Writings of Recovery

There Are No Foxholes

I have never seen a real foxhole before. Only in the movies, where trenches are dug out of the earth to create walls for soldiers to retreat for safety.

A foxhole is not meant for living. It is meant for surviving a particular experience. But this temporary protection becomes permanent when fear takes hold and roots in isolation and a deeper retreat into the foxhole.

My father lived in a foxhole for years. He built his walls with alcohol, distorted thinking, isolation, and silence. His body kept the score and became it’s own kind of trench and he was trapped under multiple heart attacks, surgeries, medications, chronic pain, and the loss of a leg.

Eventually he cut himself off from nearly everyone who loved him, including me.

For seven years, I tried to reach him. At first it was phone calls that went to voicemail. Then it was an amends letter that went unanswered. A text here and there. My repeated attempts to bridge a distance I could not fully understand.

Then last year, unexpectedly, he appeared at my uncle’s memorial service. His brother in law. A man he loved and shared many good moments and memories with.

This did not suddenly repair everything that had been broken. There was no dramatic reconciliation. But there was a small opening. Months later, I reached out again, and this time he answered.

Our relationship started back up through simple, safe, neutral text messages.

Last week, I sent him photos from my solo camping trip. Trees. Campfire. Driftwood, My new tent. I thanked him for teaching me to love nature and the outdoors.

He responded by sharing memories of camping with his uncle when he was young. He shared how he regretted that his aunt did not have a memorial service for her husband, and that he did not have closure.

Five days later, my dad died of a massive heart attack. I am grieving the visit we never got to have. The conversations that will never happen. The possibility of reconciliation and restoration with more time.

But, I am also grateful.

Because in the end, the walls did not completely hold.

There are no foxholes. We spend so much of our lives trying to protect ourselves from grief, from rejection, from regret, from one another. We convince ourselves we can stay hidden. We dig into our anger, our addictions, our fear, our shame, believing the walls of our foxhole will save us.

But eventually something reaches in anyway.

Love does.

Memory does.

Death does.

Neither of us fully climbed out of our trenches. But for a brief moment, we did stand together.