My Father

I was running out the door when the phone rang, “Hello,” I quickly said. The woman on the other end asked, “Is this Susan”? “Yes,” I answered. She went on to explain that she worked at a mental institute in Southern California. She then asked the question I had been waiting to hear for years. “Do you know anyone named Denver?” I stood stunned and almost dropped the phone, I couldn’t speak I was so filled with emotion. “That is my father,” I answered. He had been living in the streets, and I had not heard a word from him for the past two years. He was now in a safe place where hopefully he could get help.

Just that very week my two friends and I started praying for our families. I prayed that the Lord would let me know one way or the other if my father was still alive. Finally, I had an answer. God is Good.

My father was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia many years before and was able to get help through mental institutions. Many of those institutions closed their doors due to law changes. He lost his job and home and was living in the streets. In the beginning of that time, all he had was a broken down old car in which he was living.

As I think back to the early days, I remember how my father and his situation helped me to make the decision to go to Woman’s Bible Study each week. Every morning my father would wait in his car at the end of our street and watch for my husband to go to work. I was very young when my husband, Rusty, and I met. Dad never liked him, and as I think back I realize he must have been afraid of him. As soon as Rusty left for work, Dad would arrive at our house and stay all day. The one good thing about this situation was I knew he was eating. The bad thing was I had an ADHD child that never stopped moving, and needed much attention. My little girl was three years older than her brother, and was always good and quiet. And then there was my father that changed his moods every few minutes. I will never forget the day that dad asked, “Can I have a pair of scissors to trim my hair.” Without thinking I gave him a pair, and walked away. A few minutes later he stood in front of me. He was angry and was holding the scissors like a knife pointed at me. I was scared, and I realized we were all in danger on a regular basis. I had to watch him like a hawk. I felt like I was going to go crazy!

One of my friends that knew my situation asked me if I would like to go to Bible Study Fellowship with her on Wednesday mornings. At first, I said, “No I don’t need that.” I was 23 years old and thought I had it all together. What a Joke!! She kept asking, and finally she said, “They have childcare and you can have a few hours away from your dad.” BINGO! That did it.

From that point on, I never missed a week. Dad would follow me to the church and wait for me until I finished. I had three hours once a week all by myself. In the beginning I was so exhausted that the ladies actually let me sleep. I met women in my small group that would listen to me, and pray for help for my dad and safety for my family. Within a few weeks God supplied answers on how I could respond to dad in the correct way. I couldn’t change him, but I could change how I responded. Many times I would argue with dad when he would say crazy things. I would try to talk him out of what he was saying and correct him. It only made him madder. You see, to him what he was saying in his state of mind was true. Most important, through Bible Study Fellowship, I also learned how to have a personal relationship with my HEAVENLY FATHER, which was my salvation.

A year after I started Bible Study, we moved to the country. With Dad’s limited funds, it was too far for him to drive back and forth. He was dangerous at times; so one side of me felt relief and the other side felt guilt. With this move, Dad had to change his regular routine. The move was a blessing in disguise. Through the county, I was finally able to get help from a social worker for Dad. She found him a care home; and as long as he took his medications, he did well. The hard part was keeping him on the medicine he needed to stay sane. Unfortunately, that arrangement did not last long.

Before I knew it he was in the streets in San Francisco. It is hard to explain the pain I felt when I got a collect call from him. He was cold, hungry, alone and had nowhere to go. He would put paper underneath his worn-out jacket to stay warm, and hide in the shelter of the doorway of the library at night. He would eat at St. Anthony Hall one meal a day. As I sat in my warm house, the feelings of guilt would rush over me. Every time I opened the refrigerator, I wanted to be sick. How can I help someone so mentally ill? There did not seem to be any hope, and I felt so helpless.

To add to my feelings of helplessness my husband and I were living a single married life. There was not much communication. He did his thing and I did mine. I was so young; I believe I felt that this was a normal way of life. I did not have any support. As a matter of fact, I don’t even remember talking to Rusty, my husband, about my dad or giving him a chance to help me.

Many times dad tried to jump from the Golden Gate Bridge. When the patrol would stop him, they would call me. We lived an hour and a half away from the city. So by the time I got there; my father was always gone, and they could not keep him. I walked through the streets that he described on the phone to no avail. I watched all the lost souls with nowhere to go. It was hard to picture my father in this place.

After so much time had passed without contact, I became desperate to find him. Every time there was a news report saying, “Man found in park unidentified,” I would call to get information. Several times I drove down to the morgue and looked at the bodies. I felt such fear overcome me. How can there be so many lost people? I didn’t want to see the reality of that lifestyle, and I wanted to be sheltered from it. Now for some reason, I was in the middle of it. I realized this could happen to anyone of us. I was so grateful I had my Heavenly Father with me to give me the strength I needed for that time in my life.

Now, after years of living this nightmare, my prayers were being answered. I listened to the woman on the other end of the phone tell me about my father and his condition. A sense of thankfulness overcame me. I finally knew where he was. He was cared for in that institution until he died.

Do any of you know someone like my father? I know at times the situation seems hopeless, but my only answer was relying on the Lord to find and care for him. I couldn’t do anything for him myself.

I saw the powerful answer to prayer and I have been given the gift of compassion for all of the lost souls. This compassion came through living this journey with my father. I always knew he LOVED me and I knew mental illness was not WHO my father was.

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