I Just Want My Dad to Want Me

I walk into work on Tuesday morning and look up at the group assignment board, and my heart drops. For the first time in two months, my name is not listed beneath the addicts’ group.

I’ll be returning to the first group of boys I ever worked with here, but now that all these months have gone by, only one original kid remains. Will he even remember me? What will the seven others be like?

And what about all those other teens I’ve been connecting with these last three shifts? Why can’t I just stay with them? Can’t I continue building those bonds?

Why must I wander again?

~ ~ ~

“Is that Tom?” The curly headed kid cranes his neck as I follow my fellow staff down the trail. I can’t help smiling back at him in return.

Well, I guess Jason does remember me.

Still, I’m not happy about this. Sitting around this new group of kids, all I can think about is what I’m missing in the other group. The laughs and conversations and latest Star Wars installment around a campfire. I can already tell this one hyperactive boy is going to try my patience all week long, while the entire addicts group was synced to perfection.

The first day goes by, and I wonder what role I can serve in the present if all I’m doing is longing for the past.

~ ~ ~

“I’d like to check in,” Brady says. He is 17, a really sweet kid with super conservative “Jesusy” parents from the South. He’s the charmer of the group, and he’s been in the woods for a month now. During his group introduction, he announced that he’s here for depression and not one, but multiple suicide attempts — a grim reality I can’t begin to match with his cheery demeanor.

“I’m feeling anxious,” Brady continues. “I feel this way when I write my dad about being bi.”

I look up from the dirt. Brady’s sexuality has already been been revealed to his group-mates, but the revelation falls on my ears for the first time.

“My hope inside my control is that I can stay present and not worry about my dad’s reaction. And my hope outside my control…” He takes a moment, fiddling with a twig. “…is that my dad will understand. And want a relationship with me.”

Throughout these years of youth involvement, I’ve had limited experience with kids and their sexuality. I do know my boundaries as a counselor; I know my conversational limits. But it’s hard.

I can’t tell them my story. I can’t share how my journey parallels theirs, or how my Jesus isn’t necessarily their parents’ Jesus. That the Jesus followers in my life, my brothers, my sisters, have made all the difference in my own navigations with homosexuality and faith.

I can’t be Brady’s dad like my own dad has been for me; only Brady’s dad can be that for him.

“My first impression of you was that you were super quiet and I was really confused about this guy who works here and doesn’t say anything.”

The group laughs, and I cannot help chuckling too. It is Jason’s “goodbye group,” and we are going around the circle trading our first impressions and favorite stories of Jason while he does the same of us.

I look back at Jason and his curly locks and share my first impression of him. “You were the first kid whose name I remembered out here,” I say. His real name matches my sister’s fiancé’s, and when you have to memorize eight to ten names all at once, every little subconscious connection helps.

I continue with my hope for his future.

“Jason, my hope for your future is that you look back on your 103 days in these woods with fondness. Yeah, you’ve probably been wanting to get out of here for every single one of those 103 days. But I hope you appreciate your growth out here. I hope you understand you’ll never be the same man outside these woods because of the man you became inside them.”

~ ~ ~

It’s the last day of the week, and the incoming staff shift is taking longer than usual to relieve us. It’s been raining the past 36 hours, my boots and double-layer of socks are soaked, and I’m antsy to get out of these woods and shower and get dry and go home and enjoy the next three weeks off.

While we wait, the therapist arrives and hands all the boys their letters from home — including bisexual Brady’s letter from his dad. I pay particular attention to his facial expressions as he reads, and I notice a nonchalant shrug form.

He checks in with the group a few minutes later.

“I just read my dad’s letter,” he says. “His response was okay, I guess. Like, he said he loves me regardless. But–” he holds up the letter, revealing two brief paragraphs at the top of the page and a swath of white below “–he was just really short and generic. Like he usually is. I don’t know, I guess I was just hoping for more.”

The new staff shift arrives, and we give our goodbye hugs to all the kids.

I give Brady a hug. “You’re awesome,” I say.

And yet I feel my words falling short even before I let go. I hop in the pickup truck and ride back to base and shower and get dry and start my next three weeks off.

And yet wouldn’t I rather still be wet and cold and waiting just for Brady’s dad to want him? Really want him. To doubly reflect the love of a Father who will hug you and hold you and never let go.