I have often wondered why, in the long history of the Church, we do not hear more often about saints who lived through difficult family situations. Surely there were plenty, but it is not usually the aspect of their lives that we hear about. And so learning of St. Eugene’s life, and reading through his letters, I found myself grateful to know that I had a friend in heaven who understands my particular pain. Even someone who lived in the 18th and 19th centuries, such as Eugene, experienced similar trials and emotions that we do in the 21st century.

In life, more often than not, we do not get the apology that is due to us. And when we do, it frequently falls short of the words we need to hear. I have come to realize, for my personal situation, there are no words big enough, or deep enough, or sincere enough to compensate for what has been stolen from me.  With this realization, I finally stopped asking and waiting for the apology that does not exist. My pastor says, “It takes one to forgive.  And it takes two for reconciliation.  One can forgive without reconciliation, but one cannot have reconciliation without forgiveness.” I chose forgiveness.

When I read Lucille Clifton’s “forgiving my father” poem, I was struck with deep resonance on how profoundly I related to it.  I realized that it actually ended up setting a framework for how I could track and understand my own (rocky) process of forgiving my own father.  I came to a few realizations about the process of forgiveness – both from the poem and my own struggle with it. So, in honor of this year’s Father’s Day, a day when we can reflect on our perfect, all-providing Heavenly Father, but also a day when we can acknowledge the grief in how perhaps our earthly fathers fell short, I would like to share what I realized here.

My parents officially divorced when I was about 17 years old.  My father persistently campaigned for a divorce. He confessed that he had been in a relationship with another woman whom he had actually married while on his “vacations” in Egypt. Since I was the eldest of three, my mother would share her pain with me. To this day, being the main witness to her inconsolable weeping is one of the most painful experiences I have had as a 41-year-old man.

Throughout Scripture, the images and language used to describe God frequently evoke two of the strongest attachment relationships that we can know as human beings—the relationship between a child and a parent, and the relationship between spouses.

If your parents divorced when you were an adult, like mine did, you may have experienced strife over paying for a wedding or a car. For me, my parents fought over who paid for what while I was in law school, including the cost of the postage stamp used to mail my monthly check!  My parents’ contention over petty things affected my image of God the Father, who cannot be outdone in generosity (see Matthew 19:29).  If my parents argued over who paid an extra few pennies to help support me, I certainly could not rely on them to provide anything, including financially.

Prior to the divorce, mine was a picture-perfect nuclear family: a dad, a mom, a little boy, and his dog. The dog, a Cockapoo, was named after my kindergarten best friend, Shawn. I don’t remember anything about the young human Shawn, but I do remember the canine one. He was the love of my young life, especially after we moved when I was six. I did not like being “the new kid.”

During Covid some people learned to bake bread, some planted gardens, others drank too much wine. My Covid experience was time with Father God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit, fully aware that they were changing me. I became like the unrelenting child who asks too many questions. But my unrelenting was a prayer, “Heal my heart, Lord. Please heal my heart.” He did it when he knew I was ready.

I define the ‘sexual orphan’ as ‘anyone who has been deprived the protection or advantage of their parents’ formative witness in regards to the physical, moral, psychological, or emotional dimensions of human sexuality because of parental divorce, separation, or neglect.

But my mom was human. Both my parents were human. And the very fact that in spite of the deep pain and abuse that my mom went through for most of her life, she still tried…SHE TRIED. That is the difference.

A couple of months ago, I was attending a women’s retreat... where glossy tiles of neutrals and shades of blue formed a gorgeous mosaic of the Blessed Mother. I kept returning my gaze to it, and I heard in prayer: “I see you looking at my mother—her maternal love is so different from what you have seen… My mother is tender, approachable, truly sacrificial, and only able to love fully and purely…”

As a teenager, I began to experience mere anger, seemingly without any other emotion or feeling that I had no control over, and had no idea where it came from or why it would get so out of control. ... This was a tomb that I suffocated inside of for years throughout much of my adolescence.

Five branches from the trunk of the split tree

Four girls and a fella, that’s my siblings and me

In Three years we went from complete to shut down

Two people once in love

No one left to be found

I searched my heart for months and I accepted how I felt about this situation and made a decision. I realized that if I did not take care of them my guilt would have been much worse than I had experienced in my life. My father remained at his home with home health care and I oversaw his care. My mother eventually spent the last nine months of her life at home with my husband and me.

About one year ago something very traumatic happened... My precious, amazing mom passed away... My world shattered the day that I lost her. Watching her suffer for months and being powerless to help her made me feel like I could relate in some way to our Blessed Mother, to the agony and helpless that she must have felt in watching her beloved Son die.

For the first time, Philothea looked at the tapestry he was creating. To her surprise, she saw it was a portrait of their family! There was Father on the left, tall and strong, with his arm around Mother on the right. In the middle in front of them both stood Philothea herself. She was surrounded by the arms of her Father and Mother, right where she belonged.

To give you a picture of what [childhood emotional neglect] might look like in real life, here’s my own CEN story: My mom (your mother is usually your primary attachment figure) has had schizoaffective disorder since I was about six years old. She was too deep in her own mental and emotional roller-coaster to be a stable presence.

What I am about to write, I honestly thought I would go to my grave with, and never discuss it out loud. It is truly a grace that I have the courage to say what I am about to say. I want to share how I went from being a child of fear to a child of God.

...my version of “forgiveness” was simple: never let anyone get close enough to hurt me. But the Lord broke through my defenses and gradually brought me back to Him through a reversion to the Catholic faith. ... When I first attended the Life-Giving Wounds retreat, my heart overflowed with awe and gratitude as I heard the truth about God’s intention for the love between mother, father, and child.

The movie Hope Gap recently appeared in my Amazon Prime Video recommendations, with the synopsis being that Edward (Bill Nighy) suddenly announces that he is divorcing Grace (Annette Bening) after almost thirty years. Being a child of divorce, I was quite intrigued to see how the movie approached the matter, so I broke my habit of never paying extra for movies on Amazon to find out.