Fatherless

Fatherless

For my dad — and for anyone whose heart feels the ache of that word today.

Happy Father’s Day to all of you amazing men who have brought a child into the world, or adopted one into your heart — who have been a good steward, a protector, a safe haven, and an inspiration to your child.

Some of the last memories I have of my dad are these.

The Last Day

The very last day I saw my dad, I’d only planned to say a quick hello and then drive the hour and a half home. Instead, I decided to stay the night. I was a brand-new mom with a tiny newborn, I hadn’t packed well, and I ran clean out of diapers. My son had a “blow-out,” and while I was heading to the store for more, Dad helped me rig up a little makeshift diaper from one of his old t-shirts and a plastic grocery bag. He was so proud of himself. We laughed at our handiwork and even took a picture — the shirt cut to look like a matching top and diaper, a turkey on the front of the bag that somehow matched the colors. “Grandpa” had made sure his new grandson was taken care of. We’d solved it together, and made a wonderful memory — never dreaming it would be our last.

A couple of months before Dad died — and before my son was born — I’d been overwhelmed. My husband and I were running our own business, and I’d mentioned to Dad how stressed I was about cleaning our little basement apartment by myself before the baby came. Without my ever asking, Dad rounded up a whole crew. Everyone came over and started scrubbing. Dad detailed every window himself, wiped everything down, vacuumed. He brought me a huge bouquet of balloons and a giant stuffed bunny that we still have, nearly fourteen years later. I felt so loved. I get a lump in my throat even now, remembering. He always came through for me. Always. I miss him so much.

The earlier memories are of our walks around the reservoir near his home, the four-wheeler rides, and the cards he’d send for no reason at all except to say, “I love you. — DAD.”

The Illness

Dad would go quiet when the depression came. He’d always been able to pull through those dark stretches before — but not that last time. I remember, in college, bringing him a rose and leaving it on his doorstep. I didn’t understand what it was to live with severe bipolar depression, but Dad understood it all too well. That was his greatest fear. He had carried it most of his adult life, and in the end it took him from us.

When I think of him, I ache. There was no one on earth like him. He reminded me so much of Robin Williams — he could take anything anyone said and turn it into something we’d all laugh and laugh about. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: this life doesn’t hold quite the same bright colors it did when he was in it. We still gather as a family, and my siblings carry so much of him in them — but Dad is gone, and no one could ever take his place. Fourteen years on, there’s still a huge void in my heart, a pain deep enough that I cry from time to time. Mostly I cope by trying not to think about it too much. Every Father’s Day is a little gloomy for me. I can be happy for my kids as they celebrate their own father, and still feel a part of me stay quiet and sad. I miss him.

The Man My Father Was

Let me turn to the light, and tell you about him.

Even though my parents divorced when I was five, my father stayed a deeply active part of my life. When we were little, Dad called us every single day. I remember watching my younger sister — still all chubby baby arms and dimples, barely able to hold up her end of a conversation — babbling into the phone. Then Mom would hand it to me, and I’m sure I was no great conversationalist either, itching to go play. I’d pass the phone back to Mom and skip off. But he called. Every day.

Later, I was old enough for bowling and roller-skating and softball, for trips to Texas to visit Dad’s parents — Port Aransas, Corpus Christi, so many places. I loved traveling with him in the motorhome. He was always so tired, so it took us longer to get anywhere; he’d stop to rest, usually stretched out on the grass under the shade of a tree while we kids played nearby. Dad loved the water, and so did I. In the summers we were at the community pool nearly every day, and he’d laugh as he tossed us up into the air to splash down. We had picnics. We fished — he seemed to keep a tackle box and a pole in his car wherever he went. In high school he’d drive down from Salt Lake just to coach me a little in my sport. In college, he’d visit, and we’d go fishing (mostly to talk) or walk up the canyon.

I could go on and on.

I always felt loved, adored — like my siblings and I were Dad’s greatest accomplishment.

He loved us so much he’d go without so that we could have what we needed. He believed in us. He loved us unconditionally, made us laugh, and helped us feel safe — even when others worried about his visits. And I never once heard him say a single unkind word about my mother. I could tell by the way he looked at her that he still loved her, but he understood her decision.

Two People Who Loved Each Other

My mom has told me many times that she never would have divorced my dad if she’d understood his illness. The highs were dizzying and the lows were frightening — and there were moments so scary that, out of fear for us kids, she felt she had to leave.

When Dad died, my mother cried and cried. She said she wished it could have been her who went with him. She said she knew she had “enough love to forgive.” I tear up every time I think of those words.

Two people who loved each other very much, pulled apart by mental illness — and by how little any of us understood, back then, about how to face it.

What I Understand Now

We’re only beginning, in our time, to understand how deeply the gut and the brain are connected. My doctor in Mexico used to tell me, again and again, “We heal the gut, we heal the brain.” When I didn’t yet know what was behind my own health struggles — my body simply couldn’t absorb nutrients — it affected me mentally, too. Even after Mexico, as I healed (I’ve written about this in earlier posts), it took a long time for my mind to catch up.

There was a day a stranger glanced at me, lost in her own thoughts, and it frightened me so badly that I asked her to “back away… far away,” and to “stay there.” When I’d had time to reflect, embarrassment washed over me and I apologized, over and over. I explained to the store attendant helping me that I’d just come back from Mexico, that I’d reached a point where I couldn’t absorb nutrients — couldn’t even speak English — and that the surgery had fixed the cause, but my brain was still mending. She said, “I completely understand. I was anorexic in high school. I know what a lack of nutrients can do to the brain.”

We don’t fully know what causes every health struggle. But we’re learning that gut health and brain health are genuinely linked — that nourishing the body well can help support the mind, too.

Could my dad have been helped by more of everything — the understanding of mental illness we have today, the right professional care, and the steadying support of real, nourishing food? I’ll always wonder. I’ll never know. But I hold onto the hope that no one else has to fight in the dark the way he did.

To Anyone Who Is Suffering

In memory of my dad, I want to say this to you, with my whole heart: never give up hope. Your answers — and the people who can help you find them — may be closer than you think. Please don’t try to carry it alone. Reach for the people who love you, for those trained to help, for your faith, for anything that truly supports you — rather than the things that only numb the pain and bury it deeper.

When you pray, I pray your eyes will be opened, that your heart and mind will recognize truth — that it will have a familiar “ring.” Because truth does have a familiar ring. May the Heavenly Parents of this universe guide you to the answers you seek. May you feel Their love, Their protection, Their guidance.

If you’re struggling right now — with depression, or with thoughts of not wanting to be here — please reach out. You are not alone, and you are worth helping. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 any time to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, or chat at 988lifeline.org. If someone is in immediate danger, call 911.

You Do Have a Father

Many of us may feel “fatherless” right now, for all kinds of reasons. When you need to be held, I know you can always turn to your Father in Heaven to fill any void you feel.

Happy Father’s Day. Even in all your imperfection and weakness, dads, you are still able to make a child’s life absolutely amazing. I don’t care about wealth or possessions — only about knowing that I am loved, by my earthly father and by my Father in Heaven.

When you feel “fatherless,” remember: you do have a Father in Heaven who atones for everything you may lack or that has hurt you in your life.

Trust in Him. Turn to Him. Let Him surround you with His love. Let him heal you through your struggles. Hold on to Him — and, eventually, everything that feels bad and ugly and lost will melt away.

With much love,

Steffi

A note added later: The day after I posted this, a friend shared his own reflection on being “fatherless,” and it moved me. With his permission, here is the heart of what he wrote:

“My father was not present as I was growing up… only those who grew up fatherless can understand father issues. It’s like a wound that just won’t go away. Many of us have learned to move on — the hard way, the painful way — and our vow should be to always be there for our own kids, and to step into the lives of other kids who need a father figure. I thank all those who have become father figures to me. Have a wonderful Father’s Day.”

— Pastor George Kinyanjui

Amen, and thank you, Pastor George. Your words made me reflect on my own life. I’m so grateful for the fathers of my friends, for teachers who were like dads to me, and for the bishops and counselors of our church family who stepped into that role when I needed one. I treasured every bit of their love, service, counsel, and example.