Let it be Said

My parents loved each other, and they loved their children. Christine’s parents loved each other and their children. But early in our relationship we shared with each other that neither of us heard those words, “I love you…” spoken by our parents.

Perhaps the omissions were cultural or generational, but as we prepared to bring new lives into the world, we consciously inventoried the things we wished to model for our children from our childhoods. We also wanted to identify the things we wished not to pass along to them, and those things we wished to initiate as new traditions for our next generation.

Among those things we valued from our upbringings: A strong Work Ethic. Honesty. The Value of Education. Thrift.

Among those things we wished to focus on better presenting to our children: Inclusiveness. Kindness. Avoidance of Judgement. Giving and expecting Respect when earned. Giving praise for Accomplishment. Acknowledging Fault for a transgression and Giving Apology to those injured. Avoiding drawing Comparisons to another person. And expressing our Love and Affection openly.

It is gratifying to see our children raising their own children, our grandchildren, with the same conscious intention and values. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the expression of the simple words, “I love you”.

It is given as a greeting and expressed as a part of every farewell. It is never taken for granted, yet its omission would raise an eyebrow as being out of the ordinary. Unlike exchanges that have become social pro forma such as “It’s good to see you”, or “How are you?”, the “I love you” that we share has retained its character as a special gift between parent and child, grandparent and grandchild.

Leading up to my 50^th birthday I resolved to offer that gift to each of my parents. Offering those words to them was difficult even though I loved them. With my mother it was at the end of one of our weekly phone calls, “I love you Mom” … quiet followed finally broken by, “I love you too, Peter!” Her surprise was palpable, as was her joy. From that day on every conversation between us included that expression of affection. She died in 2020.

With my Father it was not to be. Multiple Sclerosis had robbed him of his independence and the joy of life. His last years were spent in assisted living. When visiting him I would ask him how he was doing, his answer invariable was, “Just waiting…” It wasn’t necessarily to ask what he was waiting for.

I did take the plunge. “Dad, I love you”. To which he replied, “Oh well…” then trailed off to silence. I had to (and did) smile. It was affection given in the manner that he could express. This exchange was repeated at each visit thereafter to the time of his passing in 2009.

What was most important was that I was finally able to speak those words to him in the living years:

 Every generation blames the one before. And all of their frustrations come beating on your door. I know that I’m a prisoner to all my father held so dear. I know that I’m a hostage to all his hopes and fears. I just wish I could have told him in the living years.

Crumpled bits of paper filled with imperfect thought. Stilted conversations, I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got.

You say you just don’t see it, he says it’s perfect sense. You just can’t get agreement in this present tense. We all talk a different language, talking in defense.

Say it loud, say it clear, you can listen as well as you hear. It’s too late when we die to admit we don’t see eye to eye.

So we open up a quarrel between the present and the past. We only sacrifice the future, it’s the bitterness that lasts. So don’t yield to the fortunes you sometimes see as fate. It may have a new perspective on a different day. And if you don’t give up, and don’t give in you may just be okay.

Say it loud, say it clear, you can listen as well as you hear. It’s too late when we die to admit we don’t see eye to eye.

I wasn’t there that morning when my father passed away. I didn’t get to tell him all the things I had to say. I think I caught his spirit later that same year, I’m sure I heard his echo in my baby’s newborn tears. I just wish I could have told him in the living years.

(“The Living Years“, was written by B. A. Robertson and Mike Rutherford. Recorded in 1988 by Rutherford’s rock band Mike + The Mechanics.)

Peace Everyone. Pete

PS. My son Peter and I practiced law together for seven years until my retirement. It is an incredible honor to be a colleague with one’s child, to see them every day as an accomplished professional. Christine also cherished this experience but with our daughter, Renee. It was common for Peter and me to wish the other well upon leaving the office. Those exchanges included a hug and “Love you…”. Often as not this happened in the waiting room with clients present.

Peter once shared with me that the day I told him that I was retiring was one of the saddest days of his life.