I was seventeen and a freshman in college. That first fall I was mid-way through a General Psychology class. We were studying a section on the family. The text stated the importance of telling your family members that you love them.
It hit me! My Dad had never told me that he loved me. Now I knew that he loved me; my mom had told me a thousand times: "You have a good Dad and he loves you." She seemed to sense his inability to express affection.
In my young mind, this had to change!
I hitch-hiked the 250 miles back to New Brighton that Friday, walked into the house - past my Mom - straight to my Dad and hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, and whispered in his ear: "I love you, Dad!"
Have you ever hugged an ironing board?
No response.
[I'm guessing that my grandfather (whom I never knew, and who had a serious problem with alcohol) never hugged my Dad and probably never told my Dad that he loved him.]
When I left to go back to college on Sunday afternoon, I repeated the new ritual. And did so over and over again every time I was around my father.
After many months, he began to respond by grunting: "Uh." After many more months his response became: "Uh-huh." After a year or two he began to say, "Me too." Eventually, he began to respond to my embrace by hugging me back. After years he was able to respond: "I love you, too."
And when I was in my mid-forties, he told me that he loved me - unsolicited! That was a happy day!
No comments:
Post a Comment