I guess at this point it makes sense to give a snap shot of my early life. It all begins in scenic Salem Oregon, where I was born to David and Diana Gonzales. They had been married not long before my birth, pure coincidence I am sure. That’s really funny, I totally bought it when my Mom would tell me that she and my Dad were married before I was born. It wasn’t until I was much older that I thought to ask how long. Then I saw the smirk beneath her lips as she answered. Let’s just say my query has never been fully satisfied, verbally, that is. My Father and Mother both, “partied” was the word they would use. I don’t remember a whole lot of parties growing up. I remember moving boxes.
We never lived in the same place for more than six months or a year. I remember tension. They were separated more times than I can count, and actually divorced once, then re-married. I also remember feeling loved by both of them and I remember being confused and stressed out a lot.
When friends talk about remembering most of their childhood I used to think they were lying; I have since realized two things:
- Other people don’t generally lie for no reason
- It is possible that growing up in a stable house for your whole life makes it easier to remember things
I get these vivid flashes of memories always in pictures. One that really sticks out is of being huddled on the floor of my Grandma Nadine’s living room in the housing projects of Salishan in Tacoma Wa. It was my paternal Grandma Nadine, my Mom Diana and me. In my memory, the carpet is a medium shag and it has hard spots where things have been spilled and cigarettes dropped. I know we are supposed to be quiet because the lights are off. I can hear some one outside and I know that the two strongest women in my life are terrified. I also know that my Dad, who has strong arms which he lets me hang from like monkey bars, is pacing around the house. I am profoundly confused that he wants to hurt us. I know I am the reason. Not in the way you might be thinking, like I have done something wrong, but rather, that he wants to see me and is not allowed.
Earlier that day he had tried to come by and take me but his older brother Mike had stopped him. I was literally pulled between them with one hand in Mike’s firm grasp and the other in my Father’s. I was half into his car and I remember it was slowly moving. He released me and sped off but now he is back. I want so badly to run out of the house and play with him, I want to do anything I can to stop this tension. I am being pulled in two directions by the strongest forces I have ever felt; my love for my Father, and the protection of my Mother. As my Grandma is grabbing my arm tighter than I can stand she looks me in the eye and says nothing; I know she means for me to do the same.
The silence is broken as my Dad begins screaming that he will kill my Mom. That he’s my Father and she can’t keep me from him. Then nothing again. CRASH!
In through the window above our heads an object comes flying with a comet’s tail of glass shards behind it. It lands on the floor and by now my Mom and Nadine are huddled around me. It turned out to be a pocket knife with the blade out.
I don’t remember what happened directly after that; I do remember the flashing red and blue lights reflecting of the white lace curtains. I also remember being cold. I never remember anyone cleaning up the glass.
I have other stories from my childhood many of them I don’t remember as much of and some of them I can’t discern from make-believe. This story, however, I know happened; I don’t know if the details are all exact but I know that the emotions were in real-time.
My Father David was a good man. That is not the defense of an abused child. If his life had never been changed by the love of Jesus Christ I wouldn’t say it. If he had persisted in the patterns of this story he would not have been worth mentioning, but the truth is that when I held his hand as he died, in his early fifties of brain cancer six years ago, I looked into the eyes of a gentle, loving man. I am tempted to say a different man and biblical I could make a case for that, but I know that he remembered who he had been and I think some of his beauty is in that he had been so ugly.
I love my Mother and I love my Father. My Mother is still alive, remarried, and has told me recently that she has started seeing a woman of God to help her work through some of the roadblocks to honesty and Love in her life. That excites me. My son knows of my Father, he was born not long after my Dad died. I haven’t told him yet about the rough parts of my childhood. He mainly hears that my Dad was funny, that he would have loved playing with him, and that he makes faces that look just like David. Kinda funny, who knew that being a ham and making goofy faces was genetic?
The other day Avery looked up at me and said
“Your Daddy’s dead, and you miss him huh?”
“Yeah he is and I do.” I said.
“But that’s okay right? Because missing people is part of loving them huh?”
He asked peering up at me, with my Father’s bright blue eyes, waiting to see the look of pride I get when he remembers something we have talked about.
I wanted to cry, I didn’t hold it back but full tears never came.
My voice did crack a bit as I looked into his face smiling and said
“You are so smart son, yup missing people is part of loving them and I miss my Dad a lot.”
David you made choices that cut your time here short. It cost you and all of us, but you also made choices that are still paying dividends. You chose to live a life marked by forgiveness, laughter and loyalty. I never followed your good example while you were here for me to see your proud face, but one of your investments is turning five this month, and through your story of redemption his Father Travis is now a man of God and living a life you would think is crazy. I believe you would smile your blue-eyed smile and probably tear up a little with pride if you saw me becoming a Father.
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