For the children's sake ... revisited

Last Sunday morning I had a Twilight Zone moment. About half done with my daily allotment of push-ups, with classical music blasting, the timer for the biscuits in the oven beeped, and it came to me: I have recreated the Sunday morning of my childhood.

Classical music on the stereo, Dad's push ups, and the weekly burning of fingers as he removed the scalding biscuits off the pan is one of the recurring happy memories my four siblings and I have of our family before our parents divorced in 1994. And the fact I find myself unknowingly recreating this scene reveals something interesting: There is a difference between divorce "hurting" and "ruining" a child.

It is the death of the original family unit, and yes, it hurts kids. (See my first post on this topic from last month.) I have a front-row view to some of that hurt, as I am sure many of you readers do. But whether or not divorce ruins a child is largely up to the parents and, eventually, up to the child himself, as he grows and takes responsibility for his own emotional state.

Divorce in and of itself doesn't automatically negate every good thing the parents ever did. It doesn't negate time spent talking and laughing. It doesn't negate the hard work or the financial provision or the love between parent and child. It doesn't undo all the training or teaching. It doesn't erase all the happy memories, the family jokes, or the camaraderie between siblings. A child (or adult) who reels from his parents' divorce can go on to live a rich and rewarding life, perhaps made even richer by the deep emotional well divorce can create in that person's life.

While we should try everything within our power to preserve our marriages, when they do end, all is not lost. Our stories may be messy and upside-down and not look like the books say they should, and life may be off-kilter for many years, true, but, I repeat, all is not lost.

One day, when you least suspect it, you will find yourself pulling the biscuits off the pan with your bare fingers, Chopin blasting on the stereo, and realize that the sharp pain and bitterness of being a child of divorce has dulled and, in its stead, is a new grace. One that recalls the trips up to Mount St. Helens for a day of sledding; being chased by a seaweed-swinging father on Washington's Long Beach; floating with sisters and brothers down the Lewis River in huge inner tubes; late nights giggling into a hiccupping state with Mom; chopping wood in the national forest with Dad; Tuesday nights with all seven of you crammed into the breakfast nook, snarfing A&W's 19-cent Coney dogs; parents who worshiped together, sang Handel's Messiah together, and ran a business together. Instead of frustration and anger and bitterness, what is left is a love and understanding of your parents who, despite not being able to work things out between them, managed to create a pretty darned good childhood for their children.