Introduction, April 2016

Introduction

'He always had a woman in between.'

“It’s the first time we’ve ever been able to see him alone...He always had a woman in between.”

This is what David said when he first came to visit from New Jersey right after Dad went into the nursing home.  I can never forget these words Such a profound statement of reality. Daddy never had been alone since his first marriage to Mom on May 1, 1945. Actually, I don't suppose he'd been alone much before that either. He was so good-looking and talented and popular and delightful, how could anyone not want to be with him?

So there was always “a woman in between.” We kept on losing him, again and again. We kept being called upon to adjust again and again to each new woman. But, finally, at the nursing home, we got to see him alone.

David told me how he had asked him shortly after he left, first if he could go with him and second, why didn't he just stay. I just remember being caught sticking my tongue out at the (first)  new woman's picture. That was a risky situation. It was bad enough to be sentenced to seeing him only on certain days of the week. Risking estrangement from him because of any perceived insubordination would have been unbearable. Maybe talking about it now will bring some healing.

He was always with the woman, whoever she was. He was only really with us when he was married to Mom for 11 years. Then he was married to Irene 11 years; Judy, 15 years; not married to Anne 8 years; married to Peggy,18 years. He really tried to get it right, and maybe he did with the last one.

But I truly believe that the way it turned out was not the way he wanted it from the beginning. Had Mom not divorced him, I don't know if that would have meant unending infidelities or perhaps if she had given him another chance they could have made it work. Of course now we'll never know. But I do know now he didn't mean to ruin our lives.

Honestly, I was never mad at him; I was always mad at Mom. She was the one who filed. Of course there was a time when I blamed Irene, but by then blaming had become pretty pointless. It does seem crazy to me now that I could never blame him. In my eyes it was never his fault. Nothing was ever his fault. He was my hero. End of discussion.

I still find it hard to believe that Dad was seeing Irene for years on the side before the divorce but it must be true because Peggy said Dad was seeing Irene while Peggy was working for him when I was just five years old!

Dad had married Mom in England after serving in the U.S. Naval Reserve on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. We went to the Episcopal Church because it was probably what Mom wanted – the closest thing to the Church of England. Dad was raised a Methodist. When he was married to Irene, Irene didn't go to church, so Dad didn't go to church. And when he was married to Judy, she went to the Episcopal Church with him. And when he was living with Anne she didn't go to church so he didn't go to church, and when he was married to Peggy, she went to the Christian church, so he went to the Christian church. Dad was kind of like the male version of the woman at the well, I think. One woman after another. But at least he stayed with them for a long time. See how I always give him the benefit of the doubt.

A yellowed, undated newspaper article, written sometime between 1951 and 1957, called “Judge Cogswell Lists Major Points in Rearing Children,” tells me he once cared about church and family. In this article he listed “making home and church, combined, the center of family life” as one of five major points in rearing children. I think he really believed that, because he told me he “got saved at a Baptist revival when he was 16” and I believed him. But still we became a broken family.

We don’t have to remain stuck there anymore, but that is what happened. I think that's the reality we grew up in, and naming it what it was is an important part of healing, and I believe we are still healing. And we are still dealing with it. It never goes away. And on the other hand because we experienced this, we can be compassionate and help people who have been through something similar. That's the good part.

If there are people reading this who are hurting because of any kind of dysfunction or brokenness in their childhood or even in the present, I pray that you will find hope in these pages. It is my belief that “(God) comforts us in all our tribulation, so that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God” (2 Corinthians 1:3-4).

I finally forgave my parents for ruining my life, but it didn't happen overnight. We tried but could not put Humpty-Dumpty together again. We could not unscramble eggs. We could not bridge the troubled water. We could not and cannot, no matter how much we tried and no matter how much we still try to fix ourselves from the damage that was done. It really is a job for God. And he is very capable.

I still grieve their divorce. It was a very sad event and set in motion a series of sad events. But the pain has subsided, and in that brokenness I have learned that Jesus did come to heal the broken-hearted, because he healed me.  I do not say that I have “got” it, once and for all, but at least I know where the healing is. And it is always available.

I have the memories of the times spent with Dad and Peggy near the end, just before he went into the nursing home, sitting on the side of their bed with the TV on, looking at him smile and roll his eyes. But now he’s gone and I can’t reach for him anymore. I am having to learn to reach higher. Where the everlasting arms are.

Mom and Dad’s divorce changed the course of our lives. David and I went from being the first born and only daughter and the first born and only son in an intact family to what was known then as “products of a broken home.” The term “broken” seems to have come back into the popular use lately. For a while it seems to have gone out of fashion, the “experts” preferring to refer to this as “changes in family structure.”

In a way, the divorce defined both of our lives forever, and even though we shared a lot of it, I know we went through our own separate suffering and still go through suffering that can be traced to the breakup and subsequent issues surrounding the divorce. As children, we did not have the resources to support one another, only to struggle for our own survival. But now that has changed. Now we have resources. Now perhaps we can complete the grieving process and move on.

For most of my life, emotional pain had been my constant companion, threatening to pull me down into its stranglehold forever. I didn’t think I would ever get over it. Fifty years after my parents' divorce, I told God I couldn’t get over it. It was a horrible admission. Until this very moment, I have thought I had gotten over it until it raised its ugly head again and again.

But the amazing thing is that each time I face it again and honestly admit to myself and to God the problem I'm having, I can feel emotional healing taking place. Sometimes there will be tears and the feeling of being cleansed. Sometimes I have to, once again, remind myself that I have forgiven them, just as Christ has forgiven me. Maybe this is kind of like the Apostle Paul's “thorn in the flesh,” so that God could keep reminding him, “My grace is sufficient for you.”

I don't believe there is any healing in denial. I believe people can remain slaves to their hurt and become bitter if they refuse to acknowledge the truth of what is going on inside them and release it somehow in order for healing to take place in order to bury the past and go forward into the great things God has planned for us. For me, that place of release is in my personal relationship with Jesus. He doesn't turn me away. He doesn't say, “Oh, it's you again; well, just get over it.” People might say that, but God never does.

So, where is Dad Now? Will I see him again? It may sound crazy, but on Father’s Day, I believe I heard the words, “He’s safe with me.” Was this just my imagination? Wishful thinking perhaps? Is Christianity simply some crutch to get you through this life, imagining there is something on the other side and some fictional belief that we will see our loved ones again in heaven? I don't believe that.

I have lived the first half of my life not knowing God and the second half of my life knowing Him. It makes a big difference. Whatever I have lost in this life God has made up for by His constant presence in my life.

God has given me abilities to enjoy: being able to create art, play music, learn languages, express myself with words somewhat. But those things are no longer life itself. I no longer have to use them to justify my existence.

 I used to think I was pretty gifted and talented and ought to be able to be rich and famous some day. That's pretty much what I thought should happen. Then I met my Maker, and somehow over the years he has made nearly everything irrelevant but my relationship with him.

Everybody who knew me before knows I've changed. It must be a mystery to them how this kind of thing could happen. I don't understand it completely myself. But here it is, the story of losing Daddy and finding my Father. The story of being his daughter and His daughter and forgiving our parents for ruining our lives. And, finally, moving to a place of happiness known in some circles as one's “sweet spot.”

Dad used to ask me, “Did you ever see the farm in Pretty Prairie?” And I'd say, “Not that I remember.”

“Well, we'll have to take you there,” he'd say.

“I'd like that,” I'd say. But no, I never did see the farm in Pretty Prairie, Maybe someday I will because with God nothing is impossible. And meanwhile I can dream. Come, dream with me. Let's talk about finding that sweet spot.

Prologue revision April 2012

I keep revising this but the blog seems to have changed or eliminated its "edit" function, so I'll post the revisions as I go.

Prologue:

When Daddy went into the dementia ward January 5, 2009, David said, “It’s the first time we’ve ever been able to see him alone; he always had a woman in between.”

Our childhood, ripped away from us like a lion tears the throat out of a zebra, grins at us from old black and white photos I wonder which one of our parents snapped of us when they were still together. Innocent children with no fears for tomorrow, we didn’t worry when we fell down. We just got up, grinned up at the camera, and kept going. When suddenly we hit bottom, we didn’t even know we had hit bottom.

The many years that passed since Daddy moved out failed to close the wounds. Time did not heal them. Our hearts, wounded by the past, lay open for attack by a present poised to crush us again like giant ocean waves rising higher than a house.

The warning is clear: “No Swimmers Past This Point.” 

Mom’s decision to divorce our Dad overwhelmed both my brother and me. Life as we knew it would end. Our childhood was over. All of us might try, but we could never bring back the sense of security, of belonging, of family. None of the four of us knew at the time there could be no turning back, that it would change everything forever. For us, the children, the ones who had neither choice nor voice in the matter, it would be difficult to learn that life could be anything but something that had been done to us.

Those of us who have survived our parents’ divorce did so at considerable cost to us. We paid the price for our parents’ redemption, yet despite the price we paid, did not see anyone set free. Half my life I spent attempting to heal this gaping wound.

I could only run away from pain for so long. It kept calling my name, threatening to let despair grab me and pull me down into its stranglehold forever.

When Daddy left, so did my childnood, except for going to Grandpa’s farm and riding horses along the Oregon trail. Along with Dad, divorce stole most of my childhood memories. Because for whatever reasons Dad decided to stray and Mom decided to divorce him, our life split into two parts: before and after the divorce. Before the divorce, things seemed pretty good; afterwards all the bad stuff happened.

 The divorce also stole us all from ourselves. It broke Dad and cut short who he could have become and what he could have accomplished, and had a similar effect on Mom, on David and on me. If this were the whole story, it would be very depressing. But there is another side.

After he died, I discovered what I believe Dad meant to impart to us, even though choices he made along with events beyond his control contributed to the apparent destruction of such a legacy. He couldn’t tell us because he was drowning too.

“The Lord gave. The Lord has taken away,” Job said. “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” The words of Job after he lost everything. Notice what he did before he said that. The verse before that says he tore his robe and shaved his head and fell to the ground and worshiped. The tearing of his robe and shaving of his head depict the strong emotion of grief, yet he maintained his trust in God.

“I know that my Redeemer lives,” he said.

I am still grieving my parents’ divorce. I have decided I may do so until I die. My heart was broken, sometimes still seems broken. But words from the Bible ring true in this too.

“The Spirit of the LORD is upon Me,

 “Because He has anointed Me to preach the gospel to the poor.

“He has sent me to heal the broken-hearted…” Red letters from the book of Luke, Jesus quoting the prophet Isaiah.

There is really no restoring of lives destroyed by divorce, only the re-creation of different ones. Left to our own devices, we create lives that are even more complicated, more confusing and, as in my case, more erratic than the previous ones. I needed something or someone to step in and stop this crazy train from flying off the track.

Mom and Dad’s divorce changed the course of our lives. At first we were the first born daughter and the first born son in an intact family; afterwards, we became what was known at the time as products of a broken home. 

The divorce defined both of our lives forever, and even though we shared a lot of it, I know David and I went through our own private hells. As children, we did not have the resources to support one another. Instead we struggled for our own survival.

I know that after the divorce and before I came to know and have a personal relationship with God, I was angry, sad, confused, and lost. Sometimes I still feel lost but I am not because I have received the Spirit that raised Christ from the dead, and that makes all the difference.

I am a new creation. What was inside me before has been changed. What you see of me is changing and will continue to do so until I die, but I will never be the same.

I have been born again and baptized and live for Jesus Christ every day trying to get to know Him better and learning how to tell others about Him, but I have not become someone who feels no pain.

At Celebrate Recovery, a Christian 12-step recovery program, I say I am a “grateful believer in Jesus Christ who is recovering from codependency and anger.” Someone – a power greater than myself – has given me a sense of gratitude, the desire to face the future with hope and the courage to step up out of the rubble of disappointment.

Satan, a created spiritual entity whose plan for every human life is to steal, kill and destroy, continues to try to wreck the life and testimony of every believer, and I can testify that this also is real. I believe that I would not have survived the difficulties of life and the oppression of Satan without the power of the Holy Spirit living inside of me and God’s personal involvement in my life. However, when I think about how, had things not turned out the way they did, I might never have known God at all, that gives me pause. Today I believe there is nothing more important than knowing God personally through a relationship with Jesus Christ.

Before that, you just go along with what “comes naturally,” I guess. Then, after God comes into your life, the battle really begins.

Losing Daddy: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Daddy’s Little Girl

The man in the picture is my dad. He was 6'2”, had almost black hair and hazel eyes and a face that was simply amazing. He's wearing a suit and looks like he just stepped out of the cover of a men's fashion magazine. He’s reading to me. By the tilt of my left hand it looks like I have just turned a page. I’m about two.

I am pretty sure the book is The Three Little Kittens That Lost Their Mittens.  My mouth is open, my eyes riveted to the page. My daddy holds the book. I am enraptured. The world is as it should be. I am sheltered from the world, on my father’s lap.

I used to think my mother took this picture. This fit with my memory about my perfect childhood before the divorce. I was disappointed when my half-brother, Michael, told me Mom told him the pictures were taken at somebody else’s house, so someone else could have taken them.

Many years later I was sitting with Dad and Peggy on the couch in the house they lived in right before they both went into the nursing home. The picture window framed the tall grass prairie and sunlight filled the room.

 “Do you remember my mother?” I asked him.

“Vaguely,” he said. Later Peggy told me he said that for her benefit.

When I asked him how he met my mother, he said he could not really remember. Seems like there was a party for enlisted men, he said. My mother, on the other hand, seemed to remember everything about it. She remembered the number of his LST (which he frequently referred to as a “large stationary target”). She remembered that LST really stands for Landing Ship Tank. And she remembered the number of my dad’s LST was 506.

One day I showed my father a picture of him his wife Peggy had found somewhere in his things. It was a picture of him with my mother, my brother and me, standing outside the house on Seabrook in Topeka, Kansas, around 1957 of 1958. The wind is blowing my hair into a shape like the bottom of a “C.” My body is leaning slightly like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Everybody is smiling. It was the year before the divorce.

“Look at the family,” my father said.

When I talked to him and Peggy one day about Mom needing 24-hour-a-day care he began to stare across the room gripping his chin with his hand. I wish I could have read his thoughts.

“Is she disabled?” he asked.

I never talked to them about their relationship. I only know that once they were young and in love. Their relationship was theirs. It was between them. It was never mine to begin with, but I tried to own it.

In my reconciliation fantasy, Rogers and Hammerstein love songs would provide the background music for my stunningly beautiful movie-star gorgeous parents to stroll hand in hand on an English hillside, like Heathcliff and Katherine. Never mind that Heathcliff and Katherine are possibly the most tragic couple in all of world literature, second only, say, to Romeo and Juliet.

In my reconciliation fantasy, every few moments, they stop walking to talk and look adoringly into each other’s eyes. My dad’s soft hand caresses my mother’s wavy, brown hair as her head slips perfectly into the crevice of his shoulder. He puts his arm around her. Their marriage was made in heaven.

Flash forward.

“I don’t like to be caressed,” Mom tells my brother who lovingly strokes her brow as she lies in a nursing home hospital bed.

Mom had another story about how she met Dad. Apparently, Dad and one of his friends were taking a walk in the town square in Southampton, met her and one of her friends, also walking, and invited them to the party on the LST. That’s all I ever heard about it.

She was beautiful. He was handsome. They were both fascinating, gifted people. She was an artist and had worked as a draftsman at an aircraft factory during World War II. He was a U.S. naval officer who had been a leader from a young boy and would carve out a place for himself as a leader in his community.

He had served on active duty on the LST whose number was 506 at Normandy Beach on D-Day. When he was married to Peggy, she would report to me that Daddy had nightmares and would wake up screaming. But during my whole life he rarely mentioned the war. I personally think it might have been watching “Saving Private Ryan” that set off the nightmares.

I learned from my parents separately that they both loved Archy and Mehitabel. In the book published in 1916 by Don Marquis, a former reporter for a New York newspaper, Archy was a cockroach who had been a poet in a former life; Mehitabel was a cat who claimed to have been reincarnated from Cleopatra. Because Archy had to type one key at a time on the typewriter, he used no punctuation, yet you can make sense of the stories told in a kind of free verse format.

To this day, Archy and Mehitabel contains the only poems I readily understand or appreciate. My father left me Whitman, Longfellow and Tennyson, but I pick Archy and Mehitabel over all of them. Even now I think about things like whether they might have  read Archy and Mehitabel to each other when they were courting.

I believe Mom and Dad got married at the Church of The Ascension in Southampton, England, on May 1, 1945, and one of Dad’s buddies took a picture of them surrounded by all of his shipmates. Mom came over from England in February 1946. I was born nine months later.

When I was one month old my maternal grandparents, Thomas Luke George Hallewell and Elsie Rose Hall Hallewell (Nana and Granddad), and my Uncle John, 12, came over from England. It was in the paper. Two years after that, Mom had my brother David. Three years later Dad met the other woman. Such a relatively short space of time to bear so much significance in my life.

For a while after he left us, he shared an apartment with another divorcing, temporarily single male friend, Pat Murphy. The first thing I saw when I walked into his apartment was a picture of the new lady. I remember one day I stuck my tongue out at the picture while I thought my dad could not see me. Immediately he came back into the room.

I know that he caught me doing it and then I felt guilty and afraid of losing his approval. He probably gave me some kind of a look and he may have said something. I felt ashamed. But I was so mad. I stayed mad for a long time.

I was daddy’s little girl. I knew that was true because he sang it to me. A song came out with that title (“Daddy’s Little Girl,” by Bobby Burke and Horace Gerlach, 1949) and my daddy sang it to me.

Numerous people throughout his life have said that my dad could have had a career in Hollywood. The stepfather of a friend of mine said he was “the handsomest man in town.”

 Whoever you think is the handsomest man in the world, put his face there I don't want to prejudice you. But apart from what anybody else thought, to me he was the handsomest, the nicest, the funniest, the most wonderful man in the world. No movie star could hold a candle to him. He was more worthy of admiration than the president. In other words, he was perfect. He could do no wrong. I suppose I idolized him.

He always looked so nice. So handsome in his Navy uniform. So handsome in a suit. While attending law school he worked at Ray Beers, the finest men’s wear store in Topeka. He was so handsome with his almost black head of hair and hazel eyes. His hands were the softest hands of any man’s I ever touched.

Some said he was the youngest judge to sit on a bench in the United States when he was Judge, Court of Topeka from 1949 to 1951.

My mother used to say he was a “big fish in a little pond.” Now that I think about it, that was a pretty horrible thing to say, and in my mind somewhat clarifies what might have happened between them. But he was and always will be my hero. I think God made fathers to be their children’s heroes.

Flashback to when he was at Aldersgate (a Topeka nursing home).

He tells me he loves me when I go see him at the nursing home.

“You’re my baby,” he says.

“You’re my daddy,” I tell him.

I know he didn’t mean to ruin my life.

Everybody likes to say how resilient children are. I suppose it makes parents feel less guilty about breaking up their families. I, of course, felt guilty for many years for loving Irene because it felt like I was betraying my mother and at times my mother reinforced that feeling. But Irene was beautiful too. My daddy could pick beautiful women.

Principle #1 for Finding Your Sweet Spot: Be thankful for the gifts of your childhood. Remember them fondly. They will always be a part of you. Treasure them but use them to bless others. For example, if you enjoyed being read to as a child look for opportunities to give back by reading to children or sing songs with children!

Speak to one another with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ. Ephesians 5:19,20 (NIV)

.