David Stoop - Forgiving Our Parents, Forgiving Ourselves: The Definitive Guide

PRAISE FOR

Forgiving Our Parents,
Forgiving Ourselves

This book is a must-read for all of us who are committed to helping people become whole.

Bill Hybels

Founding pastor, Willow Creek Community Church
South Barrington, Illinois

Without guidance, forgiving our parents and ourselves is easier said than done. Not an easy task no matter how old you are! In Forgiving Our Parents, Forgiving Ourselves my friend David Stoop has provided practical, doable steps for anyone who seeks forgiveness of others and self. David Stoop identifies what true forgiveness is and isnta key element in getting over it and moving on. Truly a must-read for everyone, no matter how his or her upbringing may be defined.

Gary Smalley

Bestselling author, Guarding Your Childs Heart

With the help of this book, you can discover a new way of healing for yourself.

Archibald Hart

Psychologist and author, Me, Myself and I

This resource is refreshingly insightful with new perspectives on family and forgiveness. This practical book will impact any reader and is a welcome addition to Dave Stoops other materials.

H. Norman Wright

Grief and trauma therapist
Bestselling author, The Complete Guide to Trauma Counseling and Helping Those in Grief

1991, 1996, 2011 Dr. David Stoop

Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
www.revellbooks.com

Revell edition published 2014

ISBN 978-1-4412-2592-4

Previously published by Regal Books

Ebook edition originally created 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any meansfor example, electronic, photocopy, recordingwithout the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright 1996. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, Illinois 60189. All rights reserved.

Scriptures marked KJV are from the Authorized King James Version.

If Dad were around today and did to us what he did back then, hed be charged with child abuse.

No way! I countered. Not our dad!

Think about it, my sister replied. Then she hung up.

That terse conversation took place more than 30 years ago, but I remember it as though it happened yesterday. The moment my sister slammed down the receiver was the moment my bubble burst. For years I had thought my dad was a good father. Now, I suddenly found I could do so no longer. He had been dead for 20 years at the time of our angry conversation. I did not particularly like to talk about him, for I had very little of him to hold onto in my memory. So I was not about to let anyonenot even my sisterdestroy what little I had left.

Her remark about child abuse had to do with the way Dad used a belt when he spanked usor at least when he spanked me. I never believed that he spanked her at all; according to my recollection, I took the blame for everything she did. Im sure she remembered it differently. Dad believed in spanking. The only problem was that the spankings always came with a heavy overlay of anger and a lot of physical abuse.

Getting spanked by my father always followed a familiar patternalmost a sort of ritual. Something would go wrong, and hed look at me with that stern glare and snap, Get down to the basement. I knew what that meant. There was no way to talk him out of it. Begging didnt work. I know, because I had tried it many times. Even offering an explanation was useless.

I can still remember how I felt, slouching down the basement stairs with him close behind me. First, hed take off his belt; then hed sit on a chair in the middle of the room. Id bend over. Then Id get the belt across my backside.

My dad would remain silent through all of this. If I cried too much, Id get more. If I didnt cry enough, Id get more. I remember working out a system for knowing how much crying was enough. Id wail away until he warned me to stop before he gave me something to cry about. That was my cue to quit, perhaps with a few final sniffles thrown in for good measure.

Once or twice I tried to stuff a book or magazine down my pants before heading downstairs. Despite the fact that our family went to church every Sunday, I wasnt exactly what youd call a praying man. But at those moments Id pray earnestly that Dad wouldnt notice. One time he didnt notice until he was almost finished whipping me. He icily ordered me to take the book out. Then he spanked me for that infraction as well.

Up until that conversation with my sister, I never gave much thought to those spanking incidents. Actually, compared to what some of my friends reported about the way they got disciplined, I didnt think the treatment I got was all that unusual. Everybody got spanked by his or her parents in those days. And I dont suppose I really wanted to spend much time recalling the sick, scared feeling in my stomach when the time came to go downstairs.

Still, when I was getting spanked, at least I had my dads attention. For the most part, he always seemed too tired or distracted to notice me or care about anything that interested me. He worked long hours in a factory. When he came home at night, he was extremely tired. On the weekends he spent most of his time keeping the house up, working until he was exhausted.

The rest of his timewhat little there waswas spent in Porchville. We lived in Cleveland, Ohio, in a small house with a porch across the front and a swing at one end of the porch. I can remember Dad sitting on that swing, reading the newspaper or just staring out across the lawn. When he was finished with the paper, he would go out to the garage to work on something. We never talked about much of anything. Dad never took time to play catch with me or to notice how I threw a ball or fielded a grounder.

He was emotionally absentexcept when the time came to go downstairs.

The interesting thing is that for years if you had asked me whether Id had a happy childhood, I would have said yes without giving it a second thought. Were we close as a family? Of course, would have been my answer. My parents took good care of us. We never lacked for anything important, even when Dads factory was on strike. We were a good family.

Or were we? My sisters words on the phone suddenly made me feel less confident that we really were all that close, or that everything had really been all that wonderful. I did not like these new thoughts. They felt dangerous.

Like all people who have idealized a parent, I had let my dad off the hook in a number of ways. I had carefully created a picture of my family as a happy place, one where anything unpleasant could be readily explained away. I focused on remembering the good parts.

For example, because we were all so emotionally distant, I enjoyed a great deal of freedom and independence. I had newspaper routes from an early age, so I always had money. In summer, when school was out, I could hop on my bike in the morning and not come home until dinnertime. One of my special pleasures was going to symphony concerts all by myself, even in grade school. Id ride the streetcar there and back.