Wednesday, May 18, 2011

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 was 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.
~By Tony Luna~

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