My dad died thirteen years ago. I was privileged to be with him at the time of his death, although the circumstances were not what either of us would have chosen.  We met for lunch in downtown Chicago (not an unusual event) and after our meal he asked me if I wanted some dessert.

Then he died.

My memory of the event is disorganized, dissociative. I remember facing my father directly across the table as he died.  But this isn’t how it happened.  I know I was sitting off to his side. I know this because I remember turning to one of our dining companions and told her to call 911, even as another friend tended to my dad.

(A psychiatrist once told me that my psyche has deliberately scrambled this memory in order to protect me from further trauma. This makes sense. )

He died because his heart stopped.  He sat there, breathing, but his open eyes didn’t see me. The sudden, incomprehending fury of a toddler welled up in me: I needed my daddy, and he was there, but he wasn’t paying me any attention.

Then, as the reality of the situation began to take hold, as the baby-rage passed, denial took its place. I fell to my knees beside my chair, and hit my head, repeatedly, against it, in an attempt to wake up from what was surely a nightmare. Each time my head knocked into the arm of the chair, I experienced some relief, feeling myself “waking up” from this horror.

(Waking up from the horror, to the horror. No matter how hard I tried, I could not undream it.)

My mind left my body. I actually saw it go, irregular blotches of red and green and purple and yellow tethered  to my head by only a thin silver cord. I had the choice of going insane at that moment. I could have anesthetized myself against the pain by simply losing my mind. Or I could keep my sanity and suffer mightily.

(I chose the latter.)

I grabbed the silver cord. I yanked it hard, and the pieces of my mind returned to my head, though I grimly noted that they didn’t settle back in quite the same arrangement as before.

(This discombobulation was proven when I stood up and asked a busboy if he was a doctor.)

The restaurant managers had got my father onto the floor and administered CPR. My knowledge of human biology was scanty, but I concluded that if they were getting some blood to his brain, he might still hear me. I called out to him, again and again, telling him that I loved him. The restaurant hostess quickly hustled me away. I was causing a scene.

I sat in a large chair in the lobby and sipped from a glass of ice water. When the paramedics arrived, I calmly rose to meet them, informing them of my father’s medical history. From then on I was calm, cool, collected, and sane. Everyone was frantically trying to save my father’s life, but I had seen it leave his eyes. I was resigned. (Though, at the hospital, when the ER doctor gave me the “we did all we could” speech, I still almost fainted.)

Later that day, as family and friends gathered, my godfather embraced me and said the strangest thing: “Now’s the time for growing up.”.  I didn’t get it. I was living and working independently . I was twenty-six years old. What more “growing up” did I have to do?

(A lot, as it turned out, and I sure as hell didn’t do a very good job of it.)

As time passed,  I began to heal and to be able to function. But it was a struggle. Despite my putting the worst of the grief behind me, I still desperately needed to find a reason for what had happened. My compartmentalized, orderly world had crashed around me. I had long believed that purpose and order could only be explained by the existence of God. But what purpose and order was there in what had happened to my father and myself? Where was God? What was God?

Since my own, personal, world had fallen into chaos and meaninglessness, I began groping blindly to regain order and purpose (never mind God).  I spent over a decade in this quest, looking for “signs” and systems and people that might bestow my life and soul with  meaning and purpose. I had a more than a few triumphs and joys, but mostly I failed miserably.

This quote, attributed to James Hillman, perhaps best describes my condition:

“He who has lost his soul will be finding God anywhere, up above and down below, in here and out there, he will cling to every straw of love blown past his doorway as he stands waiting for a sign.”

This went on for years.

To an extent, it continues.

I know now that the mark of an adult is graciously accepting (you don’t have to like it) the fact that things are not the way we think they ought to be.  It is the understanding (again, you don’t have to like it) that one’s own agenda has no real significance in the greater scheme of things.  It is no longer demanding that reality (you still don’t have to like it) serve one’s personal desires.

When my father died, I first raged against him for not being where I needed him to be. Then I turned my rage both outward (onto God and just about everything else) as well as inward (onto myself for not being able to offer myself the kind of control necessary to make sense of my existence). None of this served any good purpose. None of it made any difference in what was real. None of it made my life easier or happier. Instead of giving my life purpose and order, my childish groping kept me in chaos: I didn’t like it, but (I thought) it was easier to be there than to be an adult.

Then was the time for growing up.

Now is the time for growing up.

Its been time for growing up for quite some time now.

Maybe I’m finally ready.

This post is part of the September Syncroblog on maturity. Check out the posts listed below for other takes on this month’s topic!

Phil Wyman at Square No More with “Is Maturity Really What I Want?”
Lainie Petersen at Headspace with “Watching Daddy Die”
Kathy Escobar at The Carnival in My Head with “what’s inside the bunny?”
John Smulo at JohnSmulo.com
Erin Word at Decompressing Faith with “Long-Wearing Nail Polish and Other Stories”
Beth Patterson at The Virtual Teahouse with “the future is ours to see: crumbling like a mountain”
Bryan Riley at Charis Shalom with “Still Complaining?”
Alan Knox at The Assembling of the Church with “Maturity and Education”
KW Leslie at The Evening of Kent with “Putting spiritual infants in charge”
Bethany Stedman at Coffee Klatch with “Moving Towards True Being: The Long Process of Maturity”
Adam Gonnerman at Igneous Quill with “Old Enough to Follow Christ?”
Joe Miller at More Than Cake with “Intentional Relationships for Maturity”
Jonathan Brink at JonathanBrink.com with “I Won’t Sin”
Susan Barnes at A Booklook with “Growing Up”
Tracy Simmons at The Best Parts with “Knowing Him Who is From the Beginning”
Joseph Speranzella at A Tic in the Mind’s Eye with “Spiritual Maturity And The Examination of Conscience”
Sally Coleman at Eternal Echoes with “vulnerable maturity”
Liz Dyer at Grace Rules with “What I Wish The Church Knew About Spiritual Maturity”
Cobus van Wyngaard at My Contemplations with “post-enlightenment Christians in an unenlightened South Africa”
Steve Hayes at Khanya with “Adult Content”
Ryan Peter at Ryan Peter Blogs and Stuff with “The Foundation For Ministry and Leading”
Kai Schraml at Kaiblogy with “Mature Virtue”
Nic Paton at Sound and Silence with “Inclusion and maturity”
Lew Ayotte at The Pursuit with “Maturity and Preaching“