A woman at church asked me recently if David was a family name. I said my son is named for his grandfather, who died three months before I got married. I always knew if I had a son, I’d give him the name David: not just to honor my dad, but also because it represents the Jewish heritage on my side of the family.
As fate would have it, little Davy’s birthday and my father’s are two days apart. Definitely feels meant to be.
Naturally, after expressing condolences for my loss, the woman went on to ask me if I had a close relationship with my dad. For the sake of propriety, I didn’t elaborate, but the real answer is “It’s complicated.”
***
I know for a fact my father loved me, and I deeply loved him. We had our inside jokes, our playful banter, and father-daughter breakfasts at the same restaurant for many years. Not everyone grew up with parents like mine, and I’m grateful for the childhood they gave me.
But it’s also true that my conversion to Christianity deeply wounded him. He’d experienced his share of antisemitism throughout his life, including in the small town I was raised in, and he couldn’t separate those negative experiences from the Savior I fell in love with.
It wasn’t a topic open for discussion. I did this hurtful thing, and for a while it tore the family apart. We never reached a point where we could freely talk about it. Our relationship suffered for years, fueling my grief from losing him to cancer even more. It felt like there were many stones still unturned, and I was hesitant to say anything that would stir up bitterness with what little time we had left the summer he entered hospice.
***
I hurt him, but he loved me. He continued loving me from afar, when I moved to Colorado for school and he remained in Ohio. He continued sending birthday cards, always calling me “Sassy”: a childhood nickname. I hurt him, but I was still his daughter, and he did not give up on me.
He told me he wanted to help pay off the debt from the costly mistake that grad school turned out to be, when the check from his life insurance policy came through. When other people expressed shock that I hadn’t been disowned (and perhaps I deserved to be), I remained a beneficiary in his will. While I never doubted his love for me, I must say that even I was shocked by this.
***
Literally paying off my debt just further proved something that Christians already know: that love is a choice, not a feeling. Love is a verb that can be acted out even when the emotions struggle to catch up. Love is fighting for a relationship strained by choices you don’t agree with, watching someone follow a wayward path like the Prodigal Son, and celebrating his return before he can even say he’s sorry.
It’s rather remarkable, the way our relationship endured, in a culture where going “no contact” with family members over politics is rapidly becoming normalized. It’s evidence that love can endure all things, albeit not without pain or tears.
My father loved like a father should. While his spiritual beliefs were still unclear to me at the time of his death, I believe God still used him to teach me to not take the easy way out and just give up on people (excepting, of course, truly toxic and abusive situations…but that’s a separate topic).
And what do you know: spirited debate is actually a very Jewish thing to do.
***
I didn’t always follow that example. I gave up on plenty of people over politics, during a season of intense spiritual doubt and poor mental health. Eventually I came to regret those decisions, but the damage to those relationships could not be undone.
So I work harder at maintaining the friendships I still have with people who don’t share my politics or faith. These are “unicorn friendships,” as my college friend Melissa likes to joke: friendships where we can disagree on everything from abortion to theology to parenting methods, but still get coffee and enjoy each other’s company.
It’s not always easy, and we do get into arguments from time to time. But after we’ve given each other space to cool off, we usually find our way back to each other’s DMs with memes and cat videos. Not unlike my relationship with my dad (except he didn’t really “do” social media).
***
So yes, David is a family name. But it’s also a reminder of what is possible in this complex, divisive world. It means “beloved” in Hebrew, which is what we are to God, no matter how we might stray or disappoint him with our choices. Like I was to my father.
