53 years ago on this day, Rodney Johnson was born. I have often wondered what type of childhood my dad grew up with. Knowing my grandparents and their unconditional love for their misfit kids, I can't imagine it was a rough one. Maybe poor financially (in the beginning), like most of that generation, but rich in love.
I also wonder when the switch clicked and he thought that I didn't deserve that same love. I don't usually sit around and think about him, his birthday or his death but today feels different.
I'm going to spend the rest of this post being as honest and as transparent as I can be. It works well for me. To my mother who I know reads everything I write, stick with me to the end. I hope to end this in a way that makes us all happy. But I ramble, so there is really no telling.
My childhood wasn't the easiest. My mom worked herself to death so that my dad could spend his nights and weekends out of the house doing whatever addicts do. For as far back as I can remember, my mom was my rock. She was my primary caretaker and although I know it was because she wanted to but he didn't leave her with much of a choice. I recall very vivid memories of my mom working night times and his idea of baby sitting was going to crack houses and letting me hang out with the ladies that frequent places like that so that he could do his thing.
I remember coming home to men loading my bedroom furniture up on truck beds for what I can only assume to be sold for drug money.
I recall the nights spent in shelters, whether battered women or homeless, because our house had be turned into the party house for the night/weekend.
I recall the nights where police came looking for him. I remember wishing they would find him and lock him up forever.
I remember more memories like those above than I care to admit or continue to remember. But for every memory I remember, I have someone who would tell me that he was one of the greatest people they knew. Sober, he was the next best thing to Jesus Himself. I found it hard to believe because I rarely caught a glimpse of that sober superhuman.
Life took a turn for the better on November 22, 1995 when we got a call saying that he had been in a car wreck and he was gone. I was watching Carolina play Villanova in the Maui Invitational. We beat Duke twice that year, by the way. Anyway, I remember my mother breaking down and me wanting so desperately to feel what she felt. I just couldn't. We went to meet with the family where my Uncle Jasen grabbed me up and apologized like crazy. I just couldn't find it in me to feel what everyone else was feeling.
Since that night, I have rarely thought about it. I know that sounds harsh. I can't imagine lowering the bar for my children so low that it bothered them next to none if I were to leave this world.
Over the past year, I have come to grow in the grace of Jesus. I've began to learn what that looks like and what that feels like and how people get it.
Here is an excerpt from a book I finished today called "All is Grace" by Brennan Manning.
"My mother had been dead and gone for close to 10 years. As I was praying about other things, her face flashed across the window of my mind. It was not a worn face like that of an old mother or grand-mother, but a child's face. I saw my mother as a little 6 year old girl kneeling on a window-sill of the orphanage in Montreal. Her nose was pressed against the glass; she was begging God to send her a mommy and daddy who would whisk her away and love her without condition. As I looked, I believe I finally saw my mother; she was a ragamuffin, too. And all my resentment and anger fell away.
The little girl turned and walked towards me. As she drew closer, the years flew by and she stood before me an aged woman. She said, "You know, I messed up a lot when you were a kid. But you turned out okay" Then my old mother did something she never did before in her life, never once. She kissed me on the lips and both cheeks. At that moment I knew that the hurt between my mother and me was real and did matter, but that was okay. The trusting heart gives a second chance; it is forgiven and, in turn, forgives. I looked at my mother and said, "I forgive you." She smiled and said, "I guess sometimes you get what you ask for."
When I read that today, I broke down like a baby right in the middle of the coffee shop I was sitting in. I believe my dad was a good person somewhere on the inside. I believe, like me, he wanted something more in life and out of life. He found it in drugs and alcohol, I found it in a loving, merciful Savior.
My dad made some mistakes. We all do. Hey, I turned out okay, didn't I? Since I can remember, my mom has been my dad. I don't think that mindset will ever leave me. I'm sure there will be another post down the road about my thankfulness in that area.
The night my dad died, he wrecked his car on the farm of a pastor. The first one to arrive and the last one to talk to him while he was breathing was the pastor. I don't know what was said, but I know that the pastor assured the family that on that day my dad accepted Jesus and ALL OF HIS GRACE. All is Grace.
Til we meet again, Sr...Happy Birthday.
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