Absent Dad

Writing about my father is no simple task, mostly because he didn’t fit the mold of a traditional “Dad.” By trade, he was a coal miner; by habit, an alcoholic—at least until the day doctors started calling it a disease.

For about a decade, Dad limited his drinking to the weekends. During the week, he was stern and distant, nursing hangovers for the first couple of days and then counting down to Friday night, when he could once again reach for his beloved Jim Beam. He was a small man—just 5’7” and 135 pounds. Most people think of alcoholics as heavyset, but coal mining burns through a lot of calories. That job was nothing if not physically demanding.

As kids, my brother and I rarely asked Dad for permission to do anything, like spending the night at a friend’s house. His answer was always a firm “No!” We learned early on to go to Mom first and let her negotiate on our behalf.

Dad spent little time with us, and when he did, there was usually a drink in his hand. He wasn’t one for hugs, kind words, or saying “I love you.” To him, I often felt more like an extra pair of hands than a son. I don’t know that my younger brother felt the same way. He and I never discussed our relationship with our father. My evenings were filled with chores that had to be done before bedtime, no exceptions, no excuses.

I left home at eighteen and have lived far away ever since, though I make it a point to return for a visit every year. My parents are both gone now, but I still have family and friends there, and those visits always warm my heart.

As an adult, my relationship with Dad became cordial and polite, but never close. I forgave him for his emotional distance, though I doubt he ever felt any guilt. He saw his role as providing a roof, food, and clothing—everything else, especially affection, was left to Mom, who tried desperately to make up for it.

So, do I love my father? Absolutely. He never asked me for anything that I wouldn’t do. I once drove nine hours to pick him up and then another eight to get him to a special hospital—without hesitation.

How do you love someone who showed you so little warmth growing up? For me, the answer is straightforward: the Bible teaches us to honor our parents. And that’s precisely what I’ve always tried to do. With Mom it was easy, and with Dad it took a little more effort.