day for a wedding. All of the preparations had gone smoothly. My shining moment was near. My maid of honor had just begun her walk down the aisle, stepping in perfect time to the music. There I stood in a beautiful satin wedding gown my mother had so lovingly made for me. It was my turn. My heart filled with joy and anticipation as I stood ready to walk down the aisle toward my new life. Then I saw my father, Ralph, stagger drunkenly toward me. I was sickened by the smell of alcohol on his breath. He nearly fell as he hooked his arm through mine. Within seconds, the "Wedding March" started playing - it was time to go.
So I did the same thing I had done so many times before - I faked it - just to keep up appearances. I glued on my best smile, mustered all my strength to hold my dad upright and then walked him down the aisle. Only when my dad was safely seated, and I stood at the altar holding my fiance's hand, could I concentrate on the ceremony. For me, the most important part of my wedding had been ruined. I was angry, embarrassed and extremely hurt. I decided that day to never forgive my father.
My dad had been an alcoholic since I was a little girl. His drinking just snuck up on our family - starting quietly, but getting slowly worse each year.
The escalating problem became very real for me one beautiful October day in 1963 when I was eight years old. I sat on the back step of our home breathing in the fragrance of the autumn leaves and admiring the perfect blue sky. Then I saw my dad begin to load all of his belongings in the car. I looked up at him in disbelief and asked, "Daddy, where are you going?" With tears in his eyes, he answered, "I'm taking a job downtown and need to live there for a while. But I'll be back soon."
I held out a child's hope that he would return home one day. But his out-of-control drinking led to a divorce. He never moved back. After that, I spent virtually every Saturday with my dad - all the way through my teen years. I wish I could say that those were happy days, but frequently they were spent waiting in the car while my dad went into the tavern to "make a few phone calls." My resentment toward him grew and continued to increase until that fateful wedding day.
My resolve never to forgive my father lasted for more than three years after my wedding. Then, something happened. On his seventy-first birthday, my dad visited a doctor to have a complete physical. Shocked at my dad's condition, the doctor told him, "Ralph, unless you quit drinking right now, you won't be alive to give your daughter away at her wedding." My sister's wedding was just six months from then.
Those words scared my father, so he checked himself into a thirty-day, inpatient alcoholic treatment center. Relieved he was finally getting the help he needed, my sister and brothers and I rallied around my dad to give him support. We attended family counseling sessions to learn more about the disease. Although I was supporting his attempt to get sober, I still felt a lot of anger toward him and was unable to forgive him for past hurts.
One day the physicians and counselors met with us and said, "Do not expect a miracle. Your dad is retired, lives alone and has been drinking for over forty years. He will relapse." So we didn't get our hopes up, but we did continue to pray for a miracle.
Then, one day, the miraculous happened. Dad called me and asked if he could meet with me. When we got together, the first thing he said was, "I'm sorry for all the pain I've caused you and the rest of the family. I know I don't have a lot of years left on this earth, but I want to live them sober." Dad took my hand, looked me in the eyes and asked, "Will you say the Lord's Prayer with me?" Crying together, we held hands and prayed. As I recited the words of the prayer, I could feel the anger and hurt begin to melt away.
The healing had begun. From that day on, Dad never took another drink. He read the Bible daily, joined Alcoholics Anonymous and became involved in a church. He frequently quoted scriptures to me and claimed only one thing was standing between him and alcohol: "Jesus." My own faith grew with each day of my dad's recovery. As my faith strengthened, my ability to forgive strengthened and I was finally able to let go of the past.
Dad remained sober for the next fourteen years and the miracle continued. At age seventy-two he founded an alumni association for recovering alcoholics and typed an inspirational newsletter on an old typewriter, then mailed it out monthly to nearly 100 people.
At age seventy-three, my dad helped organize an annual hospital event where hundreds of recovering alcoholics and their families gathered to celebrate their sobriety.
At seventy-six he became a proud Red-Coat volunteer at a local hospital, delivering newspapers, flowers and encouragement to patients, and pushing the wheelchairs of new mothers holding new babies who were going home. Dad volunteered there until he was seventy-nine, when he became ill with prostate cancer and moved into a nursing home.
Instead of moping about his situation, however, he appointed himself "the ambassador" for the home. My father took newcomers under his wing, giving them tours of the place and showing them humor in every corner. On holidays, he occasionally called to say, "I'm going to be a little late today because some people here have no visitors - and I'm not leaving anyone alone on Christmas."
When my father died at eighty-five, my brothers, sister and I expected only a few people at his funeral, but over 100 people came. Most were strangers to us, yet one by one, they shared their memories of my dad.
"Your dad is the reason my dad is sober today."
"Your dad is the reason my mom survived living in that nursing home."
"Your father is the glue that held our family together during our dad's drinking crisis."
Then seven men - all wearing red coats - quietly walked in to pay tribute to Dad for inspiring them to volunteer at the hospital. Many of them were over eighty years old.
Had I not removed the blinders of anger and resentment - had I not forgiven my dad - I'd never have witnessed the positive ways he had touched the world. I know now that it's never too late to forgive.
- By Debra Schmidt
So I did the same thing I had done so many times before - I faked it - just to keep up appearances. I glued on my best smile, mustered all my strength to hold my dad upright and then walked him down the aisle. Only when my dad was safely seated, and I stood at the altar holding my fiance's hand, could I concentrate on the ceremony. For me, the most important part of my wedding had been ruined. I was angry, embarrassed and extremely hurt. I decided that day to never forgive my father.
My dad had been an alcoholic since I was a little girl. His drinking just snuck up on our family - starting quietly, but getting slowly worse each year.
The escalating problem became very real for me one beautiful October day in 1963 when I was eight years old. I sat on the back step of our home breathing in the fragrance of the autumn leaves and admiring the perfect blue sky. Then I saw my dad begin to load all of his belongings in the car. I looked up at him in disbelief and asked, "Daddy, where are you going?" With tears in his eyes, he answered, "I'm taking a job downtown and need to live there for a while. But I'll be back soon."
I held out a child's hope that he would return home one day. But his out-of-control drinking led to a divorce. He never moved back. After that, I spent virtually every Saturday with my dad - all the way through my teen years. I wish I could say that those were happy days, but frequently they were spent waiting in the car while my dad went into the tavern to "make a few phone calls." My resentment toward him grew and continued to increase until that fateful wedding day.
My resolve never to forgive my father lasted for more than three years after my wedding. Then, something happened. On his seventy-first birthday, my dad visited a doctor to have a complete physical. Shocked at my dad's condition, the doctor told him, "Ralph, unless you quit drinking right now, you won't be alive to give your daughter away at her wedding." My sister's wedding was just six months from then.
Those words scared my father, so he checked himself into a thirty-day, inpatient alcoholic treatment center. Relieved he was finally getting the help he needed, my sister and brothers and I rallied around my dad to give him support. We attended family counseling sessions to learn more about the disease. Although I was supporting his attempt to get sober, I still felt a lot of anger toward him and was unable to forgive him for past hurts.
One day the physicians and counselors met with us and said, "Do not expect a miracle. Your dad is retired, lives alone and has been drinking for over forty years. He will relapse." So we didn't get our hopes up, but we did continue to pray for a miracle.
Then, one day, the miraculous happened. Dad called me and asked if he could meet with me. When we got together, the first thing he said was, "I'm sorry for all the pain I've caused you and the rest of the family. I know I don't have a lot of years left on this earth, but I want to live them sober." Dad took my hand, looked me in the eyes and asked, "Will you say the Lord's Prayer with me?" Crying together, we held hands and prayed. As I recited the words of the prayer, I could feel the anger and hurt begin to melt away.
The healing had begun. From that day on, Dad never took another drink. He read the Bible daily, joined Alcoholics Anonymous and became involved in a church. He frequently quoted scriptures to me and claimed only one thing was standing between him and alcohol: "Jesus." My own faith grew with each day of my dad's recovery. As my faith strengthened, my ability to forgive strengthened and I was finally able to let go of the past.
Dad remained sober for the next fourteen years and the miracle continued. At age seventy-two he founded an alumni association for recovering alcoholics and typed an inspirational newsletter on an old typewriter, then mailed it out monthly to nearly 100 people.
At age seventy-three, my dad helped organize an annual hospital event where hundreds of recovering alcoholics and their families gathered to celebrate their sobriety.
At seventy-six he became a proud Red-Coat volunteer at a local hospital, delivering newspapers, flowers and encouragement to patients, and pushing the wheelchairs of new mothers holding new babies who were going home. Dad volunteered there until he was seventy-nine, when he became ill with prostate cancer and moved into a nursing home.
Instead of moping about his situation, however, he appointed himself "the ambassador" for the home. My father took newcomers under his wing, giving them tours of the place and showing them humor in every corner. On holidays, he occasionally called to say, "I'm going to be a little late today because some people here have no visitors - and I'm not leaving anyone alone on Christmas."
When my father died at eighty-five, my brothers, sister and I expected only a few people at his funeral, but over 100 people came. Most were strangers to us, yet one by one, they shared their memories of my dad.
"Your dad is the reason my dad is sober today."
"Your dad is the reason my mom survived living in that nursing home."
"Your father is the glue that held our family together during our dad's drinking crisis."
Then seven men - all wearing red coats - quietly walked in to pay tribute to Dad for inspiring them to volunteer at the hospital. Many of them were over eighty years old.
Had I not removed the blinders of anger and resentment - had I not forgiven my dad - I'd never have witnessed the positive ways he had touched the world. I know now that it's never too late to forgive.
- By Debra Schmidt
