God-fearing Man

He was a special man, a God-fearing man. Or so they said. My experience of love and laughter validated the claims. And yet now, years later, I know better. I know the truth. But on that day, I knew only that a man I loved was nearing the end.

The house was suspended in time, separate from the land beyond the walls—a speck of free-floating dust hovering in a busy and crowded world. Stillness permeated the corners of the house, unbroken despite clattering dice and the subdued chatter of the room’s many occupants. 

Waiting. 

How is it that a moment can be anticipated, can loom ever nearer, and nonetheless still catch you unaware? You can weep, the mourning process begun, but when that fated instance finally arrives, the wound is fresh and raw—unfamiliar.

“Doug.” The single muted word cut into the stillness. The tone’s urgency shattered the perceived tranquility with a collective intake of breath. Each person rushed down the unlit hallway, leaving my sister and me suddenly, gloriously alone. We breathed in the now vacant room, cleared of the suffocating energy of anxiety and grief. But there was no time to savor the lightness. 

Death was calling. 

The room was aglow with natural light on that clear January morning, but no amount of light could lift the haze of the dying. My young body, carrying the padding of food-soothed fears, entered the space with a nimble dance between staring adults. They had dragged their heavy stillness into the room; all eyes fixed upon the man in the bed—my father. He looked as he had for days: pale skin, eyes barely open, body quiet but for the labored rise and fall of his chest. His lung’s rattle joined its percussive cacophony with softly playing hymns. It was the soundtrack of life’s end: a duet between the timbre of death and soothing melodies proclaiming life eternal. With a leap, I landed beside him; my grandmother reclined by his head. And the duet became a solo as his strained breathing ceased and his breast stilled. 

My father’s spirit had fled, and the God-fearing man entered eternity. With the cessation of the rattle came the eruption of grief. A mother’s wail for her deceased son could make even the hardest of hearts succumb to emotion. His battle was over. Our healing was begun. Or so we thought. 

___

Losing a parent at such a young age, months shy of ten, was formative. The wound grew into an ever-present black hole. Days and weeks, months and years passed, and it was still there, sapping energy from my life. The wound of his loss was all I knew. 

A decade passed and something changed. I met a kind, patient young man, and he was safe. I felt at ease with him—an unfamiliar experience with men. He radiated confidence and gentle assertiveness, and his presence alone encompassed me in warmth. So I made him my savior. He protected me from haunting fears and anxieties of the unknown. 

If only I had known. 

With a unique connection, nights of talk and little sleep, easy laughter, and a romance of fairy tales—we married. I was a princess rescued by the tall-dark-and-handsome prince. And a princess does her duties. I prioritized his needs and ignored my own. Most nights, I would lay in bed, mind and body frozen, a smile plastered on my face. 

___

The late morning sun shone through our rain-stained windows. The delighted yells of our children rang with glee from outside—their pure and simple joy. The cat’s soft, purring form was a comforting weight upon my foot. As I held the phone, my entire body shook. The ringing sounded as the toll of a bell.

“Hello?” My aunt’s voice hinted at her confusion. I never called. And then it all came tumbling from my mouth, that which only my therapist and husband had heard before. I was desperate to be understood. Believed. I longed for assurance, and dreaded what it would mean. I barely breathed. My heart pounded as I awaited her response. 

Silence.

And then, “What are you hoping to hear from me?”

“The truth.” 

There was more. So much more. The room faded as her words trapped me. My shaking ceased, and I was numb. Scene after scene flashed through my mind as my aunt spoke. I saw helpless little girls abused at my father’s hands. I felt their fear. 

He was a God-fearing man.

Without warning, my cherished image of him vanished, replaced by a rotten corpse. A stranger. My eyes were swollen and puffy. When had the tears begun?

Memories descended, swirling and swallowing me in black. 

I was alone. My skin shivered against the chill of stiff sheets, and the demons descended. I made no sound. Words were powerless. Then I saw them: the lifeless eyes. 

His eyes. 

They were blind to my silent tears. 

___

The sound of my children’s carefree joy shattered the darkness as colors rushed into focus with fresh vibrance. The memory faded and I found myself in a bright, well-lit room. My phone was dark. I was alone. Sunlight blinded while it thawed my senses, and I gradually became aware of an unfamiliar sensation. 

Peace? 

I had stumbled upon the truth I had lacked. My father: lauded by our church, mourned by friends and family, memorialized as courageous in the face of death, was not a God-fearing man.

No. 

He was pedophile.

We had been innocent children. We were now grown women moving through life scarred by invisible and ever-present wounds. 

Because of him.

I felt grounded by the familiar sights and comforts of my living room: hundreds of books beckoning me to other worlds, our well-loved baby grand piano, a layer of cat hair on every surface, the toys of my children. 

My precious babies. 

Hope’s delicate light glimmered weakly in my mind. My father’s taint would never threaten the innocence of my children. They would never know terror too great for memories to take hold. 

Disturbing the cat’s slumber, I rose and followed the gleeful cries still echoing from outside. At the top of the steps I stood and watched, unnoticed, as my daughter ran circles around her father, his understated grin hinted at his genuine joy. Her contagious laughter forced a smile upon my face, still moist from tears, as she fruitlessly leapt for floating bubbles. My young son watched and clapped, too little to run like his sister but adding his gleeful screams nonetheless. 

No, my children would not know the terror of dark, endless nights. 

Their father is truly a God-fearing man.