The Tree

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When I first moved from home, I moved into a nice one-bedroom condo, free of charge because a good neighbor who was in the real estate business hadn’t yet sold it. The kitchen and living room were one room. The condo was on the second floor of the complex. It was August. As you walked in the front door your eyes fell upon the large living room window opposite the door that took up almost the entire wall. Just outside the window was a large maple tree whose branches and leaves entirely filled the window. The tree was in the sun that filtered into the room. It was healing. There were always birds and butterflies.

But the condo was prison. Truly. I’d left my home where I was with my large family. The dinner table was filled with noise and laughter and teasing. Evenings were spent helping with homework, jumping on the tramp, kids rolling and frolicking on the floor, and tucking my them into bed. My favorite, reading at bedtime. My oldest daughter played my grandmother’s piano that was in our family room. She is one of the few people I’ve ever known that chose to practice, so the house was always filled with music. In other words, there was always noise. I often mentally complained about the design of our home, because through the open vaulted ceiling the entire main living area of kitchen, living room, family room, and upstairs bedroom hallway were all connected. It was hardly every silence unless it was after 10:00 at night because noise from any open family area bounced off the ceiling to all other areas.

The condo was solitary confinement. In every sense of the word. After the noise of family life, the silence was unnerving, constricting, and painful. It wasn’t until years later I realized that much of what I was feeling was homesickness. I’d never had that before. I was deeply profoundly homesick for my wife and children.

I happened to also be out of work. I’d been laid off a few months earlier (divorce and being out of work being just two of several parts of the “perfect storm”). Daytime I was at the library where I could get an internet connection and look for work, and nights were in my prison. I had no TV, nothing but me and Silence to keep me company. And Silence was a cruel companion.

Actually, silence wasn’t my only companion. Tears were the other.

Sometimes a red-breasted robin came to visit. He would sit in that amazing tree in its cool shadows. I would sit on the couch facing the window, truly a “picture window,” and watch. He was oblivious to the prisoner on the other side.

I wish I could put words to what I felt during those months. Those who have lived it understand.

If you are in this position, there are a few things you gotta do. First, know that others have experienced this. You’re not alone. Next, and most important, find a foundation to carry on. That foundation should be Christ. Find Him in whatever way you can. I was lucky enough to have an sensitive brother-in-law who pulled me aside at a family gathering. He recommended that I read two things.

Larry first recommended a book called “He Did Deliver Me From Bondage.” By a remote chance (I don’t believe in accidents), my wife and I had gotten a copy of this book years earlier, recommended by some dear friends of ours. It was a 1996 version in a three-ring binder. I had read part of it long ago. I was surprised at the coincidence of his recommendation. I’d started but never finished it. And, by “chance,” I happened to have brought my copy with me to the condo, among the few things I did bring. (You can find a much newer version of this at Amazon.com.)

His other recommendation was “Continuous Atonement,” by Brad Wilcox (also on Amazon.com). I’d not heard of this one.

To say that my dear brother-in-law was inspired misses the mark. These two books set me on a path of healing. I devoured them both. As I read “He Did Deliver me,” it being a workbook, I filled out every question blank, ink spilling into the margins. I wrote deeply personal things that I never plan to have others see. Writing became healing for me. I also wrote in my journal. Pages upon pages, endless thoughts, pleading, and feelings, sharing my innermost struggles. They weren’t for anyone else to see.

If you’re still reading, I have recommendations:

  • Get on your knees. Get on your knees. Get on your knees.
  • Find some support. Give in. Give up. Realize you can’t do it yourself. Talk to your ecclesiastical leader (your bishop if you’re LDS).
  • If you feel so impressed, read the two books that I read. (Don’t bury yourself in TV, the internet, or other mind-numbing things. In fact, I’d recommend no TV and no internet.)
  • Don’t give in to bad choices. The hunger you feel for companionship of any kind, is strong. Don’t let it direct you down a dark path.
  • Don’t expect relief overnight, nor in weeks or months. But healing will come.
  • Let this experience make you a better person, not worse.

We can’t not water our lawn in June, July, and August, and water a lot in September and think it will be OK. Keep doing those things you know are good and right, even though it will be hard, awkward, or embarrassing. Don’t let this period be a desert in your life.

My dear brothers, Christ lives. He heals. Accept what He has done for you. Start the healing process.

Brother Carl

Where do I begin? Let’s start with pain.

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Dear Single Fathers,

My first blog post. I’ve decided to date it today. What do I mean? Some posts I may back-date to the appropriate day, since some posts will come directly from my journal. Or maybe I won’t—we’ll see. Writing is healing. My journal has been my therapist. It paints the picture of my thoughts and emotions so I can stand back and look at the picture more unemotionally, as if not me.

The past years since my divorce have been the most difficult of my life … weak words for an experience beyond words. (If I were a swearin’ man, I’d find a hat full of colorful words to use. But then swearin’ don’t do nobody no good anyways.) I could not have imagined the emotional and spiritual pain. Making it worse, I couldn’t find anyone else to share it with. I was sure only I was taking this divorce stuff so hard. A wimp!

A few years earlier I’d had a friend tell me he was divorcing. He might as well have told me it was raining outside. I didn’t even say I was sorry. I had no comprehension what divorce meant in an emotional sense. It was just two people going their separate ways. Kinda like high school when you had a date, had a nice evening, but didn’t think you’d go out again. My friend and I went on with our conversation and other topics.

Now a few years later on the other side of marriage, I thought I was the only one that felt the pain like I did. My wife told me to go. I complied. It was August. Day after day I’d come “home” to the small empty condo that a dear friend allowed me to use until it sold. It had one large room, the living room and kitchen combined, with a small bedroom on the left and a separate hallway for the washer and dryer that ended at the door to the small bath. I’d left my home of 17 years, with 3900 square feet and the noise and bustle of many children. Now I came “home” to the condo and could hardly close the door behind me fast enough. I dropped my things on the couch and fell on my face on the carpeted floor, no longer able to physically stand. Overcome with grief I sobbed uncontrollably. I didn’t know it was possible to shed so many tears. After a while I’d crawl to the couch and kneel in prayer, continue to cry, pleading with my Father in Heaven. I couldn’t stand the pain and the loneliness of being away from my family. I’d never known homesickness, not even when I left home for two years after high school and never saw my family. Is that what I was feeling? Homesickness? Perhaps. But certainly more. It was the loss of my dreams, my home, my children, all the physical comforts and the familiar things and the life I knew, my neighborhood and friends. I missed the noise and laughter, sitting around the dinner table. I’d head off to work knowing I’d return. Life’s road had its potholes, but at least it was going somewhere. Now nothing made sense. I was a puppy tossed out into the middle of an ocean, drowning, with nobody and nothing to help me. I was unnoticed and unseen, paddling, turning ’round and ’round, nothing in sight but more water, and the great waves lifting me up, then dropping me and nearly burying me. The emotions were overwhelming and frightening.

What could save me from emotional, spiritual, or physical death? Why weren’t there others in my shoes? How could I make sense of what was happening to me?

I couldn’t make sense of it all. But although I couldn’t see it then, it was my faith in God that carried me. My pleas to my Father were being heard, even though I was blind to it.

Ever since I left home I’ve been watching for others, other single divorced fathers. I don’t see them often. Where are they? Are there none?

I’ve come to understand that many divorced fathers check out. They check out of life, they check out of their family, and they check out of whatever religion they might have had. They hide. To remain “men” they hide. They make themselves look like other tough men. Some of them separate themselves from their families entirely, usually out of pain, to put their entire life behind them and close the door. Some move to other cities or states. Not only are they divorced from their wife, but they choose to divorce themselves from their children. Many remarry … too quickly, and then divorce and remarry in a maddening cycle (and I understand why). Many stop going to church, even if they were active before. It’s awkward to attend church as a single man. And sadly, many men fall into vices that carry them down further, a life of personal destruction.

The burdens placed on the single father are overwhelming. We must find a new place to live. Alimony and child support are servitude and bondage. The legal system is against us. Society and people decry the plight of the single mother, but there’s nary a sparrow’s peep about the children’s father. The mothers are put on pedestals, and government, state, city, and church programs, therapists, and neighbors scramble to their aid. Single mothers are reverenced for their tenacity and the tough life they endure. The mother is seen as the obvious choice for custody. Fathers are expendable and optional. Fathers are the cause and the blame.

I’m not saying that single mothers are not in need of help. I’m painting the view of the single father. We’re becoming a fatherless society. With family law we’re treating symptoms, not the cause. I’m not saying we men are not without fault. But family law, as typical government involvement, makes a bigger mess than it tries to solve.

My dear fellow single fathers, there is hope. We must hang on. We must not despair. Patience. There is actually joy that can come from this experience, even indescribable and shout-from-the-rooftops joy. The Lord doesn’t balance his books when we necessarily think they should be.

Brother Carl