Part 2
The day I met my biological father.
(You can access Part 1 here)
The space between finding my dad and meeting him in real life involved a lot of prayer, seeking out wise counsel on how to steward the opportunity well, and doing my best to have realistic expectations. Having his contact information was one thing, what to do with it was another. I wanted to handle the matter in a sensitive manner. Did he have another family? Would he even want to talk to me? Should I call him or write him a letter? What if he had another family and he didn’t want them to know about me?
All of those questions ran through my mind as I went through the process of deciding how to approach everything. I ended up writing him a letter, which I figured would be the least threatening way to go. That way, he could choose to write back, or not, and he would have some time to process before he decided what he wanted to do with it. Long story short, he wrote back right away and we began to talk on the phone here and there. Eventually, he came to visit me for a weekend. Here’s the story…
The day I met my biological father.
The day had come. I sat in the airport on a bench that faced the escalator of people trickling off the short flight from Phoenix to Orange County. My stomach was in knots as I talked with my step-sister, who was trying to keep me from running back to my car and driving away. As we talked, I wondered what in the world I thought when I had agreed to this meeting. Should I have done this whole thing by myself or had someone else come with me? Would I recognize him? Would he recognize me or would he walk right past me, without knowing who I was? I hadn’t been sitting there for too long when I saw him. To this day, I don’t know how I knew it was him, I just did.
He was a little bit on the short side (like I am), had a bit of a belly and was dressed like he was ready for the beach with his blue Hawaiian shirt, tan shorts, and flip flops. My heart pounded and my cheeks turned red as he made his way down the escalator with his suitcase. I tried not to stare. To my amazement, when he got to the bottom, he somehow knew who I was too. Without hesitation, he walked right up to me and gave me a big hug. I was surprised to see tears run down his face as we reunited. I was even more surprised that there weren’t any tears of my own. I think I was in shock. That month I was turning 26 years old, so it had been a little under 24 years since we had seen each other last.
Our weekend together was surreal. I couldn’t believe I was actually hanging out with the man who I had always wondered about growing up, who had played a part in bringing me into this world. He felt like a complete stranger to me and at the same time, I felt like I had known him all my life. When I finally met him in person that weekend, I felt like probably most runners do when they near the end of a marathon. Relief. Relief came when I realized I no longer had to run the race of curiosity that had been ongoing for the past 24 years. It came from finally knowing where he lived, where he worked, that he was alive, that we had a chance to have a relationship, if he had any other adult kids besides me, and that he actually wanted to meet me.
Paired with my relief, also came an unexpected pain. Sort of like a runner who crosses the finish line, relieved the race is finally over with, and then realizes there’s an existing pain that had been ignored while they were focusing on the finish line. The pain that was discovered after meeting my dad was realizing that he wasn’t exactly the dad I was secretly dreaming he would be. There was also pain when I realized he was having a hard time fathoming how I could forgive him after all these years. He didn’t understand how I could possibly accept him and not be angry with him, despite the fact that he had been absent all my life.
Forgiveness can be a funny thing when the person on the receiving end can’t seem to accept it. As my marathon ended and our weekend together came to an end, I resolved to move forward for the time being, and accept the relief that had been waiting for me at the finish line. As for the pain, I decided to take some time to walk it out, just like any runner would do after a long race.
Click here to continue reading with Part 3.
Featured Image by Erez Attias
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