The Secret of the Shadow Box

When I was 20 years old I made a crude shadow box for my dad.  He was the kind of person who already had everything but, he didn't have a shadow box depicting many of the things he liked doing most: hunting, fishing, flying his small private plane.

When I gave it to him he seemed genuinely pleased, or at least as pleased as my dad ever seemed.  He was always difficult to read and he spoke few words.  Those he did speak (in his deep base voice) would scare any child speechless as they did me when I was a young girl.

Though my dad was surrounded by people all his life, he somehow lived a very singular life.  Even when I was young I felt deep down he was a tortured soul. His hair trigger anger often boiled over and spilled out onto his 4 children--children he could not even begin to understand. I'm not sure he even tried to. Or did he?

My parents divorced when I was 9 years old and visits with my dad were scarce.  He did take us to see his parents many miles away every summer but we, his children, were always on our best behavior when we were with him.  Remembrances of his explosive temper never faded and we felt like his volcanic anger could erupt and spew out angry words or violent actions at any time.  Obviously, that meant there were few warm fuzzy interactions with my dad over the years.

When I became an adult he seemed to be more comfortable with me than when I was a child but, he still left the reaching out to me.  There was a 10-year span when my dad did not call me and if I hadn't called him we would have never spoken.  

Quite honestly, I always felt like I was in the way of what he really wanted to do with his life.  But I never figured out what that was. I'm not sure he did either.

My dad seemed always to be searching for something and I think his hunger for recognition--to be someone "important" was the driving force in his life.  

But the dad I had become used to changed when my young son, Richie, was diagnosed with a terminal illness.  For whatever reason, Richie was a strong magnet my dad's steely façade could not resist.  He was drawn to Richie in a way I'd never seen before in my life.

My dad made it a point to regularly keep in touch with me and once a month he and his wife drove a good distance to gather with me and my adult siblings.  The real draw was Richie, though.

When Richie died, my dad was one of the first people to call me and offer to come alongside me through the funeral process.  He was there from beginning to end and it was the first time I think I'd ever seen my dad cry.  No, he wept, actually.  

At the funeral home the night before Richie's funeral my dad's heart finally broke.  As he said goodbye to Richie in that dimly lit room he cried as he hung onto the tiny casket.  The casket shook and rocked and I thought he was going to upset the casket's pedestal. 

I cried too from just around the corner, crying apart from my dad not wanting to intrude on this intensely private man's grief.

Sadly, I also cried apart from my dad because I was not sure I would be welcome even in the very shadowy fringes of his grief.

I'd like to say my son's short life and death completely changed my relationship with my dad for the better.  Things did change for a time, but only for a short time.

He and his wife retired to a state far from their kids and grandkids.  My dad wanted to do this for a couple reasons: so he could fish every day (his home was a few blocks from a lake) and he wanted to be far enough away so that his kids and grandkids could not visit often if at all.  If you did visit his home, you were not welcome to stay there neither were you to visit for more than a few days.

The last visit I had with my dad was unbelievably wonderful.  He actually wanted to sit and talk and seemed to genuinely enjoy our time together.  It was during that visit he told me, "I've always loved you and I always will".  That was news to me.  It was certainly news to me.

It was also during that visit he took me over to the shadow box I'd made for him as a young woman decades before.  With a smile he said, "Do you remember this?  I have packed it up carefully every  time I moved and hung it up where I'd see it every day."

His unexpected words of love pierced my wary heart and in those precious moments years of disappointment unexpectedly melted away. The secret of the shadow box--he had been keeping for decades--was that each time he saw it he lovingly thought of me.

When my father passed away 2 years ago, I was asked by a friend of his (who also became a friend of mine) if there was anything of my dad's I wanted.  All I could think of was the shadow box.  She visited his home in search of the shadow box but couldn't find it.  I was disappointed and it took me a little while to get past that.  I'd asked God to either let it find its way to me or to let me be ok with not getting it back.

Due to my husband's health issues (I could not leave him) I was unable to attend my dad's life celebration service.  It was heartbreaking to not be part of it.  

The day of the service my brother called me and said, "I have your shadow box. It was in a box of things for our family to go through."  I cried tears of happiness and thanked God for His faithfulness even in this small thing.

This past weekend my husband and I made the out of state trip to bring home the shadow box and some other family mementos including long ago pictures of my son.

When I touched that shadow box, I could hear my dad say, "I've always loved you and always will."  And I thanked my Heavenly Father that my earthly father had revealed the secret of the shadow box to me.

Jackie Deems  copyright 2019