Where There's A Will, There's A Way.

A church may as well be an unfamiliar planet at this point. I clutch the pew in front of me, looking down at my father’s casket. Although we’re mere feet away, I could barely make his face out through the fog of unanswered questions between us. As parishioners and guests shake my hand, my brain utters the phrases my lips could never form.

“Thank you, you probably know him better than I do.”

“That mean’s a lot, given the fact that this is the longest we’ve shared a room together in years.”

“Thanks for coming, I questioned whether I would show as well.”

My father was a collection of riddles. A mind-game who would rather suppress truth than forgo his pride. Most young sons crave time with their dads, but my experience was quite the opposite. Whether it was his trauma from war, his survival instinct from a painful upbringing, or an overall disinterest in life, my father transformed himself into an equation that even he couldn’t solve. So after a lifetime of trying (and failing) to make a man out of this puzzle, I left and allowed his pieces to disassemble without my involvement.

So imagine my shock when hearing, upon his death, that this Rubik’s cube had yet another combination for me to crack. He left two options in his will for me. $20,000, or a final message. Why he couldn’t provide me with both? Go figure.

The estate lawyer looked at me from across the sanctuary, his words echoed in my head.

“If you so choose, you can waive your $20,000 inheritance, and receive a message that your father left instead.” My blood boiled at the ultimatum. This was a snapshot of my life with him. Never a straightforward answer, always some weird, unnecessary "catch" which leaves me lacking more than I could gain. My answer to the lawyer should be simple - write me the check.

But the curious pull continues to tug at my brain, what is IN this ridiculous message? Is it another goose chase that will leave me desolate again? Is it one final play for him to exert his power over me? The cloud in my head thickens as I stew over what this video, voice note, or letter could contain. I could barely hear the funeral over the tornado tearing through me.

Finally, I come to my senses. It’s a trick. Another useless mission that will lead to a dead end. After fighting to break through a childhood’s worth of brainwashing, it's unwise to open up and allow him to plant a new con. I’m taking the $20k; and I’ll use it to help close out this painful chapter in my life.

The service ends, and I make a pathetic b-line to the estate lawyer. “I’ve made my decision!”

The lawyer strains his eyes and refocuses, taken aback by the abrupt nature of my announcement. “Yes, which one will it be?” He says.

I scan the flowers around the room, then open my mouth to speak - but no words come out. I feel my chest pounding under my shirt - the confidence drains from me and renders me helpless. The pit of my stomach fills with doubt, and I stumble through my sentences. Before I can connect a proper thought together, my inner kid leaps up from my chest and yells “I’ll take the message!”

I freeze. What did I just say? I don't want that message - do I?

The estate lawyer reads the visible confusion in my eyes and gives me another chance. "Are you sure?" he says, becoming concerned. Yet again, the child in me answers back before I could stop him. “Yes, I'm sure.”

“Alright” he says. “Hold on.” He shuffles off as I stand numbly, shocked at what I asked for. He returns and places something in my trembling hand.

What did I just do? The tectonic plate in my throat shakes as I let out a weak "Thank you." I look down at a little book in my hand, and my soul deflates. I traded in $20k - for this!? My finger brushes past the bumps on its black, weathered spine - what if this book is empty, full of jokes, or booby-trapped with a final insult from my father? The room spins around me like a carnival ride. My head pounds with disappointment. Yet again I'm a child, hanging on to the mind games of a disinterested parent.

I open the book to the first page, and read a couple sentences with caution. My legs find a nearby pew and I lower my head, reading more intently. Then, for the first time ever, I finally see it.

His life.

Packed within the weathered pages of this old book are all of the words that my father’s lips were too naive to form. I uncover entries about his hopes, his tastes; opinions I didn’t know he had the capacity to have. I read on and experience his feelings - about me. His heartbreak over his wife who died - my mother. All of the things that he would deflect in conversation have somehow found their way into this little black book.

These entries chronicled decades of my father’s life, and as the sanctuary emptied around me Icontinued on like an addict, slowly realizing a soul-altering truth.

My father wasn’t intentionally malicious in his silence toward me - he was simply unequipped to be vulnerable.

He was a man who never once dropped his defenses. He packed his frailties into the corners of his soul, only letting this journal receive the most honest parts of his humanity. I wondered what hurts lead him to such a drastic, crippling decision. I felt my disdain melt into a new pity. My father let all of his relationships suffer, simply because he didn’t allow his suffering to be shared with anyone beyond these pages.

I felt a mourning rise in me for him that I never posessed before. The sadness wasn't even about his death, it was for all of the wasted time in his silent life.

The hours passed into evening, and the church prepared to close. I couldn’t move as I neared the end of his entries. I could see the pages become fresher, the dates more recent, and the writing becoming messier. Cancer practically leaps from the newest pages, and loneliness is almost legible between the lines. Many empty sheets abound; only broken by a doodle here, or a phone number there.

I turn to the end. The sloppy sentences on the last page are presented with a header - "Signing Off."

You could almost see the words shaking from his weak hands at this point. I strain my eyes to read his final entry as text falls in and out of the lines on the page.

“Welp, that’s been my run. That's all she wrote.”

The next words are crossed out; then a couple final sentences spill out like a tsunami straight into my soul.

“…When it comes to my son, I hope he chooses the $20k. That way he will never read my thoughts and think that I am weak.”

I hugged the book and allowed tears to fall for the both of us. No dad, for the first time I finally see you eye-to-eye.