Getting to know my father—better
Caryl Farkas | from the Christian Science Sentinel
Whatever good we think we know humanly has a divine source.
When my dad passed on, among the many condolences I received, a compassionate friend offered words of spiritual consolation that made a great difference to me.
He acknowledged my feelings of loss, but at the same time he assured me that prayer would move me through my grief—to the practical and very real apprehension that God’s goodness could never be lost. “You’re going to get to know your father better,” he said. “You’re going to get to know him spiritually.”
It seemed hard to imagine. All the ways I was accustomed to knowing my father were, I thought, pretty human. I knew his personality, his sense of humor, his generosity and intelligence. I knew his physical presence and could no longer hear his voice or see the lift of his eyebrow.
But I realized that the spiritual sense being recommended to me did not lack substance or power. So I eagerly embraced the idea of finding the imperishable aspect of my dad and our relationship.
My friend had quoted these lines from a hymn:
Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath,
The Christian’s native air:
His watchword, overcoming death:
He enters heaven with prayer.
(John B. Dykes, Christian Science Hymnal, No. 284)
I actually did know my dad in profounder ways than his wit or grace.
And it did take persistent prayer before I was able to grasp the fact that I actually did know my dad in profounder ways than his wit or grace. At times sorrow would come over me unexpectedly, and I’d feel overwhelmed by the thought that death was the final word, the “checkmate” move of a fundamentally mortal existence.
It wasn’t just about me, either. I could cope, perhaps (I thought), but the consequences for my daughter seemed cruel and unfair. Not yet two years old, she’d bonded strongly with “Da,” and he’d become a major part of her young life. Her reaction to his absence, when we arrived at my parents’ home to help my mother, was to race through the house looking for him. When she didn’t find him, she became desperate and began crying, pounding on doors, calling his name. A well-meaning friend suggested we tell her that her grandpa had gone on a trip. Another said we should tell her he had gone to heaven.
As I tried to work out what to say, I was reminded of two statements from Science and Health about children. “The more stubborn beliefs and theories of parents,” wrote Mary Baker Eddy, “often choke the good seed in the minds of themselves and their offspring. Superstition, like ‘the fowls of the air,’ snatches away the good seed before it has sprouted” (Science and Health, p. 237). Also, “Children should be allowed to remain children in knowledge, and should become men and women only through growth in the understanding of man’s higher nature” (Science and Health, p. 62).
I wasn’t comfortable telling my daughter a lie or even offering her a conventionally soothing story about heaven as a beautiful distant place. Such strategies might dry her tears momentarily, but they’d only get in the way of what my prayer had begun to reveal to me: that God’s intelligent comforting and goodness is a constant presence, and embraces all of us.
I found myself more and more expectant of good.
So I chose simple words and told her that “passed on” meant that we would not be able to see Da in the way we were used to seeing him, but that everything we loved about him was still with us and always would be. She appeared to consider this and accept it. But in the weeks that followed, it seemed to me that she’d been deeply rocked by her loss, in ways we couldn’t fully understand or help her with. Her dad and I continued to pray, going to God for a better understanding of the fullness of His love. And I found myself more and more expectant of good, more trusting in divine Love to meet our needs.
A few weeks later we attended a Christmas party at a museum. The owner of a local bookstore was playing Santa Claus. As we walked through the room and watched him interacting with the children, my daughter grabbed my hand and pulled me over to a corner to sit and watch. She was fascinated. After 20 minutes, she tugged my sleeve and said in my ear, “There’s Da!” For her, it had nothing to do with the Santa suit or beard; it was the way he listened with interest, patience, and gentleness, just as her grandfather had to her.
Then, I looked at her and saw a sort of calm joy on her face—to me it was an expression of a fact grasped and peace gained. I looked back at the man in the Santa suit. He was engaging the child on his knee in intent conversation, clearly expressing many of the qualities that my daughter had appreciated in her grandfather. What I’d told her came back to me: “We will find Da’s spiritual identity in all kinds of ways and places. His gentleness, care, and good humor were God’s own qualities, and none of us can be separated from them.”
I saw that she had gotten it! She was grasping the fact that what she loved and treasured would not be lost.
Because God is divine Life and Love, all the good that I’d thought was contained in a human person was actually part of infinite Spirit.
And I also started to get it more fully. It wasn’t that spiritual sense was going to help us get to know a corporeal personality better—one we could no longer see or hug. It wasn’t even that we might find a human replacement for a father and grandfather. Rather, because God is divine Life and Love, all the good that I’d thought was contained in a human person was actually part of infinite Spirit. And Spirit, I realized, constantly pours itself into our lives, through our actual identity as God’s children, His ideas.
St. Paul put it this way: “Ye are the temple of the living God; as God hath said, I will dwell in them, and walk in them; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people” (II Cor. 6:16). The spiritual qualities of Life and Love are seen and heard right where we are. This is God’s activity, and it is immortal—it can’t be stopped and knows no end or interruption.
The understanding imparted to my daughter that day at the Christmas party has continued to comfort and guide her through the changes and challenges of young adulthood. There were many incidents in the following years when we’d encounter a particular kindness and solicitude that we associated with my dad: the acquaintance met abroad who entertained her over dinner with the Canadian Army songs my father had sung to her as lullabies; the church member who welcomed us to a new town, filling the role of grandfather with familiar wit and cleverness.
Then there was a day that I felt particularly blessed. My second-hand computer had broken down in the midst of my preparing for a talk. I thought fleetingly and sadly, “If my dad were still here, he’d have helped me get a proper machine.” Instantly I recalled what I’d learned about the spiritual nature of our relationship and about God as the source of all good and goodness. Right then I felt such deep comfort at the thought that my Father, God, had always taken care of me and mine.
Minutes later, the phone rang. A woman I hadn’t heard from in over a year said that she wanted to find a home for a laptop that she wasn’t using, and she’d suddenly thought of me.
We’ve gained a solid acquaintance with divine good’s ever-presence.
But even more important for both my daughter and me than these evidences of care is the fact that we’ve gained a solid acquaintance with divine good’s ever-presence. It’s something that we have both come back to time and again when it felt as if some good could be lost.
The Bible promises, “I will receive you, and will be a Father unto you, and ye shall be my sons and daughters” (II Cor. 6:17, 18). Whatever good we think we know humanly has a divine source. Qualities such as joy, grace, perseverance, and calm go hand in hand with understanding our spiritual origin. Because we’re God’s daughters and sons, those qualities are ours to perceive and express. His good gifts are everlasting, ever-available.
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