My Father's Obituary Was A Lie

Benjamin McArthur “Benny,” 55, Pastor of Saving Grace Church of Ingleside, passed away on December 18th from heart disease.

Benny was predeceased by his parents, Thomas and Martha, and his five-year-old daughter, Jillian A. McArthur. He is survived by his wife, Brenda McArthur, and their four children, Craig, Joan, Anne, and Benjamin Jr.

He leaves behind a legacy of love and loyalty to God Almighty and his church of 3,000 parishioners. A caring, devoted husband, and dedicated father. He will be missed.

My father was really dead. I could hardly believe it. But there it was in black and white. My sister, Joan, had texted me his obituary. When I phoned her, she asked, “When is your flight? The viewing is Saturday.”

“Devoted husband? Dedicated father? How could Mom write that about him?” I fumed. “It’s just not true.”

“He’s gone Anne,” she said. “Can’t we just put it behind us?”

I searched my closet for a dress to wear to my father’s funeral. How could we all just “put it behind us?” Why should he get a pass while the rest of my family suffers? Flipping through my options, I stopped on the perfect garment. Maybe it’s time everyone finally learned the truth about who my father really was.

I hadn’t been born yet when my sister Jillian died. We never talked about her around the house. There were no pictures of her on the walls. No baby photos. No school pictures or formal graduation photographs — she hadn’t lived that long. Once, I discovered a small picture of her smiling on my mother’s lap wearing a beautiful crimson party dress when she was a toddler, tucked inside my mother’s bible. Jillian looked like me, and I’d even been given her middle name — Anne.

My family was good at burying secrets. We’d been silenced all these years, but now that he was gone, why should we continue to live in fear?

Since my flight arrived so late, I had chosen to stay in a hotel the night before the funeral. At least that’s the excuse I gave my mother. I knew that if I stayed in our childhood home, I’d lose my nerve.

That morning I took my time showering. I curled my hair. I put on makeup, just as my mother expected me to. She always kept up appearances. And then I put on the dress I’d picked out for this occasion and walked out of my hotel to a brilliant, sunny day.

I arrived a little late to the church and slipped into the back pew, intentionally avoiding the “family row” upfront. My sister spotted me immediately and because of my red dress, she knew what I was planning. I felt my resolve fade a little when my mother turned around and locked eyes with me. She was in so much pain already. How could I make this day worse for her?

My dad’s mahogany casket with gold handles sat neatly between a pair of parted curtains. Dozens of beautiful flower arrangements and a large formal picture of my father sat next to his coffin. From my position, I could see the outline of his face. My stomach knotted. Would I be able to look down into that wooden box and see him lying there? I didn’t know.

The pastor cued the choir for Amazing Grace. My dad had loved that song. Hearing it reminded me of all those Sundays watching him up there at the pulpit, so charming and charismatic, teaching us all to turn the other cheek.

Forgiveness. Is that what God expected from me today?

When the song ended, the pastor opened the floor to the packed congregation for anyone who would like to come up and speak at the podium about how Pastor Benny had changed their life.

My father’s best friend stood up first. He described how my dad had helped him turn his life around when he was younger. Because of my father’s ministry and friendship, he’d quit drinking, married, and even ran for public office. Benny, he said, had taught him how to be a better man.

My Aunt Sally got up and entertained everyone with a few humorous stories about them as kids. A few family friends and a neighbor came forward to talk about how his kindness had changed their lives.

My brother was next. He told the congregation about how my father’s influence had been why he went to seminary school. He teared up when he mentioned Jillian. My brother spoke about how our father’s passing had left a huge hole in our family that could never be filled.

The pastor gave us all one last opportunity to come forward before he made his closing remarks. I almost let the moment go by. My heart was beating in my chest. I felt as if I might pass out when I stood up on shaking legs and made my way to the front of the church.

“Forgive each other, just as God forgave you.” My father’s Sunday School lesson rang in my ears.

As I passed the family row, my mother grabbed my hand. She looked up at me, silently pleading with me before allowing her grip to soften. Then to my surprise, she gently squeezed my hand. At that moment, I knew I had her tacit approval.

I walked past my father’s casket and paused for a moment to stare down at the man who had tormented my family for so many years. I was surprised to find that I suddenly wasn’t nervous. I was no longer afraid of the monster who had caused me to tremble in fear so often as a child. Instead, I just felt a confusing mix of anger and relief that he was dead.

I smoothed out my paper on the pulpit, took a deep breath, and began reading my prepared remarks in front of my entire family, and my father’s faithful parishioners, all of whom were there to honor his memory. It’s why I was here, too, after all. But I had different memories to share.

“Most of you knew my father as a kind and giving man. Sometimes, he was. But never at home. He gave the church his best. With you, he shared his love of God, but for us, he was the Devil in real life.”

“It’d be easier to come up and here and tell you how much I loved my father and what an inspiration he had been to me. But that would be a lie. For us, he was an abusive and angry man. Over the years, we suffered his beatings and punishments in silence.”

“I don’t have any enduring stories to share with you about life with my father as a child. Instead, I can tell you about the time he gave my sister, Joan, a puppy for her birthday and then stomped it to death in front of us later. You probably don’t know that my little brother Ben can’t take his shirt off in public because he’s afraid you’d ask about the scars on his back from the metal wire my father used to whip him with.”

“Dad saved his real wrath for my mother, who passively stood by him even when he was at his worst. For years, he cheated on her. He hid it from the church but not from my mother. He enjoyed seeing her humiliation.”

“But he made our little sister Jillian pay the highest price of all. Everyone believed it was an accident and it certainly looked that way. Toddlers can fall in stairways — but Jillian didn’t fall.”

“You bought into this perfect picture of him all these years, but today, it’s time you knew the truth. He was a hateful, violent murderer, and I couldn’t allow him to be buried in peace because the burden of carrying his lies is destroying us.”

When I was done, I folded up my paper to a silent room. As I looked out over the crowd of shocked faces, I saw my mother, tears streaming down her face. In front of everyone we had ever known, I had revealed our hidden shame and brought to light the reality we had lived and kept secret all those years.

And now, I was finally crying. Not for my dead father, but for myself, my family, and Jillian, who was never able to speak up for herself and all that she had endured.

Funerals are supposed to be a celebration of life. In some ways, it was. Maybe now, unburdened, we could all finally live.