March 19, 2025 • 10 mins
On this episode of Our American Stories, our regular contributor from Kodiak Island in Alaska, Leslie Leyland Fields, shares the story of the heart-breaking relationship between her and her father...and it's not what you'd expect.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:10):
And we returned to our American stories. Up next, another
story from our regular contributor from Kodiak Island in Alaska,
Leslie Leyland Fields Today. Leslie shares a deeply personal story
entitled forgiving My Worthless Father, Take it Away, Leslie.
Speaker 2 (00:38):
I never called my father worthless. That was his own
word for himself. But in a way he was right.
I was on the phone with him. He had had
a stroke. I told him I was flying down to
(00:59):
see him from my home in Alaska to a rehab
facility in Florida. I'll be seeing you in about three weeks,
I said to Tim. I spoke loudly and tried to
make my voice cheerful, to infuse some kind of joy
into his life. And that's what he said it I'm
(01:21):
not worth it. Of course you're worth it, I answered
back instantly. But you know, in some ways he wasn't wrong,
and the whole human balances of justice and fairness. He
(01:44):
hadn't done anything to deserve this kind of sacrifice and
attention from his children. He couldn't or wouldn't hold a job,
which left us deeply impoverished and ashamed. Throughout our job wildhood,
our food was sparse. Our homemade clothes were worn out.
(02:06):
We got one pair of shoes a year. All that,
but even more than that, it didn't seem to be
able to form relationships, and he treated us as children,
as though we were invisible. And soon after we grew
up and left our house, my parents divorced. He moved
to Florida to live by himself, thousands of miles from
(02:28):
all of us, and I was glad. Over the next
thirty years, I saw my father maybe three times, and
it was always me traveling thousands of miles to see him.
He would never have come to see me, and every
time I flew down, I went needy and hopeful that
(02:51):
he would see me, expressed interest in me, show some
kind of affirmation, but it never came. He would barely
speak to me, and when he did sometimes he just
ridiculed my faith. He claimed to be an atheist. The
last time I saw him, I decided I'm done. I'm
(03:15):
never going back. But then he had a stroke. He
was maybe eighty four then, and in spite of my vow,
I did go back. I flew down from Kodiak to
be with him, just the two of us. He was
(03:41):
in a rehab facility by that. So I flew into Orlando,
rented a car, drove to the facility, my stomach fluttering,
wondering who I would find, what would be left. The
last time I saw him, he had all his faculty. Yeah,
he walked painfully, slowly with the walker, but he was upright, incogent,
(04:07):
even though I never said very much. But that was normal,
and I knew something was wrong with him even as
a child, But it took me many years to find
the name for his detachment, his inability to love others,
even his own children. This day I walked through the
(04:28):
automatic doors of the rehab facility. I stopped at the
front desk, found his room number, and I started down
the hallway so slowly, just inching down, dreading what was next.
I found his room that I peered around the doorway.
(04:52):
It was a room for two. There was one figure
I could see, lying curled on the bed, and then
through a half open curtain, I could see another man
in a wheelchair. So I walked in trembling. It was
my father on the bed. He was lying on his side,
curled knees to chest. He was wearing shorts, his jaw
(05:16):
hung open. I could see that all his teeth were gone.
Now he was much thinner than the last time I
saw him, but his legs were still solid and muscular.
But what do I do? What do I know about this?
Visiting the sick, the elderly, a father. I felt like
I was supposed to know, but I didn't. He was sleeping.
(05:40):
I had come five thousand miles and my time was short.
I didn't want to wait. I inched closer to the bed,
deciding then I would wake him if I could. So
I touched his shoulder through his thin shirt and watched
his face. I held my fingers there for a moment,
and he blinked. Then his eyes opened. He was looking
(06:03):
directly at me, without moving his head, and when he
saw me, his eyes filled with tears, and still looking
right at me, he began to weep, his whole body
shuddering as he sobbed, his head still lying on his hands,
I froze. I'd never seen my father weep or even
(06:26):
teary are sad. He seldom showed any emotion. I felt
torn in half. My own face crumpled, and I kept
my hand on his shoulder to comfort his racking body.
And there we were, both shaking in silent sobs. I
(06:46):
knew he couldn't speak or name all the sorrows that
shook him, but it seemed to me that we wept
for his long, sad life, for his breaking body, his
tangled mind, and a tongue that was now nearly stilled.
And I cried that I had not seen him sooner.
(07:09):
I cried for thirty years of absence from his life.
We were crying for all that was lost to us both.
And even in that moment, I realized the stroke had
rendered him more fully human than I'd ever seen him.
And in that moment, I saw my father through eyes
(07:31):
of mercy and kindness, and I was sad as well.
Did it really take a stroke to render him worthy
of compassion? The next day I was gently pushing his
wheelchair down the hall. I shared meals with him, watched
(07:54):
TV with him in his room, read to him, And
through all of that, I couldn't shake the injustice and
inequity of it. That every gift in kindness I gave
to him he had never shown to me. Had something
else was stronger a desire to forgive. I could see
(08:21):
him through eyes of compassion now, rather than through my
own needs as a daughter. A few days later, I
had to leave and return home. But after that visit,
I began to pray for him, to call him regularly,
and to send him letters and even gifts. We often
(08:43):
think that the cost of forgiving is too high, but
we don't consider the cost of not forgiving. I found
relief in releasing his debts against me, especially as I
realized that my father could not pay what he owed me,
nor can many parents. You can't shake money or love
(09:07):
out of someone who has bankrupt themselves, and I found
the yoke of forgiveness was lighter than the yoke of hurt.
And you know what happened. That love came back. One
day he called me amazing on one of my birthdays.
(09:32):
He called me when I came to visit. He didn't
want me to leave. Forgiving my father changed me, and
one forgiveness has led to others and to my own
apologies to those I know I have hurt, and all
of this is moving me toward the person I want
(09:55):
to be. My father was touched as well, and in
the last two years of his life, my worthless father
was surrounded and blessed by the very ones he had harmed.
And I believe that he felt loved, perhaps for the
first time. Even I know we cannot heal all the
(10:17):
broken families of the world, but we can begin here
with ourselves and our own families. With God's forgiveness and love,
anything is possible.
Speaker 1 (10:35):
The story of Leslie leyland Field and her father a
love story in the end. Here on our American stories,
And we returned to our American stories. Up next, another
story from our regular contributor from Kodiak Island in Alaska,
Leslie Leyland Fields Today. Leslie shares a deeply personal story
entitled forgiving My Worthless Father, Take it Away, Leslie.
Speaker 2 (00:38):
I never called my father worthless. That was his own
word for himself. But in a way he was right.
I was on the phone with him. He had had
a stroke. I told him I was flying down to
(00:59):
see him from my home in Alaska to a rehab
facility in Florida. I'll be seeing you in about three weeks,
I said to Tim. I spoke loudly and tried to
make my voice cheerful, to infuse some kind of joy
into his life. And that's what he said it I'm
(01:21):
not worth it. Of course you're worth it, I answered
back instantly. But you know, in some ways he wasn't wrong,
and the whole human balances of justice and fairness. He
(01:44):
hadn't done anything to deserve this kind of sacrifice and
attention from his children. He couldn't or wouldn't hold a job,
which left us deeply impoverished and ashamed. Throughout our job wildhood,
our food was sparse. Our homemade clothes were worn out.
(02:06):
We got one pair of shoes a year. All that,
but even more than that, it didn't seem to be
able to form relationships, and he treated us as children,
as though we were invisible. And soon after we grew
up and left our house, my parents divorced. He moved
to Florida to live by himself, thousands of miles from
(02:28):
all of us, and I was glad. Over the next
thirty years, I saw my father maybe three times, and
it was always me traveling thousands of miles to see him.
He would never have come to see me, and every
time I flew down, I went needy and hopeful that
(02:51):
he would see me, expressed interest in me, show some
kind of affirmation, but it never came. He would barely
speak to me, and when he did sometimes he just
ridiculed my faith. He claimed to be an atheist. The
last time I saw him, I decided I'm done. I'm
(03:15):
never going back. But then he had a stroke. He
was maybe eighty four then, and in spite of my vow,
I did go back. I flew down from Kodiak to
be with him, just the two of us. He was
(03:41):
in a rehab facility by that. So I flew into Orlando,
rented a car, drove to the facility, my stomach fluttering,
wondering who I would find, what would be left. The
last time I saw him, he had all his faculty. Yeah,
he walked painfully, slowly with the walker, but he was upright, incogent,
(04:07):
even though I never said very much. But that was normal,
and I knew something was wrong with him even as
a child, But it took me many years to find
the name for his detachment, his inability to love others,
even his own children. This day I walked through the
(04:28):
automatic doors of the rehab facility. I stopped at the
front desk, found his room number, and I started down
the hallway so slowly, just inching down, dreading what was next.
I found his room that I peered around the doorway.
(04:52):
It was a room for two. There was one figure
I could see, lying curled on the bed, and then
through a half open curtain, I could see another man
in a wheelchair. So I walked in trembling. It was
my father on the bed. He was lying on his side,
curled knees to chest. He was wearing shorts, his jaw
(05:16):
hung open. I could see that all his teeth were gone.
Now he was much thinner than the last time I
saw him, but his legs were still solid and muscular.
But what do I do? What do I know about this?
Visiting the sick, the elderly, a father. I felt like
I was supposed to know, but I didn't. He was sleeping.
(05:40):
I had come five thousand miles and my time was short.
I didn't want to wait. I inched closer to the bed,
deciding then I would wake him if I could. So
I touched his shoulder through his thin shirt and watched
his face. I held my fingers there for a moment,
and he blinked. Then his eyes opened. He was looking
(06:03):
directly at me, without moving his head, and when he
saw me, his eyes filled with tears, and still looking
right at me, he began to weep, his whole body
shuddering as he sobbed, his head still lying on his hands,
I froze. I'd never seen my father weep or even
(06:26):
teary are sad. He seldom showed any emotion. I felt
torn in half. My own face crumpled, and I kept
my hand on his shoulder to comfort his racking body.
And there we were, both shaking in silent sobs. I
(06:46):
knew he couldn't speak or name all the sorrows that
shook him, but it seemed to me that we wept
for his long, sad life, for his breaking body, his
tangled mind, and a tongue that was now nearly stilled.
And I cried that I had not seen him sooner.
(07:09):
I cried for thirty years of absence from his life.
We were crying for all that was lost to us both.
And even in that moment, I realized the stroke had
rendered him more fully human than I'd ever seen him.
And in that moment, I saw my father through eyes
(07:31):
of mercy and kindness, and I was sad as well.
Did it really take a stroke to render him worthy
of compassion? The next day I was gently pushing his
wheelchair down the hall. I shared meals with him, watched
(07:54):
TV with him in his room, read to him, And
through all of that, I couldn't shake the injustice and
inequity of it. That every gift in kindness I gave
to him he had never shown to me. Had something
else was stronger a desire to forgive. I could see
(08:21):
him through eyes of compassion now, rather than through my
own needs as a daughter. A few days later, I
had to leave and return home. But after that visit,
I began to pray for him, to call him regularly,
and to send him letters and even gifts. We often
(08:43):
think that the cost of forgiving is too high, but
we don't consider the cost of not forgiving. I found
relief in releasing his debts against me, especially as I
realized that my father could not pay what he owed me,
nor can many parents. You can't shake money or love
(09:07):
out of someone who has bankrupt themselves, and I found
the yoke of forgiveness was lighter than the yoke of hurt.
And you know what happened. That love came back. One
day he called me amazing on one of my birthdays.
(09:32):
He called me when I came to visit. He didn't
want me to leave. Forgiving my father changed me, and
one forgiveness has led to others and to my own
apologies to those I know I have hurt, and all
of this is moving me toward the person I want
(09:55):
to be. My father was touched as well, and in
the last two years of his life, my worthless father
was surrounded and blessed by the very ones he had harmed.
And I believe that he felt loved, perhaps for the
first time. Even I know we cannot heal all the
(10:17):
broken families of the world, but we can begin here
with ourselves and our own families. With God's forgiveness and love,
anything is possible.
Speaker 1 (10:35):
The story of Leslie leyland Field and her father a
love story in the end. Here on our American stories,
Host
Lee Habeeb
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