When I began this blog, I did so with the desire to be as real as I could be. That’s easy to do when sharing all the cool things that are happening in my life. It’s more of a challenge when it comes to some of the more personal things. This post is one of those more personal things.
On Monday morning, two officers from the RCMP’s R.O.P.E. division showed up at the church. They asked to speak with me privately. My first thought was, “I wonder who in the church is in trouble now.” (Hey, with the churches I pastor, that’s a legitimate question!)
“Mr. Dale,” one of the officers began. “We regret to inform you that your father has passed away …” Before he could finish, I was already thinking, “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”
You see, my dad went missing approximately 17 years ago. He struggled with many issues, including alcoholism, and most of us assumed that he had got into something over his head and was killed as a result. With each passing year, we settled more into the idea that he was dead. It was the next part of the officer’s statement that shocked me.
“… he passed away on Sept. 20, 2011 in a Montreal hospital. He died of cirrhosis of the liver, an alcohol related death.”
September 20th? Of this year? In Montreal? It’s difficult to put into words the emotions I felt at the moment. To be honest, there was a sense of sadness … he really is dead. There was a sense of relief … finally, some closure. And, there was a massive amount of confusion and questions.
It’s been a bit of a whirlwind the past few days. With each person I’ve had to call, the reaction has been the same: shock and a lot of questions. Both my sister and my brother are processing it in their own ways. I’ve had the chance to speak with my Uncle a few times (it’s been many years) and it’s been good to reconnect. He’s contacted the two remaining Aunts, and I hope to have the same opportunity to reconnect with them. There may be trips to Montreal in order to collect belongs, figure out his story for the past 17 years, etc.
But I write this as a way of honouring my dad. It’s weird. I’ve never really called him “dad.” He’s always simply been “Barry.” And yet, since Monday, I’ve found myself naturally calling him dad.
My dad was an incredibly smart man. In fact, he skipped a couple of grades because of his intelligence. Then, he got into trouble with some extended family. The result: a jail sentence for armed robbery. My dad was the driver (since he knew the streets of Ottawa). He had the book thrown at him, and the bitterness and anger that resulted eventually consumed him. He escaped prison a number of times. The most famous time was in the early 70’s when he had a shoot out with police downtown.
There was/is a lot of brokenness among the Dale family. My Aunt committed suicide. My grandfather died of cirrhosis of the liver. An Uncle was beaten to death. Another Aunt died in a small-plane crash. My grandmother died of cancer. So much tragedy. So many stories. My dad simply couldn’t overcome it.
My first real memory of my dad was when I was 17. I visited him at Millhaven Maximum Security Prison. It was a bizarre way to stand face to face with the man who had been a ghost in my life all through my childhood. As a young boy, I had a lot of contact with the Dale family. Barry was spoken of but was never the focus of a conversation. I knew so little of him, and yet, seemed to know a lot. As I said, he was like a ghost. At 17, I was finally meeting him.
Soon after he was transferred to Colins Bay and I spent a weekend in a trailer visit. I was amazed at how many of his mannerisms I had. The way we processed things was eerily similar. He was completely opposed to Christianity, and I was about to begin Bible College. What no one knows is that he helped pay for my first year of school. I’ve always wondered just how “clean” that money was. I found out this week that it was part of an inheritance and was certainly “good” money!
We stayed in touch after that. Writing letters back and forth. I wrote letters to the parole board to help him with his release.
After 17 years behind bars, he was a free man (on parole). But, freedom was too difficult. It would be for most people who had spent so many years in a cell. He began to distance himself soon after his release. I invited him to my wedding, he didn’t show. And then, when Brit was born, I had my last conversation with him.
Today, I hold no negative feelings toward him. He was a broken man. He was my dad.
I look around the two churches I pastor, and I see dozens of men and women who have battled (or continue to battle) the same things my dad did. God has given me the opportunity to love and care for … my family.
Yesterday, my sister shared an incredible thought with me. Most families battle the cycle of alcoholsim for many generations. Add to that cycle all of the death and tragedy of our family’s history, and some would suggest that the cycle would be very difficult to break. And yet, the faith of one woman — our mom — changed it all. She was determined that her kids would not be touched by the tragedy of their namesake. She raised us in such a way that our children — my brother’s two boys, my sister’s three kids, and my girls would not know the pain of that brokenness. By God’s grace, they don’t. The world my father grew up in, with all the challenges associated with it, is foreign to all of our kids. My brother and sister have raised amazing children. My girls are the most incredible young women and I’m so incredibly proud of all their accomplishments.
Maybe my dad stayed hidden for 17 years because he didn’t want to bring that past into their lives. Maybe he just couldn’t over come his struggles to face us again. Maybe he was afraid we’d turn him in if he did surface. Today, none of it matters.
All that matters is today he is gone. And for some strange and even bizarre reason, I miss him.
Rest in peace, dad.
