Like a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.
Psalm 103:13
I have such a great and tenderhearted father...
Psalm 103:13
I have such a great and tenderhearted father...
I don’t think there is a dad like mine throughout the entire world. There are days, even at this moment, that I miss my father so much I can actually feel an ache in my heart.
I thank the Lord that, with all the bad things I have done in the past, and all my failings and mistakes, my dad still loves me. He has stuck with me.
To be honest, I put my father through hell. I’m not only referring to the acts which caused me to come to prison, as horrible as these things were, but ever since I was a young child, I had a wild and rebellious streak.
My parents, just simple middle class Jewish folks, poured so much love into my life. My father had to struggle to make a living, working in a little neighborhood hardware store, six days a week, ten hours per day. He had to stand up for hours and would come home exhausted. He worked hard and was always honest in his dealings with others. My dad was always so mild-mannered. I don't believe I ever saw him in an argument. Everybody liked my father.
But dumb me, I just did not appreciate him. Looking back, not only did I have my behavioral and disciplinary problems, I had many emotional problems too.
All of these things combined, caused my parents so much grief. I was living in my own world. I shunned my parents and would go for days without even speaking to them. And we lived in a small three-room apartment in a Bronx, New York, tenement, where it was difficult to try to avoid someone.
However, there were good times also. I remember going to the school yard across the street from our apartment building where my dad and I would sometimes play catch with a softball. He would fix my bike when he could. I remember playing Monopoly with my parents on an occasional Sunday afternoon.
We had our fun times when my dad would take me bowling, or he would take me out for ice cream on those hot summer nights. There was a local candy store where we went for ice cream cones, and sometimes we went to Carvel for custard sundaes.
But then there would be those dark times, when I retreated far into myself. I would flee from my parents. I was filled with self-destructive thoughts, and I also struggled with depression. I remember feeling that I was better off dead, that I should die.
There were other times when I was out of control. My Dad believed in discipline, and I got my share of well-deserved spankings. But no matter how my father tried to reach me or teach me, this tremendously destructive force would overtake me.
Furthermore, there were times when I put myself in total isolation. I would lock myself in my room, or I would hide in the closet or under my bed for hours. Other times, my dad would yell at me to get off the window ledge or off the fire escape. We lived on the sixth floor.
As much as my parents cared, it was beyond their ability to understand that I was thinking of throwing myself down to the ground below. They could not have comprehended my suicidal thoughts, or even why I would be depressed. It was not their fault. I never shared my feelings with them. My dad would plead with me to open up to him, but I never really did.
Yet in spite of all this, my dad hung in there. He tried his best to communicate, and his love for me never stopped. I remember when he took me to my first "night game" at Yankee Stadium. I don't remember the year, however. I had been to day games before. But a night game was something special for me.
And since I was so emotionally troubled at times, I had plenty of problems in school. I was very bad at math, especially fractions. My Dad tutored me right at the kitchen table. He really pushed me to buckle down and learn because I was so undisciplined at that stage of my life. Without him, I never would have graduated.
Furthermore, my father was with me through my struggles. I remember the times I saw him breakdown and cry when I was cruel to him. I remember how he struggled trying to care for me when my mother got cancer in 1967, and she ended up in the hospital. She would die in this year, too.
So then, it was just me and my dad. He had to work all those hours. I ended up spending a lot of time alone in our little apartment. Actually, I didn't stay home all that much because, by this time, at age fourteen, I was staying out late at night and was running with a bad crowd. Of course, this only served to cause him more grief. But I was only into myself back then. I was doing many self-destructive things, and I was immature. I started hanging out on the rooftops with junkies, and also on the street corners with all my friends. Most of the guys who were my age were getting drunk on beer several nights a week.
I know my dad still remembers the first time I came home drunk and was puking all over the bathroom floor, missing the toilet. He was very upset with me. Yet no matter how much be begged me to stay home and stay off the streets, I was set in my rebellious ways and would not listen to him.
However, my dad and I moved to another neighborhood which was safer, the "Co-op City" section of the Bronx. I still had my inner struggles and depressions. But I was doing better emotionally.
Yet, through all my ups and downs, my great dad was always trying hard to encourage me. He was patient with my ever-changing moods. Somehow, he managed to put up with my odd ways.
Today I have a lot of guilt seeing how I mistreated him. I know he deserved better than me for a son. I truly believe this. Nevertheless, I can truly thank God Almighty for the father I have. Like my heavenly Father, my dad’s love has been unconditional. He has loved me when I was good and also when I was bad. All these years later my father has stuck by me. Only true love could manage this.
My Dad still writes me every month, and I write back. Sometimes we speak on the telephone. I have to count my blessings! But I do know, regrettably, that because I am here in prison, I will never get to make up the lost years. He’s in his nineties now. I don't know when I will ever see him again, face to face. However, I can carry my dad's love in my heart, and this is good enough. "Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you!"
D.B.
I thank the Lord that, with all the bad things I have done in the past, and all my failings and mistakes, my dad still loves me. He has stuck with me.
To be honest, I put my father through hell. I’m not only referring to the acts which caused me to come to prison, as horrible as these things were, but ever since I was a young child, I had a wild and rebellious streak.
My parents, just simple middle class Jewish folks, poured so much love into my life. My father had to struggle to make a living, working in a little neighborhood hardware store, six days a week, ten hours per day. He had to stand up for hours and would come home exhausted. He worked hard and was always honest in his dealings with others. My dad was always so mild-mannered. I don't believe I ever saw him in an argument. Everybody liked my father.
But dumb me, I just did not appreciate him. Looking back, not only did I have my behavioral and disciplinary problems, I had many emotional problems too.
All of these things combined, caused my parents so much grief. I was living in my own world. I shunned my parents and would go for days without even speaking to them. And we lived in a small three-room apartment in a Bronx, New York, tenement, where it was difficult to try to avoid someone.
However, there were good times also. I remember going to the school yard across the street from our apartment building where my dad and I would sometimes play catch with a softball. He would fix my bike when he could. I remember playing Monopoly with my parents on an occasional Sunday afternoon.
We had our fun times when my dad would take me bowling, or he would take me out for ice cream on those hot summer nights. There was a local candy store where we went for ice cream cones, and sometimes we went to Carvel for custard sundaes.
But then there would be those dark times, when I retreated far into myself. I would flee from my parents. I was filled with self-destructive thoughts, and I also struggled with depression. I remember feeling that I was better off dead, that I should die.
There were other times when I was out of control. My Dad believed in discipline, and I got my share of well-deserved spankings. But no matter how my father tried to reach me or teach me, this tremendously destructive force would overtake me.
Furthermore, there were times when I put myself in total isolation. I would lock myself in my room, or I would hide in the closet or under my bed for hours. Other times, my dad would yell at me to get off the window ledge or off the fire escape. We lived on the sixth floor.
As much as my parents cared, it was beyond their ability to understand that I was thinking of throwing myself down to the ground below. They could not have comprehended my suicidal thoughts, or even why I would be depressed. It was not their fault. I never shared my feelings with them. My dad would plead with me to open up to him, but I never really did.
Yet in spite of all this, my dad hung in there. He tried his best to communicate, and his love for me never stopped. I remember when he took me to my first "night game" at Yankee Stadium. I don't remember the year, however. I had been to day games before. But a night game was something special for me.
And since I was so emotionally troubled at times, I had plenty of problems in school. I was very bad at math, especially fractions. My Dad tutored me right at the kitchen table. He really pushed me to buckle down and learn because I was so undisciplined at that stage of my life. Without him, I never would have graduated.
Furthermore, my father was with me through my struggles. I remember the times I saw him breakdown and cry when I was cruel to him. I remember how he struggled trying to care for me when my mother got cancer in 1967, and she ended up in the hospital. She would die in this year, too.
So then, it was just me and my dad. He had to work all those hours. I ended up spending a lot of time alone in our little apartment. Actually, I didn't stay home all that much because, by this time, at age fourteen, I was staying out late at night and was running with a bad crowd. Of course, this only served to cause him more grief. But I was only into myself back then. I was doing many self-destructive things, and I was immature. I started hanging out on the rooftops with junkies, and also on the street corners with all my friends. Most of the guys who were my age were getting drunk on beer several nights a week.
I know my dad still remembers the first time I came home drunk and was puking all over the bathroom floor, missing the toilet. He was very upset with me. Yet no matter how much be begged me to stay home and stay off the streets, I was set in my rebellious ways and would not listen to him.
However, my dad and I moved to another neighborhood which was safer, the "Co-op City" section of the Bronx. I still had my inner struggles and depressions. But I was doing better emotionally.
Yet, through all my ups and downs, my great dad was always trying hard to encourage me. He was patient with my ever-changing moods. Somehow, he managed to put up with my odd ways.
Today I have a lot of guilt seeing how I mistreated him. I know he deserved better than me for a son. I truly believe this. Nevertheless, I can truly thank God Almighty for the father I have. Like my heavenly Father, my dad’s love has been unconditional. He has loved me when I was good and also when I was bad. All these years later my father has stuck by me. Only true love could manage this.
My Dad still writes me every month, and I write back. Sometimes we speak on the telephone. I have to count my blessings! But I do know, regrettably, that because I am here in prison, I will never get to make up the lost years. He’s in his nineties now. I don't know when I will ever see him again, face to face. However, I can carry my dad's love in my heart, and this is good enough. "Happy Father's Day, Dad. I love you!"
D.B.