Imagine a Good Dad

I had created a mental critic to protect myself from the harmful situations I was in. You probably have one too. The one that says, “You’re going to make a mistake and people are watching, and they’ll notice and pounce on you for that. Watch out.”

In my mind, my critic was my dad, but I knew it was imaginary. I knew I had been perpetuating the abuse in my own thoughts for years, even after my dad was gone. I was now repeating his criticism to myself.

My Dad has been pretty terrible, mean and abusive. It could have been worse, and I hurt for those people in truly horrible situations. When Mom finally got enough support to divorce him and he was gone, it was a blessed relief. For decades, him being absent from my life felt like the best gift he had ever given me. But I was still hurting inside. I may have looked healthy and happy, but I was still so scared of my dad, that when my miraculously kind husband mentioned that it might be nice to invite my dad over to our house, I imagined the visit, and cried and shook while Alan hugged and comforted me.

I wanted to feel better, to grow and heal. I started by praying for my enemy. “Dear Heavenly Father. Please bless my dad that he can repent before he dies.” With time, and with lots more prayer, and in the security of the love of my safe husband, I became able to consider sending my dad a Christmas card. I looked something generic up on the internet. “What to say to estranged father at Christmas time?” I wrote the quote and sent it to him with a photo of our family. I got a reply through one of his sisters that he had liked it and wished us the best.

His life had obviously been lonely and miserable.Those few charitable people in his life who were willing to listen to his paranoid ranting became worn out and eventually avoided him. All this rejection apparently caused Dad to realize that his behavior made him offensive to others. He was now self-isolating to prevent some contention.

He didn’t know any of my nine children, and they didn’t know who their grandfather was, aside from brief explanations I gave that made them sad. Even though it was obvious he didn’t want to be part of their lives, I sent a printout of our family newsletter with stories of my kids and my childhood. I happened to be in the grocery store with a few of my little kids, in the dairy aisle pushing a shopping cart, when he called me. I was shocked as I looked at the phone. What should I say? I settled for “Hi Dad.”

“Hi Marisa.” He said, in his voice – that voice I remembered so deeply. I was shocked again. It’s not logical, but emotionally, I hadn’t realized that he knew my name.

“I got your package. I was sad to read about the troubles you had when you were in school, with the bullies and the worries and concerns you had. I was just so caught up in my own sorrows and fears with your mother that I didn’t know you were experiencing that. It was very nice of you to send me the binder, and pay eight dollars postage, which is more than you should spend on me. I’d like to say it was a pleasure but it was really hard to read, and you don’t need to send me any more.”

He went on about other stuff, quickly, nonstop, because he couldn’t talk long before he broke down and cried. He was trying to explain why he couldn’t talk to people or be part of our lives. I tried to cut in and say, “It’s okay, Dad.” But he talked right over me. When he hung up, there I was, still in the grocery store, trying to keep an eye on my kids, and not cry.

Considering how hard it had been for him to call and try to confess his feelings, I decided that he had been pretty brave to do so. As I worked through and adjusted my feelings to this person, I became sort of encouraged, and tried again. Each subsequent encounter was a similar mix of attempted kindness and blunt rudeness. Over the last fifteen years I’ve sent him occasional pictures and letters and called him several times. I’ve kept praying for him, which is good for me, but I hope, also for him. My heart keeps softening and I hope that he will repent, for his own benefit.

This mentally and emotionally ill person is my dad, physically, if not in any other good way. But I wish he were my nice dad. He started sending money to my younger sisters, who need it the most. He gets disability checks, more than he needs, and send the excess to them, through me. He hasn’t talked to them.

I called him on Thanksgiving, 2025. I didn’t really want to, but he’d been on my mind and heart and I wanted to offer him something, even though it would possibly be a pain. While I was taking a bathroom break from hosting the 17 family members who came to the feast, I called him. He didn’t answer. I left a voicemail. Then I did the same for my older sister, leaving a message. Whew! I got off easy! I thought.

Then his name came back up on my phone screen. He was calling me back. I still get some trepidation when answering his calls, but I breathed in for courage and said again, “Hi Dad.”

I don’t remember all the stuff he said, because I kind of forget it as soon as it’s said. (Who wants to hear his rantings about politics, and how the world is horrible and how could God let this happen?) But I did press the “record” button on my memory when he said he appreciated my letters, and how carefully I worded them to not be offensive to him. He was trying to understand them the way I intended them to be. (Which is amazing.)

I know he can’t hear my particular tones of voice very well, so I spoke up.”Well, Dad, I have been praying for you for a long time and that has helped remove some of the fear and anger I used to feel toward you. I’m not so scared anymore. It’s really helping. I hope you can get better.”

“Well,” He replied, “I’m sorry you had to work through all those feelings. I’m sorry your life was so hard and I caused so much of that. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to support you.”

He said lots of other stuff, but those are the phrases that I have been holding on to ever since. He had said, “I’m sorry.” He used to never, EVER, admit he was wrong! It was one of the most frustrating things about him. He was right and everyone else was wrong and he used to yell and then hit, until you agreed with him.

My heart has been trying to catch up to this ever since. My dad has regrets! He wishes he had been able to support his family and take care of them, instead of abandoning them! He wishes he could have been emotionally supportive as well! He can see and recognize that he did badly. And he is sorry!

My little girl heart cries and suffers for want of a good daddy. As soon as I hung up, still sitting there alone in the bathroom, I began imagining a new dad to replace the old, evil one who seemed to hate me and wanted to hurt me so much. What if, in a different circumstance, my dad had been able to be kind and good? The paradigm shifting thing, is that he wanted to have been.

In order to understand what had happened to our family, I had vilified him so much I had dismissed this possibility. He was so horrible that I’d put him into a categorical cage of badness and had kept him there.

But I wanted to allow him to come out. He wasn’t such a dangerous-evil-criminal anymore in my heart. Sure, he was still unpleasant and it was better to avoid him than encounter him, if possible. But now I can imagine him, even hope for him to be a better person after he has died and been released from his broken mind, and repented, and suffered for his sins.

This image of him healed is so much easier to bear. My stomach seems to sigh out and soften. I hadn’t realized how much energy it was taking to keep him in my emotional jail. I felt freer to spend my energy now on loving and living.

So I’m creating a new imaginary supporter, one who is not mean, but kind, who tells me I’m smart and good, and talented. I am nurturing a new mental mentor, because, why not? If the old, mean one was only alive in my own head, why not replace it with a new, nice one, even though it’s not real either? I’m allowed to give myself kindness, instead of criticism. I’ve seen that this is what my dad would do, if he could. And he’s trying to.

My Dad sent a thank you note five years ago, in response to my Christmas card. It is written on a tiny piece of some type of free note pad paper, in his cursive, with some underlined words. He also likes to underline and capitalize and use different highlighter colors to emphasize his writing. It kind of feels like the forceful way he talks, but he was trying to say nice words this time, and emphasize those instead. In an effort to give myself exposure therapy, I looked at a photo of him for as long as it took to draw this sketch. Then I put it on my wall near my computer, and glued his handwritten message of love onto it. This slowly stopped feeling as threatening as I looked at it over the course of several years. Then I took it down and put it in a file. I was able to find it and pull it out for this post.

I hope you are monitoring and improving your own self dialogue. What do you do to improve how you feel about your enemies? I’d love to know.