The proof copy of my dad’s memoir arrived today: Can You See God in This Picture?: A Letter to My Sons Making Sense of 25 Years as a Pastor.

Because I’m an author and publisher, my father asked me to read through and edit the manuscript, written as a letter to me and my two brothers. Naturally, I knew many of the stories already. I knew he had started out pastoring a church in West Cape May, New Jersey, before I was born and that we had moved to Western Pennsylvania when I was very young. I remembered him refinishing our upright piano in the basement, yelling at me to stay out because it was dangerous, and then ending up in the hospital from breathing the fumes because he wasn’t using proper safety protocol. And I remember, even more vividly and emotionally than he, leaving tiny Burgettstown, PA, and moving 76 miles away to Sharpsville, and then again 588 miles more into the Boston area.

Reading his book, however, what captivated me and surprised me was all that I did not know, even about experiences I myself had lived through.

• I did not know that when we had moved from New Jersey to the Pittsburgh area, he had made the decision unilaterally, in order to pursue his dream, without first discussing it with my mother! Maybe you’re tsk-tsking him about that, but you don’t know Dad. I do. And I wouldn’t believe it had he not said it himself, written it down in his own words. I still don’t know if I believe it to be true.

• I knew my grandfather had died before I was even born. What I didn’t know was how close he and Dad were, and how traumatic an experience his passing had been to Dad.

• When he refinished the piano, I didn’t know that he was doing it to escape depression. I didn’t know he was immersing himself in this almost useless project because of the stress he was under. I didn’t know he had been planning to leave us in the morning and make an unannounced trip back to New Jersey. I didn’t know that his ending up in the hospital was God’s way of keeping him here with us and showing him how important we were to him.

• I knew first-hand that most churches are filled more with politics than with nice people who love Jesus. What I never really understood was how poorly Dad dealt with conflict. He very much reminds me of a fictional character, Mira, I created for my novelette series. She does things for many of the same reasons he does. I created Mira before I understood this about my own father, and reading his memoir switched on a lightswitch somewhere in my heart. Like, suddenly, I understood.

• As I said, I remember leaving Burgettstown. That was an emotionally difficult time in my life. What I didn’t know was how difficult it was for Dad, too. Nor did I really understand why he left a friendly, thriving church to become General Secretary/Treasurer of the denomination. Back then, I didn’t really think about the reason. And today, in retrospect, “It’s just time to move on” doesn’t seem like a good enough reason. “I still had a lot to learn” does, however.

What your kids don’t know…

As a kid, there was so much about my father I didn’t know. Even into adulthood, we’ve continued to be a close family. And still there were so many things I didn’t know, so many things he had never found the words to tell me.

Are there things about me that my kids don’t know? And should they know them?

Would I have been better off had I known back then what Dad was going through?

On the one hand, childhood is a time for running and playing, free from the burdens of adult life. We parents protect our children from concerns they can’t do anything about, because that would just make them worry. We grups are crotchety, not because we’re old, but because we care.

On the other hand, childhood is a learning time, and I’d like to think kids can absorb what happens to their parents without becoming overwhelmed by it. As long as your child knows that you love her, she can probably take a lot more than you give her credit for. And telling her and showing her that you love her is probably just as good for you as it is for her. Besides, maybe they have a right to know what’s wrong with their daddy.

But letting our children in on these things requires vulnerability. And that’s what I saw most in my dad’s memoir, vulnerability. He told me that of all the people he mentions in the memoir, no one really comes out looking bad, except for him. After reading it, I agree. But as a writer, let me tell you, vulnerability is where passion and poignancy come from.

And I’m thinking now that maybe it’s also where wisdom comes from. What if you had to reach down into your soul and explain to your kids why you quit your job to pursue your dream? Or why you work at a job that keeps you away from them? I’m not saying that either A or B is the right or wrong choice. I’m only asking: What if I had to reach down deep into my soul and explain my choices to my kids? What wisdom would I end up imparting to them?

I’m not sure I know the answers. But I do know, I’m glad my dad imparted that wisdom to me before he ran out of time, because it’s at least nice to know that he didn’t know what he was doing back then any better than I do now.

-TimK