I come from generations of poor peasants. I was
born and raised in Croatia to Catholic parents. I remember the wheat fields I
ran through, the shepherds and the animals they led to pasture, the Easter of
spring and the Christmas of winter. I have not been back there for thirty years
now. I don’t know that my heart could take it.
My father was the ultimate patriarch in our
home and what he said was law. He was raised that way. He was the oldest of
five sons in a small village and as was custom, he was expected to take over
the family land and inherit the care of his parents in their old age. My
father, however, did not see it that way. He didn’t want the village life so he
procured an apprenticeship as a bricklayer in the neighbouring town. My
grandfather was furious. He threw a chunk of bread on the floor in front of my
father and told him that was the only thing he will ever get from him. Very
dramatic…. No support for the path my father had chosen. My father walked for miles every day, even in
the rain, to the town where he worked. No bus for him.
My father had vision. When I was just a toddler
he decided to move us to the city where his children would have more
opportunities. Unfortunately, the country was part of Yugoslavia back then, under
the socialist rule, and the only good opportunities that existed were reserved
for anyone who belonged to the communist party. When I was on the cusp of my
teenage years, my father’s vision extended all the way to Australia. I was two
months shy of turning 14 when we arrived in Sydney. At 16 I was out working in
an office and at 17 I went looking for a religion that could answer all the
questions that the Catholic Church couldn’t.
I found The Church of Jesus Christ of
Latter-Day Saints in my local library. I
inhaled all that I read and I knew I had to be a part of it. There was just one
problem. My father decided to be HIS father. The ultimatum was given: to join
the Church, I would have to leave home. My
father was beyond crushed when I left. He
did not expect that. My parents would not speak to me for a whole year. We
reconciled through the efforts of my sister and a few years thereafter they
went back to Croatia.
Since the time I was baptized 50 years ago, I
have reflected a lot on that stressful period of my life when I was cut off
from my family. The repercussions of
that event in my life have been more than I care to admit. Luckily, the
benefits outweighed the sacrifice. My parents have long since passed away and I
am still reaping the benefits of my Church membership. I have gone from grace
to grace and been brought to higher ground of faith than I had ever imagined was
possible. I have forged my own path.
I have cried ancestral tears over my father
since his passing. I have nothing but love and gratitude for him. At the time
of our distress when I rejected his word as my law, he was a migrant in a new
country and his favourite daughter was, in his eyes, joining a cult. He was
trying to protect me. When I think of him, I see him as a little boy in a
Croatian village with more than his share of family baggage and generations of incorrect
programming. I love that little boy and want to hug him, now more than ever.
When in the realms of heaven I meet my father
again, I will thank him for wanting to protect me but most of all I will thank
him for his example of bravery in defying his father which I subconsciously
followed and which led me into the arms of the Father I love above all and who
aches to have us both return to Him . We will then meet at Jesus’ feet and we
will remember the time that hurt us both the most but did not divide us
forever.
Your
life has come and gone
But
your footprints remain
And
your blood courses through my veins.
The
flame of your sacrifices
Burns
bright with all its might;
Your
legacy, your love,
Your
fatherly alms:
Forever
etched
In
the hollow of my heart.
- CATHRYNE ALLEN
(Art: Love of the Father by Ilse Kleyn - Fine Art of America)
