The Little Lady Who
Changed My Life
She was four years old when I first met her. She was
carrying a bowl of soup. She had very, very fine golden hair and
a little pink shawl around her shoulders. I was 29 at the time
and suffering from the flu. Little did I realize that this little
lady was going to change my life.
Her mom and I had been friends for many years. Eventually
that friendship grew into care, from care into love, to marriage,
and marriage brought the three of us together as a family. At
first I was awkward because in the back of my mind, I thought I
would be stuck with the dreaded label of “stepfather.” And
stepfathers were somehow mythically, or in a real sense, ogres as
well as an emotional wedge in the special relationship between
the child and the biological father.
Early on I tried hard to make a natural transition from
bachelorhood to fatherhood. A year and a half before we married,
I took an apartment a few blocks away from their home. When it
became evident that we would marry, I tried to spend time to
enable a smooth changeover from friend to father figure. I tried
not to become a wall between my future daughter and her natural
father. Still I longed to be something special in her life.
Over the years, my appreciation for her grew. Her honesty,
sincerity and directness were mature beyond her years. I knew
that within this child lived a very giving and compassionate
adult. Still, I lived in the fear that some day, when I had to
step in and be a disciplinarian, I might have it thrown in my
face that I wasn't her “real” father. If I wasn't real, why would
she have to listen to me? My actions became measured. I was
probably more lenient than I wanted to be. I acted in that way in
order to be liked, all the time living out a role I felt I had to
live - thinking I wasn't good enough or worthy enough on my own
terms.
During the turbulent teenage years, we seemed to drift apart
emotionally. I seemed to lose control (or at least the parental
illusion of control). She was searching for her identity and so
was I. I found it increasingly hard to communicate with her. I
felt a sense of loss and sadness because I was getting further
from the feeling of oneness we had shared so easily in the
beginning.
Because she went to a parochial school, there was an annual
retreat for all seniors. Evidently the students thought that
going on retreat was like a week at Club Med. They boarded the
bus with their guitars and racquetball gear. Little did they
realize that this was going to be an emotional encounter that
could have a lasting impression on them. As parents of the
participants, we were asked to individually write a letter to our
child, being open and honest and to write only positive things
about our relationship. I wrote a letter about the little golden-
haired girl who had brought me a bowl of soup when I needed care.
During the course of the week, the students delved deeper into
their real beings. They had an opportunity to read the letters we
parents had prepared for them.
The parents also got together one night during that week to
think about and send good thoughts to our children. While she was
away, I noticed something come out of me that I knew was there
all along, but which I hadn't faced. It was that in order to be
fully appreciated I had to plainly be me. I didn't have to act
like anyone else. I wouldn't be overlooked if I was true to
myself. I just had to be the best me I could be. It may not sound
like much to anyone else, but it was one of the biggest
revelations of my life.
The night arrived when they came home from their retreat
experience. The parents and friends who had come to pick them up
were asked to arrive early, and then invited into a large room
where the lights were turned down low. Only the lights in the
front of the room were shining brightly.
The students marched joyously in, all dirty-faced as though
they had just come back from summer camp. They filed in arm-in-
arm, singing a song they had designated as their theme for the
week. Through their smudgy faces, they radiated a new sense of
belonging and love and self-confidence.
When the lights were turned on, the kids realized that their
parents and friends, who had come to collect them and share their
joy, were also in the room. The students were allowed to make a
few statements about their perceptions of the prior week. At
first they reluctantly got up and said things like, “It was
cool,” and “Awesome week,” but after a few moments you could
begin to see a real vitality in the students' eyes. They began to
reveal things that underscored the importance of this rite of
passage. Soon they were straining to get to the microphone. I
noticed my daughter was anxious to say something. I was equally
anxious to hear what she had to say.
I could see my daughter determinedly inching her way up to
the microphone. Finally she got to the front of the line. She
said something like, “I had a great time and I learned a lot
about myself.” She continued, “I want to say there are people and
things we sometimes take for granted that we shouldn't, and I
just want to say...I love you, Tony.”
At that moment my knees got weak. I had no expectations, no
anticipation she would say anything so heartfelt. Immediately
people around me started hugging me, and patting me on the back
as though they also understood the depth of that remarkable
statement. For a teenage girl to say openly in front of a room
full of people, “I love you,” took a great deal of courage. If
there were something greater than being overwhelmed, I was
experiencing it.
Since then the magnitude of our relationship has increased.
I have come to understand and appreciate that I didn't need to
have any fear about being a stepfather. I only have to concern
myself with being the real person who can exchange honest love
with the same little girl I met so many years before - carrying a
bowl full of what turned out to be kindness.
By Tony Luna |
