The Best Friend I Never Had

I never got to experience my father as a friend. As an adult, a man, an equal.

Recently, I sat in a restaurant and watched as two men conversed at another table, both clearly enjoying each other’s company. One man appeared to be in his mid-to-late thirties, the other much older. The older man did most of the talking, while the younger listened. I had no idea what they were talking about, yet as they continued, I felt myself sucked into the scene. The younger man asked a question; the older man appeared to answer and explain. Occasionally they would chuckle and smile. The older man’s face would become serious as he spoke at length and the younger man sat silently, taking in the words. Soon, the server came and brought a bill. The two pretended to fight over it. They both stood, put on their coats, hugged each other, and walked out. Though I had no proof, I also had no doubt: these two grown men were father and son.

I don’t have many legitimate complaints in life. Like everyone else, I’ve had my share of highs and lows, mountaintops and valleys, swings and misses. “Unfair” is my least favorite word in the English language. Sure, I’ve screamed foul and thrown the challenge flag a time or two, only to be filled with anger and despair as the call on the field inevitably stood. Yet I also realize I’ve had a few big plays go my way when deep inside I knew-I could dance in the end zone like an idiot all I wanted, but I’d just gotten away with murder.

The heart my Maker has given me is now forty-seven years old, and inside it exists a sad, empty hole. It is a void which I am unable to fill on my own, yet desperately wish I could. For over twenty years I have unsuccessfully attempted to repair it, yet no matter what I do, where I go, who I meet, which books I read or what songs I sing, it remains. That hole has simply become a part of me now, who I am and what I am about.

I never really got to experience my own father as a friend. As an adult, a man, an equal so to speak. I missed out on that good part, and it hurts.

At this point in my life, I could sure use it.

It’s a special relationship that cannot be enjoyed as a child or when growing up. The roles are that way by design. He is taller. He is wiser. He can drive and you cannot. You worry incessantly about how you look in front of your friends, while he wears brown pants with white socks in front of the neighbors and couldn’t care less. He tells really bad jokes.

My father died when I was twenty-five. We had just begun to get to know each other. For the first fifteen years of my life, I was his boy and he was my main man. I jumped into his old pick up truck every Saturday morning and he took me downtown to the job sight. He never once missed a single practice or game. When the strange transformation of boy-to-young man took place, it was he who took me to the men’s store and helped me pick out my first sport’s jacket and neck tie. And then, for the next four or five years, I turned into a Grade A knucklehead and commenced to turning his life into a living hell. Yet, as much as I’m sure he wanted to give up on me, he never did. By the grace of God I found my way, finally grew up, and we both found our peace.

One afternoon, I walked into the living room where he was sitting, smiled and stuck out my hand, and announced, “Well, I’m gonna go get married now!”

He smiled back, took my hand and shook it, and replied, “Well, okay!”

He had gone out the week before all by himself and bought a nice suit for the event. My dad never wore a suit, but for his boy, he did that day.

Less than three years later, he would be buried in that same suit.

As soon as our friendship had started, it was gone.

This isn’t about regrets. This isn’t about feeling cheated. As I said before, I hate the word “unfair,” for how many sons and daughters go through their life never knowing their father, never getting the chance to play catch or go camping or taught to fish by a big, tall man with a funny mustache who thinks brown is a good color and tells stale jokes? But I have two sons of my own, now. I have a wife, a house, a mortgage and a stalled career that keeps me up nights worrying about my future, our future. I have bones that are beginning to creek and arthritis in my thumbs and gray hair, way too much gray hair. I have children asking tough questions and automobiles that make sounds I don’t understand and a Bradford Pear tree out back that keeps turning brown on one side and a neighbor that won’t keep her cats and dogs and goats out of my yard…

I have doubts. I question my worth and value. I wonder if I’m being the husband my wife wants and the father my kids need. I stumble. I fall. I pick myself up time and time again and as I’m wiping the dust off of my hands and knees for the umpteenth time, I find myself more and more looking up, hoping to find the face of my Dad. Oh, how I long to hear his words, to hear him tell me how he’s been there before, that he knows how it feels. I ache to be able to look into his eyes, eyes with a look of understanding not as a man would look down at a child, but at the same level, as a man. As an equal. As a friend.

One of my best friends in life recently asked his father, “What is the one place you’ve never been that you’ve always dreamed of visiting?” When his dad answered, “Wyoming,” my friend bought the tickets, packed the bags, and they went, just the two of them. His reasons for doing this were not lost on me.

Another true and lifelong friend, who had his own troubled relationship with his father growing up but has in adulthood found equal ground, frequently plans father/son trips. His dad is in his sunset years, and my friend is quick to point out that the trips are, even at this late stage in life, as much, maybe more about healing as they are bonding.

I asked him what it’s like to still have that special time.

“What’s special about the relationship I have now with my dad is he’s more honest-with himself and with me-about his shortcomings and his regrets. He’s trying to make peace with that.”

There is an ancient proverb, attributed to the famous philosopher Unknown, that says:

“When a father gives to his son, both laugh. When a son gives to his father, both cry.”

I dream about him a lot. Private, quiet conversations over lunch that have nothing to do with what I have accomplished or what I own. Instead, we speak of life. The Dallas Cowboys. The President. Growing vegetables. Growing families. We trade stale jokes.

Any mistakes we made earlier in life are forgotten. We are both adults, now, and the playing field is equal. We learn from each other. We take pride in each other. We can be honest with each other. I take comfort in his voice, and he takes comfort in mine.

I ask him a serious question. He understands, and gives me his best answer.

The bill comes, and we pretend to fight over it.

Oh, that hole in my heart.