Darth Daddy–Father Friend by Gina Grillo Stearns

                                                                                Recently, my last few blogs have presented a harsh view of my father, Frank Grillo.  Although there were times that my dad was abusive and severe, I believe with all my heart that he totally deserves my honor and an opportunity to share my praises.  If we vilify such a parent, we run the risk of losing sight of some pretty extraordinary qualities, some of which we naturally share.

Not only had my dad made some very bad mistakes in his life, treated my mother poorly, and disciplined us in rage, he seemed to have lost his way altogether.  Like Anakin Skywalker there was definitely good in my dad.  My mom saw it; she fell in love with him because of it.  But Life is hard, filled with some unsure footing and heart-wrenching experiences. Sometimes it produces a Darth Vadar.  Perhaps you, like me, come from a home with a tough father or a broken home where he abandoned you for what he thought was better.  It hurts, I know.  Below are some things the Word of God would have us do despite our parents’ faults, and even ours.  Yes my dad could have chosen right, and I am not excusing or ignoring his behavior.  Instead I suggest like me, you do something much greater:

Forgive your dad.  (Eph. 4:32, Luke 23:34, Pet. 2:22) He is just human.  Though it does boggle the mind how someone who has the potential to be your hero turns out to disappoint you in his frailty.  Remember that forgiveness is the heart and beauty of the Gospel.  God forgives us of the sins we have committed in our humanity by giving us the only true Hero-Savior, Jesus Christ.  If he forgives us, we can forgive others, especially our fathers.

Forgive yourself.  (1 John 1:9, Ez. 18:19-20)  Your father’s actions are not your fault.  You will most certainly make plenty of your own mistakes.  You do not need to bear your father’s as well.

Remember and be grateful for the things that Dad did right. (Phil.4:8, 1Thess. 5:18)  I actually remember some incredibly wonderful times with Daddy.  One of my favorites was one Christmas when my dad held me in his lap and we just calmly stared into the Christmas tree silently enjoying a tranquil light show complete with tender discussions of the importance of the season. I was cozy in my flannel pajamas and silver quilted robe.  My dad held me and then as was his nature, he began to preen my cuticles with one of his workshop instruments.  Gently he rounded my tiny nails pushing back the skin.   I can still feel the sensation of his care and even remember the steely smell of the tool he used to trim away my many hangnails.

I also remember fishing trips with my dad.  I know that he really wanted a boy, and he could have easily left me behind with my mother.  But I loved the adventures my dad often invited me to join.  We would drive many miles to a place called Shongo near Wellsville, NY where we waded through a river to a little Island.  There I used my casting rod and baited whatever I found.  My dad taught by his example not to be afraid of worms, crayfish or grasshoppers.  I rarely caught any fish, but I loved to watch my dad’s fly rod caressing the waters with rhythmic strokes. It was there that I felt my father was at peace. It seemed that the tranquility of the lullaby stream kept his tormenting demons away.   Around this time, he even taught me to tie flies.  He wasn’t always patient, but he did believe I could learn it.  And I did.  In fact one of the ones I made landed him one of his largest catches.  He was quite proud of me then.

My father had a great sense of humor.  Frank Grillo was exceedingly charming.  His eyes would sparkle when he was toying with an idea, sharing a joke, or executing a plan.  My Josiah often reminds me of his grandfather when he is sharing his music, an idea, or some aspiration.  They would have made some pair performing similar silly antics.

Daddy’s smile was warm and rich.  I could see why my mom was attracted to his looks, his wit and his strong personality. One of my favorite memories of his comedic offerings was when he would take a blanket, sing a little vaudeville tune, and lower the blanket. He would secretly lift a leg from view, and then raise the blanket to expose the magical disappearance of his limb.  Up and down the blanket went.  He loved to make people laugh.  We did.

I was also influenced by my father’s view of God though it was not borne out until much later.  He had many issues with our denomination, and couldn’t figure out why we had to confess sins to a priest when we could easily go directly to God.  He would also say, as he opened his Bible, why we couldn’t just read it and go by what it said versus what the church demanded.  Though I am not sure if my father was saved, it was that very attitude that led me to the same conclusions.  He unknowingly paved the way for me to meet the Savior and His Word later in life.

Celebrate the similarities and gifts you inherited from him. (Prov. 15:15, Jam. 1:17)  As you know from reading “Shattering the Image of Perfection,” I inherited my dad’s perfectionism tendencies. It has not been easy, but I have tried to strive instead for excellence and leave the rest to my perfect Savior.

In addition, my father was very creative and artistic.  He was a self-taught pianist, drummer, and guitarist.  I cannot hear the Bee Gee’s “Words” without thinking of him. I also recall his strumming and singing, “Moon River,” or “That Lucky Old Sun.” Unfortunately, I did not get the musical talent to the degree that he possessed, but I passed it on to many of his grandchildren.

Daddy was extremely articulate and spoke with such authority; you just had to believe him.  I also inherited that gift, along with his wit which has aided in my teaching, speaking, and writing.  Like him, I am a thinker, always ruminating on some notion.  My mind does not really turn off for long.  I will actually wake up in the middle of the night and write in my head.  Daddy often complained that his mind would not stop either.  It is the curse of the creative bent we share.

In addition, I have my dad’s wavy hair, his brown eyes, short legs and his hands.   I also acquired his chipmunk cheeks that I believe he got from my grandmother. At times I have my mom’s smile, but often I see my dad’s too. A harmonious marriage on my face.

Life may have treated dad harshly.  His past might shed light on his heart.  (Jer. 17:10, 1 Sam. 6:17, Rom. 8:28)  As I was reminiscing with an older cousin about my dad and how harsh and angry he could be, my older cousin explained that some of that came from having an extremely cruel father himself.  She reported that once when my dad was young and had done something wrong, my grandfather retaliated by taking an ax to an old piano my father delighted in playing.  When I was able to fully process this, I translated the passion my Josiah has for piano and then tried to imagine his response to such destruction of his beloved set of ivories.  Then my heart broke for my dad.  A tearful catharsis of understanding and even greater forgiveness occurred.  There was so much more about my dad of which I wasn’t aware.  Only God knew his heart.  At least my dad never purposely destroyed a treasured possession because I disobeyed. He had done better than his father!  I will try and do better than him too.

Remember your dad’s best words.  Remember, also, the Lord’s. (Mt. 28:20, Josh. 1:9)  Probably my dad’s best words were his last to me.  My father’s death is a mystery to me.  Did he give it up, or was it taken?  I may never know.  But his last words to me were simply this.  “I love you, Gina.  Never forget it!”

Jesus last words, speaking for the Father and himself, had a similar tone in Matthew 28:20b, “Surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.”   Both comments have been a balm to my heart during different times of difficulty.  I know that someday I will see my heavenly father, but I pray I will also see on Heaven’s shore the man I called, “daddy.”

We have all we could ever want in our Heavenly Father so pursue Him and his Gospel Grace.  (Ps. 145, Ps. 23, 2Pet. 1:3, Is. 43:18-19)  I was reminded recently that God functions with two characters.  They may seem opposite, but in actuality they beautifully complement each other.  God is Creator, Law-Giver, and Judge — worthy of our respect and fear. He is above us in authority, intelligence and power.

However, God is also our sacrificial Savior, nurturer, and friend encouraging me to the end.  Though I no longer have my father with me, my heavenly father is always with me and all my father could not be and more. God makes up in big ways where our fathers lacked.  I pursue his loving lap and allow his Grace to sustain and guide me.  I look to his words to cut away the cuticle of my crusty heart.  It is there that I find the truest and best love.

Honor your Father.  (Ex. 20:12)  When I look back at my dad, I do actually see a weird blend of those two characters of God. Yes he often punished me, sometimes a bit extreme.  But this same man spent hours doing therapeutic leg strengthening exercises when my leg was burned. He would take time to teach, correct me, and love me in his own special way. He simply did the best he could in this fallen world. Though in his humanity he made many mistakes, my father loosely reflected the character of my heavenly father.  If my father were here today I would sincerely thank him. In retrospect, Frank Grillo didn’t do so poorly after all.  Because of God’s Grace to me, Daddy definitely deserves my honor not only on Father’s day but every day.

Shattering the Image of Perfection by Gina Stearns

                                                                                                              Recently I mentioned to someone that my one goal as a Christian woman and writer has been to bring Glory to God by being transparent and real. If I share only my sorrows, I run the risk of being pitied, which I do not like. If I share only my sins, I run the risk of being condoned or condemned; neither is helpful. If I share only my victories, I risk appearing boastful. So I strive for humble honesty because it is there I am most useful, it is there that God’s grace is best demonstrated.  Therefore I share it all– the good, the bad, and the ugly in hopes that God can use every bit of it.

This time I share the ugly.  And UGLY it is!  First let me start by saying that I have suffered from a lifetime “disease” of perfectionism.  I am sure it is partly because I am wired that way, but I am certain it is also because my father, who was similarly a perfectionist, passed it on to me.

Whatever my efforts regarding school, sports, or household duties, the message was loud and clear, it was not good enough.  I was not good enough. 

Now I know my daddy loved me very much, and I suspect that part of him rightly wanted to instill in me a sense of excellence, but I am not sure that the other part was so intentional.  I know as I watched my dad, more was caught than taught.  I saw how the malady of perfectionism impregnated him with its deadly paralysis just as it had me.

I even observed it whenever he shaved.  Every stroke was perfectly executed over his cheeks, jaw, upper lip, and under his chin.  It seemed like such a feat.  But I loved watching him use his razor to magically change a face of black scruff into a smooth, shiny surface complete with aftershave aftershock.  He also took forever to finish a kitchen remodel for my mom, because everything had to be just so. It never was.  I also saw it when He did the masonry for our front porch.  It took weeks of talking about it, and researching the best way to complete the task.  It was well-planned with a web of string to signal where to pour the cement which also had to be a perfect consistency.  I was not allowed to participate, only watch.  And watch I did.

But nowhere did I see his perfectionistic tendencies more than when he was teaching me, evaluating my schoolwork, or cussing at me for not fulfilling his expectations.  For some kids, that might mean they would give up, but for me, I only tried harder.  If striving was an art form, I was the ultimate DaVinci. The one time that it hit me hardest, my not being good enough, was when I came home with a 95% on a science test.  Science was a big deal to my dad, and he often would expound on meteorology, physics, or electricity.  I was often grilled on his lessons, and too many times I did not always respond correctly.  If I did, I was the apple of his eye, if not– I was considered one bad apple.  So I was very excited to share my score, especially since it was one of the highest in my class.

With great anticipation of his pride and pleasure, I was instead aghast as he looked at my test and shook his head, “Why didn’t you get a 100?”

It didn’t matter if the question was rhetorical or not, tears filled my eyes and choked away any answer I could muster. There was no comfort, simply the cold reality that I had to again try harder.  The only things that didn’t squelch out the fire of perseverance in my education were the warm encouragement of my teachers and the gentle reassurance of my mom.

My mom was very artistic and had the ability to sketch, draw, or paint which I also inherited.  Furthermore, she had the kindest, sweetest heart of anyone I had ever known. Years after my dad had died, Mom had shared an important truth that helped me with the daunting job of starting any assignment or project.  This particular time, I had to do a drawing for a class. I sat there with pencil in hand in front of a blank page, clean without mar or blemish.  Its perfection threatened me.  Whatever mark I would add would only decrease its current, pristine value.  While obsessing over how to start my sketch, Mom who never missed a trick, sat down next to me.

What she had next said had a profound, forever effect on my fearful heart– helping to ease the forging of any future first attempts.  It was the tiniest step in my recovery, but it stuck with me as I grew.  She said to me when she drew, she would deliberately put a stroke anywhere, just to get it out there.  Over time that first stroke didn’t seem as important when all the other ones were added.   Mom also reminded me, you can always erase.  Ever since then, with the exception of legal documents, I have always written everything in pencil with an eraser well within reach.

So with both my parents influence under my belt, I vowed that I would never discourage my kids the way my dad had, and to really be a source of truth and encouragement to them as Mom was to me.

When my oldest daughter Rachel was three and learning to write, something she initiated, I tried not to put any pressure on her when her “m’s” didn’t turn out like mine.  Despite my generous servings of positive reinforcement, Rachel was hardest on herself.   Just like me.   I couldn’t figure out why and talked with my sister about it.  I was puzzled because I was gentle and encouraging, but my perfectionism was somehow inherited.

My sister had enlightened me that though I was positive and nurturing with Rachel’s efforts, it was how she observed me in MY world that spoke loudest to her.  Like the times a meal didn’t turn out the way I had anticipated, or if my hairstyle was askew (my hair is a whole other blog-post), or when I couldn’t keep up with mounds of laundry.  She saw how I was a perfectionist in my world and somehow had transferred my behavior to hers despite my consistent praise.  She caught more than I had taught — just like I had with my dad.  So when I would sincerely compliment her, she didn’t readily trust me or believe it.

As a result, I began to try to model a more accepting, forgiving attitude when I had burned dinner, or smeared mascara, or missed a spot vacuuming.  My words would have to match as well.  I would laugh or say it was okay.   But the truth is, I had deep- seated issues and no matter how hard I tried, I still never seemed good enough.  And that was unforgivable to me. However with my children’s hearts before me, I continued to try.

Later, when I became a Christian, I had noticed the heart-changing work the Lord did.  Though slow, it was permanent unlike my own efforts which had a short-term effect.  Gradually I saw results.  It was comforting to know that the Lord wasn’t finished with me yet.  As He reminded me in Philippians 1:6, I could be confident, “that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus.”  These days, I often joke with my winsome smile, “Hi, my name is Gina Stearns, and I am a recovering perfectionist.  Am I doing that perfectly?”

But today I fell hard and deep, pulling people I treasured into the pit with me.  Though not exactly like my own father, everything that I had vowed I would never do with my kids, all that baggage that was passed on to me…I had allowed to pass on to my Naomi in one weak, selfish moment.

Ironically, it would be centered on science.  As a homeschooler, I have always felt even more compelled to prove myself as a mother and teacher.  This added pressure can easily be passed onto my children.  It was today.   We were currently using an excellent curriculum for Physical Science.  To make it more interesting, I often taught Micah and Naomi science, history, art and Latin together even though they were two years apart. I would simply adjust accordingly where needed.  In this case, our Physical Science curriculum was considered an 8^th grade honors course in most schools, and so I worked extra hard with Naomi.  I had reviewed and helped her study for the test and felt she really knew the information.

However what I found out as I corrected the test, was that Naomi did not completely understand the material as I had wrongly assumed her answers during review seemed to convey.  I was very frustrated.  I had chosen this curriculum because it was what the nearby Christian school had used and if Micah and Naomi were to transfer there, a possibility in our future, I wanted a smooth transition for them.

So I started in, frustrated more at myself for not making sure she got the concepts down pat, but I instead took it out on her.  I started in, my voice filled with tension and disappointment.  She had scored an 80% on the exam and with the added bonus questions that was more pertinent to her age/grade, she had earned an 85%.  But I continued to show my dissatisfaction, and frustration escalated to exasperation not only in me, but in her.  Tears mounted in her sad brown eyes, and that made me more annoyed with myself.  As I began to justify my anger, I started to yell.  I picked up a small heart-shaped mirror that she had by her books on the table and slammed it down as I pontificated over the fact that she should have let me know if she didn’t understand the material.   That was when her champion, Micah, came to her aid.

He calmly started, “Mom, mom…. Remember it’s an honor’s course.  She did fairly well considering.   She really tried.”

And that was when it hit me.  My own pathetic 95% from years ago loomed before me complete with the horror of my disappointed dad.  I immediately melted and started to cry.  Naomi was also sobbing as I started to apologize to her and Micah.  Of course she had done her best, and that was what counted.  I remembered that she even seemed to be heartily engaged in classroom discussions.  Before I could get the rest of my confession out, Naomi was overcome by the moment and ran upstairs to get some water and to leave me alone in a puddle of my putrid excrescence.

I then looked down, picked up the mirror and remembering how hard I had hit it against the table, checked on it to be sure I hadn’t broken the clasp.  That was sound, but the mirror inside had shattered into many pieces.  Naomi had that mirror with her all the time and in my fury, I jumped to conclusions thinking it was a sign of vanity. I had forgotten that she was suffering from a mild case of blepharitis and would check her eyes for bits of dried skin.

When she bravely came back down to our classroom, I gingerly confessed that I had broken the little mirror.  I feared our relationship would be forever ruined from my dreadfulness that day.  As expected, she was very disappointed, and the tears came back.  I had asked her why she had that mirror with her anyway.  I was not prepared for her response.  Its shiny silver heart shape was very precious to her, but it was the fact that I had given her such a lovely gift was what she really treasured.  Moreover, I had underestimated Naomi’s esteem for me.

The third shattering of the day could be sensed– first the mirror, then her tender heart, and finally the breaking of my own.

I looked back into the mirror. The many cracks in the mirror spoke to me as if from God himself.  No matter how hard Naomi would try and how I would praise her, I always noticed the flaws in her character, her work, and her attitude like the many tiny cracks held together in the heart-shaped case. In a flash, I recognized that I viewed Naomi’s flaws as an extension of my many; I had somehow erroneously made them my own.

Yet I felt it was a better reflection on my own heart. The moment had exposed my ugly pride and its destruction lay before me.  A greater mess than the shattered mirror called out to me.  It was the real heart of my little girl, and I knew I had to make haste and tidy up the damage I had made.  I would not leave her with unwarranted shame as my dad had with me.  I would not allow it to plague her for years to come.  With God’s help I would repair our relationship for the better.

I humbly asked for forgiveness, not just for the mirror, but for my harsh words and unfair expectations for Naomi (and quietly for myself).  I hugged her and quickly assured her that she had done amazingly well especially considering the depth of the class and the difficulty of the material.  I had explained that I was allowing the opinion or expectations of others rule me.  It wasn’t reasonable and it wasn’t what the Lord had intended for us.  The fear of the expectations of others should never dictate our motives, only how God would view it.  I shared how extremely pleased I was with her work, her enthusiasm, and her contributions during our discussions.  I carefully directed her off of that self-deprecating path upon which my own dad had unknowingly placed me.  Immediately her face softened and she seemed calm and teachable.   We were rescued from the pit and restored from my sin.  But there was another with whom I needed to contend.

That night as I lie in bed, the raw quiet of 3:17 AM allowed the darkness of my sin to shout out at me, and I repented before God, more tears trailing down my face.  I could never be a perfect parent, but now I just wanted to be a good one.

My heavenly father let me know that He was not expecting me to be perfect, but he did want me to depend on Him and His grace for change.  He was using my failure so that I could see the extent of my prideful, fearful heart.  I had placed so much pressure on myself to have such well-behaved children, excellent students, and great Christian kids. The release was ever welcome.

Despite the foolishness of my heart,   I sensed His reassurance and His peace filled me.  I was no longer stressed about the need to prove myself.  It wasn’t worth the torment. It only caused me to depend on my flesh.  My earthly father had expected perfection; my heavenly father had expected me just to do my best with His help.   It was absolutely fine to Him that I was not perfect.  He was truthful, yet gentle and kind by allowing my mistakes and failures to teach me the important lessons. He was okay with the fact that I failed because it would cause me to depend on Christ and trust Him more.

That was how I was supposed to learn, how my own kids would learn.  That was how I would parent as well.   They try their best just like I do, and that means something.  They will fail and make mistakes, and that is crucial for them to learn and to continue to take risks.

I knew today, the big day of brokenness, would be a big step in my growth towards being like Christ.  If He didn’t expect perfection from me, I would not expect it out of Naomi or any of my children.  I would gently correct and encourage just as He did so they too would grow in their own faith.

I plan on obtaining another mirror just as the one now broken, but this time in its wholeness,  I too would not focus on flaws, but use it to see my kids…reflecting the imperfect but beautiful love of a mom whose Heavenly Father who Loves her well.

I would love well too.  After all, more is caught than taught.