The Letter - Chapter 3

Now that I was married I had new shoes to step into. I was no longer an adolescent, I was an adult. I was determined (with all the pragmatism and focus I could muster) that despite the inauspicious start to it, I would make my marriage successful. My in-laws had loudly declared it wouldn’t last 6 months. I was appalled and confused by that declaration but despite their dire predictions, I decided I would be the best wife out there. No...the best CHRISTIAN wife out there. That kind of wife had all sorts of extra stuff to achieve to not only ensure a good marriage, but foster a godly husband and faithful children. All whilst milling her own flour, spinning her own wool, and taking her eggs to market to exchange for a bolt of pretty cotton to fashion herself a frock that will make her husband swoon.

Oh - sorry, do I sound a bit...um...facetious? I guess it felt like that at times, but in all seriousness, and literally, against all odds, I dived into being a good wife - housekeeper extraordinaire, chef d’cuisine on pennies a day, and decorating magician (making something out of nothing). I did all the things I was supposed to do (whether they were 5, 10 or 12 steps) to create the perfect marriage. 

Several years later I had my first child. Followed by two more. And I was just as focused and determined to be the best mother, raising the most talented, intelligent and prolific children ever born. (OK - they might argue that I achieved that...) Grandad helped us buy our first, and second home. The first was a trailer. The second an actual house. A fixer-upper for sure. John decided he wanted to start a business so of course, I supported him (that’s what a good wife does to further her good marriage) and struggled for years on very little to no income. When my youngest child was 18 months old, John decided he was done with his (unsuccessful) business and that he wanted to go into camp ministry. The best place to do this? Saskatchewan. I know I was born there, but I had no desire to move back. John however, had lived his formative years in Moose Jaw and could not wait to go. Granny had passed away that spring from a massive coronary and although Grandad was now alone, John convinced me that this was the plan we should move forward with - after all, he promised me, it would only be for four years. So we sold virtually everything we had and moved to Saskatchewan to become married students at Briercrest Bible College.  

To say my re-entry back into Saskatchewan was less than thrilling would be an understatement. We arrived on Labour Day weekend in 1988 - a very hot day at the end of summer, which was also the tail end of two year drought. I literally went from lush thick green forest, with vibrant colour as far as the eye could see, to stick and stubble and dirt. 

Lots and lots of dirt. 

I remember the first gathering of married students in the field where we were to have a get-to-know-you BBQ. I sat in a lawn chair, my 3 year old daughter in my lap, completely and utterly miserable.  

“I want to go home,” she wept into my ear.  

“I do too,” I whispered back.  

Many years later, a friend from Briercrest told me - the picture of me and my daughter, looking utterly forlorn in the middle of that dried up field - was emblazoned on his memory. 

Nevertheless, with the same tenacity that I attacked being a good wife and mother, I poured out on our new life as married students with no income, no friends, and no family in the middle of the bald prairie. Four years turned into 10. John only finished one year of college before being hired by the school in their media department. My kids entered elementary school, made friends and finally we bought another house. We were now living the high life. You know, the kind with an income? (Small) pay-cheque to (small) pay-cheque I did what I always did - made a home out of very few resources. I was fully involved in various ministries, and even took classes myself, earning a (surprise) master’s degree. I now had letters after my name.    

I was a very busy woman during those years. However, with the change in locale from BC to SK, I became all too aware that this Dad I had wondered about all my life was actually just a couple hours away. Our trips west on the Trans Canada Highway took us by Gull Lake and Maple Creek where I had started my life and where my dad lived. Our trips to Cypress Hills Provincial Park took us right by Gull Lake and through Maple Creek. This father of mine...well... he suddenly seemed within reach. In fact, I wondered if he and I had even crossed paths, unbeknownst to either of us.  

In 2001 when I turned 30, with the help of a friend and counsellor, I decided that I needed to address the issues of my absent father. In particular, the impact my fatherlessness had on me and how it affected my sense of who I was. How it formed and impacted my relationships with men - and frankly, with God. Given that I also had a very contentious and emotionally/mentally abusive relationship with my father-in-law and mother-in-law, my sense of security in this world was also a factor. So after much consultation with my counsellor I wrote a letter to my dad. Much harder than you would imagine.  It had to be the right balance of honesty without judgement. I didn’t want to slam a door - I wanted to open one. And in good counsellor fashion, it was to be written from the little girl that had never experienced the love and care from her Daddy. My counsellor and I finally agreed on a draft and it hit the mail.  

And I waited. Nervously.  Expectantly.  Fearfully.

Weeks.  A month.  Then two.  Three. 

And then? I finally received an envelope in the mail. It was from HIM. Yes, I was in shock when it came. I shook as I opened the envelope not knowing what to expect. On two pages of lined paper, I saw, for the first time, what my father’s handwriting looked like. A soft, neat, measured slant. I was terrified of what he might have to say, but I sat down and read then re-read the first ever words from my father.  

“July 7, 1991

Dear Annette

Thank you for having the courage to write to me. I carried your letter in my shirt pocket for days - reading it over and over again. I am happy that you wrote to me and I regret I have taken so long to reply to you.

I have wanted to try to contact you many times - but I was always afraid to.  Afraid that you would be angry with me, that you would reject me, or that I would just open up old wounds for you that may have long since healed.  

It makes me happy to learn that you are well and happy and that you have a fine family of your own. I do have some difficulty imagining that you are 30 years old. I am not good at accepting that time goes by so quickly.  

Your letter says many things that I don’t know how to respond to. So many things were handled badly for so many years and perhaps it is time to put them all aside - not to try to make right what was done wrong - because I’m not sure that is possible - but to try to make a new start.

I do have two other daughters. They are 17 and 13 years of age. They do not know about you but my wife has known about you since before we were married.

Annette, I would like to see you if you wish it so. It seems incredible that you have lived so close for 3 years now. It will be hard for me to face you I know but I am willing to try. If you wish I could come to Caronport sometime this summer. I could come by myself or bring my wife...whichever suits you best. You could write and let me know. If you wish to make some other arrangement you could also let me know that. 

I will look forward to hearing from you.  

Love Don.”

I was speechless and could not believe the words I was reading. I was overjoyed he had written back and that he had not rejected me. In fact, he wanted to meet me. If that was what I wished. Um....that was a big YES! I replied quickly with another letter and said he could contact me by phone or mail - whatever worked best for him. I was sensitive to the fact that he had other children so I left it in his court to designate the time and place. I mailed the second letter to him with great anticipation.

And then...silence.  

Not just a month or two of silence - but years of it. 

I never heard from him again. 

Excited anticipation turned slowly into sad and confused disappointment that would finally be replaced by harsh rejection. Clearly I did not matter to him. As time continued to pass, John pressured me to call him or write another letter. But I couldn’t. It was my belief that I had opened the door but my father had to step through it. If he loved me, and if he meant what he said, he would respond. And he did not.  

    

Photo Credit:  Annette Moore 2017