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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