I nod my head so that she knows I’m listening, even though I’m waiting for her punch line. Sometimes they come; other times they don’t. She reaches around her neck and pulls on a chain from underneath her sweater, revealing a pendant that’s made of a pearl, surrounded by a ring of diamonds. She points to the pearl as she continues.
“See, an oyster can live a calm and pain-free existence if it never produces a pearl. But the oysters who do have to live with the pain do whatever they can to improve the situation. During that process, that pain becomes a pearl.”
I think I’m starting to put together what she’s trying to say, but I stay silent, allowing myself time to mull over her words as I look down at the image I’m holding within my fingers, at an image that reminds me of nothing but my painful past. I’m the oyster in this photo, and my father’s abuse is the painful grain of sand.
“You can’t change the past or your circumstances, Luke,” she adds as she reaches out and takes my hand into hers, the picture pressing against both of our palms. “But you aren’t meant to. Experiencing that pain was part of your journey. And I know what you want to say, that it wasn’t fair, and I’m notsaying that it was. I’m not saying that any of it was right. Believe me, I wish I could’ve changed your father.”
She exhales a loud breath, a layer of tears forming in her brown eyes, and my chest tightens.
“But had you not gone through that pain, you wouldn’t be the amazing man that you are today. You wouldn’t have decided to be the opposite of your father, worked hard to become a cop, and swore an oath to protect people. You’ve literally walked through fire and came out on the other side stronger and better because of it. Because you’ve witnessed your father’s struggles and overcame his abuse, you’ve been able to come from a place of understanding and can help people in a way others can’t. You can reach people who are in similar situations and save them from the pain you had to go through.”
She pats my hand before releasing it, offering me a weak smile as a few tears fall from her eyes. I remove my free hand from my pocket and reach out to wipe them away. I often forget the pain my grandmother had to go through in her lifetime, but I see the beautiful pearl that she is.
“I want you to think of your painful past as a tool that God used to unlock your true potential. Potential you didn’t even know that you had. So don’t let it hold you back. Use that pain to help you create your own pearl.”
I grin down at her. “When did you get so wise?”
“I’ve created a few pearls of my own.” She winks at me and returns to making tea. “Ironically, your grandfather gifted me this pearl necklace many years ago, before things had gotten rough between us. One day, I stumbled upon the same information about pearls and realized God had given me an answer that I had kept around my neck all this time.” She chuckles and hands the two steaming mugs to me. “Now take this to your father, and do what you need to do.”
I place the picture into my back pocket and take the two mugs into my hands. “I’m not sure how to make it through this.”
“You just have to face it. It’s the only way to get through it. Remember, what you give power to…will have power over you.”
I give her a nod before she shoos me out of the kitchen. As I walk toward the sunroom where my dad is waiting for me, I say a silent prayer.
Lord, I am surrendering to you. Please give me wisdom and help me to understand what I need to say to my dad. Let your will be done. Amen.
As I finish the prayer, the knot in my stomach loosens, and there’s a sense of calm that washes over me. The tightness in my chest loosens, and I’m thankful for it, because seeing my dad so weak and close to death is hard, even if I’ve despised him most of my life. I inhale and exhale a breath before entering the sunroom.
Dad’s nurse excuses herself and leaves the two of us alone. I hand one of the mugs to him and take a seat in one of the white wicker chairs across from him. The sunroom has a small fireplace, keeping things warm and toasty—almost too toasty, since I still have my jacket on. I shrug it off my shoulders and try to get comfortable on the rickety chair.
Then we both sit in silence for a long moment as I wait for a prompt from God or for my dad to start talking. I keep my eyes on the mug in my hands, watching the bits of herbs that have leaked from the teabag swirl around the liquid before taking a sip.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” he finally says, causing me to jerk and spill some of the hot tea onto the back of my hand. “It’s impossible to form the words of everything I should have been saying to you all these years.”
I shrug my shoulders a bit, the little nudge in my gut telling me to pull out the photograph from my back pocket and hand it to him. And so I do. I watch as his face transforms into a smile as he looks at the two of us, but then it vanishes just as quickly.
“I hadn’t ever noticed how much you hated being around me—not until you were older, anyway.”
“No one likes being around someone who yells and beats them.” The words flow through my lips before I can stop them. Anger licks at my heart, but I try to fight against it.
“I guess you’re right.” He removes his gaze from mine to study the picture.
“You had just threatened me there,” I add, nudging my chin toward the photo. “I didn’t want to sit down because my butt was bruised so badly from your beating the night before, but you yelled at me, told me that if I didn’t sit down and get a picture with you, that you’d get your belt again.”
This isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go, and yet the hurt leaks out of me. It feels necessary, though, to let him know the pain he inflicted on me, so he can understand how important it is that I’m willing to try with him.
“I, uh… I know that I wasn’t the best father. I was weak. I let drugs and alcohol make my choices for me, let them drown everything I didn’t want to face. I took after my father, even though I tried so hard to be the opposite of him, but in the end, I followed the same path. I hid from life because it was easier than facing it. But you didn’t.”
He pauses, his eyes dropping to the floor as he runs a hand over his face, like he’s trying to scrub the shame away. I’m not sure what to say or how to react. Then my dad looks up, eyes glassy and yet somehow clearer.
“You became everything I couldn’t. And I’m so proud of you for that. There’s no excuse for my actions, and it wasn’t until I got clean that I started feeling the guilt from those choices. And right when I thought I might be blessed with a second chance, the cancer stole my life away. Time ran out.”
“When did you start to get clean?” I ask, wanting to understand.
His eyes remained on the photograph in his hands as he replied, “About four years ago. I watched a friend die from an overdose, and shortly after, I almost died from one myself. While I was lying in the hospital, everyone there treated me likethe trash that I was, but there was one angel of a nurse who showed me kindness and gave me the information to a nearby rehab center. I don’t know what changed in me that day, but as my body fought to keep living, so did I.”
“So you went to the rehab center?” I question, and he looks up at me, his dark eyes sparking with something I’ve never seen in them before. I recognize it as hope.
