“I thought you knew…”

I caught sight of them while slowing down for a red light ahead. The thirty-something man, dressed in a fine suit, was holding hands with an adoring little girl, presumably his daughter. Oblivious to the bustle of the morning all around them, they seemed in rapt attention with one another, talking and laughing as they walked. Then, in what I consider an inspiring expression of fatherly freedom, they suddenly began skipping in unison along the crowded sidewalk. Passers-by couldn’t help smiling, even if self-consciously averting their eyes. I was captivated and regretted it when the light changed.

I tend to notice fathers with their children.

At a recent leadership retreat sponsored by my employer, I was charged with delivering to my fellow participants a short presentation expressing “my story.” Considerable liberty was given regarding content, so I chose to tell about an inexplicable encounter with God (and my father) that brought both healing and direction to my life.

I scribbled a few notes for the talk, but I honestly found the best preparation to be prayer and introspection. While reflecting, something my father said to me many times during my childhood and adolescence came painfully to mind.

“You’re not worth the powder to blow you to hell.”

Those words remain disturbingly accessible to my psyche even in this seventh decade of life. Sometimes, while with my grandchildren, I think about their innocent susceptibility to emotional injury and about the terrible implications if they were to hear such words directed their way, especially if spoken by someone they love, someone charged with their protection and formation.

When I read my resume, it is often with an odd sense of detachment. The career path and achievements detailed therein can actually intimidate me and feel as though they are someone else’s work, feats well beyond my capabilities. I believe the term currently used to describe this phenomenon is “imposter syndrome.”

I also wrestle this beast every time I sit down to write, which is likely why I so seldom post a new essay to my blog. Yes, I am in a long-term relationship with self-doubt (and shame). I also believe, however, that God is healing me incrementally, choosing opportune moments to speak a beautiful new reality into this wounded heart.

What follows describes just such an occasion.

I first encountered Peter Meinke’s powerful poem “Untitled” (reproduced entirely below) more than 30 years ago. I was overseeing a weekend retreat at the time, and one of the retreatants, a kind gentleman named Gene, who – coincidentally? – was just about my Dad’s age, read it aloud to the group.

The words, written by a father to his son in reparation for the harm he had caused him, seized me unexpectedly, even violently. Fighting back tears, I considered leaving the room but then concluded doing so would only draw attention to my embarrassing reaction. Instead, I bowed my head, took deep breaths, and battled to keep my composure.

Over the course of (then) recent months, Gene had become a dear friend. I first met him when he enrolled in an evangelization workshop I was teaching in his parish. From the start, I was drawn to his genial, affirming manner.

Gene was an educator by profession; and, though I was technically the instructor in our shared workshop, I really learned a great deal from him. At one of our sessions, for example, I was chatting with Gene during a coffee break and asked him about his experience while pursuing his PhD. Specifically, I wanted to know what he valued most about the experience. His response made a lasting impression.

“Oh Steve, that’s easy,” he said. “The best part of my studies was the research. It was such a privilege to take a topic I cared deeply about and to explore it from every direction, to peel it like an onion finding every hidden layer. Doing research is what taught me to learn to love to learn.”

At the time, I had no hint that I would one day become a research librarian. When I did, however, Gene’s words became my mission statement. With every student who sought my assistance, my goal was always to help her/him “learn to love to learn.”

The Meinke poem haunted me. My initial reaction had been so overwhelming, I was certain I needed to go further with it, certain that God intended my cooperation.

Several days after the retreat, I recognized a possible opportunity. I had a light workload at the parish and knew that I would not be missed if I spent some time praying in front of the Blessed Sacrament. Before deciding definitively that the timing was right, however, I peeked inside the building to see if I would have the privacy I knew I would need. Thankfully, the church was completely empty.

I brought a printed copy of “Untitled” with me and knelt before the Tabernacle. Since Catholics believe in the abiding presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, I trust there is no better place to open one’s heart to God.

As soon as I glanced at the page, as soon as I saw the words “I thought you knew” I began to sob ferociously.

Some tears seem to originate directly behind or within the eyes. These felt as though they were springing from within my soul.

Here is the poem that affected me so profoundly.


This is a poem to my son Peter
whom I have hurt a thousand times
whose large and vulnerable eyes
have glazed in pain at my ragings
thin wrists and fingers hung
boneless in despair, pale freckled back
bent in defeat, pillow soaked
by my failure to understand.
I have scarred through weakness
and impatience your frail confidence forever
because when I needed to strike
you were there to hurt and because
I thought you knew
you were beautiful and fair
your bright eyes and hair
but now I see that no one knows that
about himself, but must be told
and retold until it takes hold
because I think anything can be killed
after awhile, especially beauty
so I write this for life, for love, for
you, my oldest son Peter, age 10,
going on 11.

(Peter Meinke)

Though alone in the church, my powerful emotional response made me self-conscious. Several times, I looked around through bleary eyes to make sure I’d not been mistaken regarding my solitude. Then, just as my concerns were sufficiently assuaged, I heard the unmistakable sound of the church’s large front door opening.

I regret admitting this, but my first reaction was anger. Seriously, God had put me in this very vulnerable place and then wouldn’t/couldn’t protect my privacy?

I dried my eyes as best I could and began praying that the invader would kneel, say a quick prayer in the rear of the church, and exit with no further trouble. Then, I heard the footsteps coming down the aisle in my direction. I bowed my head and quietly simmered.

As the interloper passed by on my left, I discreetly glanced in that direction. My heart immediately softened. Of all people, it was Gene.

He must have sensed the intensity of the moment for he was very respectful of my space. It occurred to me later that he may have even seen the Meinke poem in my hand and read the situation clearly. He was, after all, a very perceptive man.

Though I didn’t notice it at first, Gene, a Eucharistic minister, had a pix in his hand. He had come to the church specifically to retrieve the consecrated Hosts to bring Communion to the shut-ins he visited regularly.

He genuflected, opened the Tabernacle door, then turned to me. “Would you like to receive the Eucharist, Steve?”

“That would be so beautiful!“ I replied, my voice shaking in the winds of grace.

I received Eucharist twice in that moment – first in the sacred Host and second in Gene’s fatherly hug. I wept in that good man’s arms, no longer concerned with privacy or appearances.

“I thought you knew…”

I never did.

But, I’m learning.

Perhaps you are too.


I have honestly forgiven my father, who passed away in the fall of 2013, but forgiveness does not necessarily heal one’s wounds. I write as a cathartic exercise and not to pass on blame. My sincere hope is to hold my father’s hand in God’s Kingdom and to skip unashamedly with this man I have always loved but have not always understood. Again, I’m learning… with God’s grace.

19 thoughts on ““I thought you knew…”

  1. Linda

    Steve, I was introduced to you yesterday after Mass but have followed your blog for some time. I’m always delighted to read your posts as they’re filled with humility and grace. Thank you for your honest, soul-searching prospective. May God continue to bless you on your journey.

    1. sdalton43 Post author

      Linda, it’s so good to hear from you. And, it was very nice to meet you. Thank you for following and for your kinds words. May God bless you richly as well. Happy Thanksgiving!

  2. Francis M. Gaffney

    Steve, inspiring beyond words. The poem made me think of the times I may have struck out at my children; my beautiful wife, Joanne; or others and made me realize that I have to forgive myself for doing so and hope that they have forgiven me. Frank

    1. sdalton43 Post author

      Frank, great to hear from you. Meinke says so much in that short poem; and, as you expressed, it is all about forgiveness. Thanks again to you and Joanne for being part of the great conspiracy on November 9. We’ll have to get together once you and Joanne return from Florida. Blessings always!

  3. Cathy Cunningham

    Steve – thank you for being confident enough in vulnerability to share this. It’s a powerful story and inspiring. My experience growing up was constant criticism and what I assumed was the implied message that I was never “good enough”. It never occurred to me that perhaps my parents thought I already knew that I was enough and thought their job as parents was to push me to be better.
    I so appreciate your ministry as a research librarian. During my time at the STM I realized that I love research and you were one of the people who made the resources of the library accessible to me. The library is one of my happy places where I feel safe, supported, and surrounded by kindred spirits.

    1. sdalton43 Post author

      Cathy, it’s very nice to hear from you. I’m really sorry that you faced such an emotional burden growing up. Criticism from parents can be disheartening.

      Meinke’s “I thought you knew…” really helped me. Maybe, just as you suggest, our loved ones actually thought we knew we were “beautiful and fair.” And, maybe they’ve yet to have the breakthrough Meinke had that “no one knows that about himself…”

      One true blessing is that we can now help each other recognize our beauty and fairness before God. I hope/trust that the TML provides a place where that can happen.

      Have a blessed Thanksgiving! And, thank you for taking the time to comment.


  4. Kevin Dowd

    So beautifully crafted, Steve, but much more than that, so rich in human treasure and Divine! I’m getting used to crying with you. Tears are a baptism of sorts, a cleansing, a catharsis, and a commitment to all that is truly human, for as Merton reminds us, such is the image of God. Tears of solidarity in the face of affliction, long ago or freshly delivered, are also tears of hope, remembering that all things will be reconciled in Christ, and that in Christ we will hear the words we have always longed to hear, that no earthly father could ever speak adequately, and sometimes didn’t speak at all–or worse, spoke contrarily–those words which are the essence of Baptism: “You are my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.” Thank you for bringing this vulnerable, heart-felt, and grace-filled reflection as a gift to the Thanksgiving–the Eucharistic–table! Blessings my friend!! Happy Thanksgiving!!

    1. sdalton43 Post author

      Kevin, your insights are quite beautiful, as usual. You are a gift to many people, my friend, and I am privileged to be on that long and growing list. I look forward to breaking bread together soon. In the meantime, have a fantastic Thanksgiving! – Steve

  5. Norma

    How to forgive someone who never has asked for your forgiveness? That’s the question that faces me as I face going home and seeing those who make me want to run them over with my car, change my name then flee the continent. I’ll instead stew in a corner as I watch them do confusing and upsetting things like watching football and yelling at the TV screen. Maybe at some point I’ll wander into a separate room and spend a horrific and unenlightening hour picturing tire marks on their L.L.Bean sweaters.

    This was a good post and I appreciated the poem. Happy Thanksgiving!

    1. sdalton43 Post author

      Norma, I’m sorry for the relationship challenges facing you. Holidays can be blessings, but they can also bring great pain. If it helps, my Dad never asked for forgiveness. God had to intervene to bring about that dimension of healing. My encounter with Gene inside the church was one such mediated intervention. Honestly, I may carry wounds from the past until I draw my final breath, but it has been a great blessing to cooperate with God by letting go of resentments. I hope you will have a more blessed Thanksgiving than expected. – Steve

  6. John Tranfaglia

    Reflecting on my own relationships through your perspective makes me hopeful I too can forgive
    All the Best
    Happy Thanksgiving

  7. Jocelyn

    Dear Steve, I know I am several months late. BUT thank you for sharing your beautiful post with me. I prayed and cried along with you. Thank you! I am grateful for you, your writing, and your friendship. I pray you are healthy and well, and I pray that you are finding hope and joy in these difficult days. Thank you so much for sharing this with me. Peace and gratitude for you, Jocelyn

    On Sun, Nov 24, 2019 at 5:48 PM Musings Amid the Thorns wrote:

    > sdalton43 posted: “I caught sight of them while slowing down for a red > light ahead. The thirty-something man, dressed in a fine suit, was holding > hands with an adoring little girl, presumably his daughter. Oblivious to > the bustle of the morning all around them, they seemed ” >

    1. sdalton43 Post author

      Jocelyn, it was a blessing to receive your compassionate comment, my friend. Thank you so much! This essay resulted in a strong response, with some of the messages being sent to me privately. I think many people carry similar wounds and are thus traveling a similar road toward inner healing. I hope that you are safe and well. God bless you! – Steve


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