The Tank Man's Son (34 page)

I had become who I needed to become for the saving of many lives
 
—not the least of which was my own. Dad had been the unwitting agent of my remaking, from the boy I was into a father with his own two sons and into Papa for the children at the orphanage.

I looked at Dad. He seemed frozen in the back row. He was too far away for me to read any nuances in his expression. The silence felt like it wanted to stretch forever, and part of me wanted to let it. But I had more to say. I raised my arm and pointed directly at him.

“I want you to know something, Dad. For all that happened, you’re still my dad, and I still love you.”

I didn’t say that because I was speaking in a church or because I was trying to create a fairy-tale ending to my life. I said it because it was true. In a way that made no sense apart from grace, it was true. I loved my father.

I still couldn’t read his expression, but I could see the overhead lights glinting off the tears on his cheeks, as I knew they were from mine.

I sensed the pastor was at my side. When had he arrived? How long had I been standing there looking at my father? I stepped away from the microphone, spent.

Then the pastor stepped forward and called my father to the front.

The only sound in the sanctuary came from crying parishioners and perhaps from the hammering of my own heart beating in my temples. Dad stood and began to walk toward me. He moved slowly, pressed down perhaps by the weight of his life. I knew the feeling, and I had walked a similar aisle back in Montana
 
—an aisle that introduced me to Jesus.

When Dad reached the front, the pastor motioned for him to stand beside me.

“I’m going to pray that God brings healing to both your lives.”

Dad and I both nodded, unable to speak. The pastor put his hands on us and prayed. I can’t remember what he said. No words could break through the emotions overpowering me. I had trouble listening. I couldn’t open my eyes. But one sentence punched through my heart like a slug through steel.

“God, restore their relationship.”

Those four words changed me.

I had forgiven my father privately, or I thought I had. My father had shamed me publicly, however, more times than could be counted. And there was something about standing beside him in public now that rebuilt our relationship. The pastor’s prayer showed me that on the other side of forgiveness, friendship was possible.

It was as if my father and I had been sitting across a table from each other, civil but distant. Between us was a box, and inside the box was something of which we both were terrified. Our fear of what was in the box prevented us from reconciling. Both of us were guarding a part of ourselves. The pastor’s words opened the lid on the box, and I discovered what was inside.

Nothing. The box was empty.

It
had
held things in the past. But now, as I looked into it, I found that each one had disappeared.

When the pastor said, “Amen,” Dad turned and looked at me. He was still crying.

“Mark,” he said, leaning his head toward mine, “I’m so proud of you. I pray for you every day. And I love you.”

A boy, even when he is a man, longs for his father’s approval and love. Those were the greatest words I had ever heard my dad speak, and I will hear them in my heart until I die.

A few months later, I visited Dad at his home. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the floor.

“How’s it going, Dad?” I asked, sitting beside him.

“Mark, I think every day about the things I’ve done and the people I’ve hurt.”

“Dad, I’ve forgiven you. You know, we’ll have all of eternity to remember the good things God has done.”

Dad buried his face in his hands and sobbed like a boy. I wrapped my arms around him, and together we cried, father and son.

While he wept, I told him, “Dad, for all that’s happened, you’re still my hero.”

It was okay. Everything had become okay. I loved my dad. And no matter what had happened to me, I was
 
—and always will be
 
—the Tank Man’s son.

T
HANK YOU TO
the many people from the small church in Great Falls, Montana, who invested in me when I was a young believer. You took me in, gave me hope, and allowed me to grow, despite my many character flaws. You treated me like a son.

Thank you, Joan. You took a risk and married me while I was still a little rough around the edges. You are God’s gift to me and a fulfillment of his promise.

To Bob Houlihan, you encouraged and mentored me. Thank you for seeing in me what could be rather than what was.

To my brother, Jerry, thank you. We share a bond that is only understood by those who have experienced what we have. I love you, bro.

In memory of Sheri, my sister and friend. There is no cancer in heaven, and I look forward to our reunion there. I miss you, sis.

Thank you to Don Jacobson for being a terrific agent and a godly example. You believed in me and my story, and you helped this book become a reality.

To David Jacobsen, thank you. Your incredible, God-given talent made this book possible. Your insight and gift of writing made it seem as if you had experienced my life with me.

Thank you to Carol Traver for your wisdom and patience in sorting
through my endless crazy stories. It was a joy working with you. And thank you to Jonathan Schindler and the entire Tyndale team for your expert guidance and confidence in me.

Most of all, thank you to Jesus Christ, my Lord and Savior. This book is your story in me.

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