Belated Closure

Belated Closure

by Nate Bender

9/28/2014

In the early spring of 1978, when stationed in the Army at Fort Lewis Washington, I received a telephone call from my brother Reuben in Iowa informing me

that my father had died suddenly. 

Dad had eaten supper (the evening meal!), taken a shower and sat down in his living room recliner, only to be discovered in an expired condition by my mother. 

While he had recently celebrated his 74^th birthday and was showing signs of declining vitality, which I was not made aware before hand, the news was a shocker.  It marked the first death of a parent for me to experience. 

Attending dad’s funeral offered opportunities for renewals with family and long forgotten community members.  I also experienced an unsettling disconnect.  My father’s sudden death did not provide an opportunity to exchange thoughtful and thankful farewell wishes.

Returning to my Fort Lewis-based wife and son, and my work as a psychologist, my unsettled emotional state took on a more intense condition…my first, and only encounter with depression.  I found myself withdrawing from interpersonal contact, save for my professional duties.  I simply wanted to isolate myself to engage in solitary brooding.

Over a three-month period I was able to begin sharing my emotional distress, centered on regrets in my relationship with my father.  Once I was able to circle the underlying emotional material, my depression lifted, while leaving evidence for developing a more complete form of closure.

Over the next four tumultuous years surrounding marital and vocational change, thoughts of my father were ever-present, leaving a gnawing sense of incompletion. 

In the throes of my tumults, I became aware of something more for me to do.  I could write a letter to my father, as if he were yet alive.  I could express to him the positive impact he had on my life.  I could also express my own regrets and ask for his forgiveness.  And, I could write a letter from him to me, wherein feelings of gratitude and forgiveness could be shared.

This two-way letter exchange was created, leaving yet one more requirement for me to feel complete….to have closure around my father’s dying.  I took my then 8 year-old son and my two letters to the cemetery in which dad was buried.  My son and I sat at the foot of Dad’s head stone and I read the letters, evoking a huge emotional discharge.  I was now complete and my son was witness to the act!

Here is a poem I recently wrote about my father, titled ‘Big Erv:’

Cloistered in a rural Iowa community quite small,

from 1^st generation German immigrant parents, he did evolve.

Youngest of seven, the tallest he became,

reaching six feet and seven inches in all.

Formidable in stature his presence was marked,

accentuated by large, thick, grease-stained hands.

Disheveled in every-day attire, sans socks, cap askew, trouser-supporting suspenders,

and an ever-present cigar in the side of his mouth.

His wearing apparel held limited variety, marked by grey-blue work shirts and trousers,

and one double-breasted brown suit for formal….primarily church occasions.

Extroverted and sociable in personality he was,

connecting to old and new acquaintances with ease.

Gruff and opinionated in manner he could be,

masking a gentle and tender nature, awaiting opportunity.

Survivor of the Depression Years, thus miserly ways he embodied,

eschewing comfort and pleasure as marks of excess and frivolity.

His talents and abilities were varied and refined,

honed out of demands for survival and self-sufficiency.

Mechanically inclined, an auto mechanic he became,

earning a reputation for excellence both near and far.

His welding and metal works skills made recyclable material into works of art,

adding elegance and functionality to household accessories.

Man of the earth he was, thus a gardener extraordinaire he became,

marked by bountiful harvests and admirable layouts.

With a facile mind, it was only natural he develop his literacy,

even in an environment that demanded so little of its use.

Student of the Bible he proudly proclaimed,

offering interpretations even Martin Luther would applaud!

Curious about the larger world and political events,

he readily offered critiques both long and strong.

A dreamer he was, producing images of living in far away lands,

gleaned from Nat’l Geographic, and aborted by resource scarcities.

Most of all, Big Erv was my father, whose legacy and seeds his progeny hold close,

Anticipating transfer to the next generations.   Happy Every-day Father’s Day!