A long walk Home

I grew up in the south of Spain in a little community called Stepona. I was 16 when one morning my father told me I could drive him into a remote village called Mijas, about 18 miles away, on the condition that I take the car in to be serviced at a nearby garage. Having just learned to drive, and hardly ever having the opportunity to use the car, I readily accepted. I drove Dad into Mijas and promised to pick him up at 4 p.m., then drove to a nearby garage and dropped off the car. Because I had a few hours to spare, I decided to catch a couple of movies at a theatre near the garage. However, I became so immersed in the films that I completely lost track of time. When the last movie had finished, I looked down at my watch. It was six o’clock. I was two hours late!

I knew dad would be angry if he found out I’d been watching movies. He’d never let me drive again. I decided to tell him the car needed some repairs and that they had taken longer than had been expected. I drove up to the place where we had planned to meet and saw Dad waiting patiently on the corner. I apologized for being late and told him that I’d come as quickly as I could, but the car had needed some major repairs. I’ll never forget the look he gave me.

“I’m disappointed that you feel you have to lie to me, Jason.” “What do you mean? I’m telling the truth.” Dad looked at me again. “When you did not show up, I called the garage to ask if there were any problems, and they told me you had not yet picked up the car. So you see, I know there were no problems with the car.” A rush of guilt ran through me as I feebly confessed to my trip to the movie theatre and the real reason for my tardiness. Dad listened intently as sadness passed through Him.

“I’m angry, not with you but with myself. You see, I realized that I have failed as a father if after all these years you have to lie to me. I have failed because I brought up a son who cannot even tell the truth to his own father. I’m going to walk home now and contemplate where I have gone wrong all these years.”

“But dad, it’s 18 miles to home. It’s dark. You can’t walk home.” My protests, my apologies and the rest of my utterances were useless. I had let my father down, and I was able to learn one of the most painful lessons of my life. I quickly jumped in the car and followed behind, hoping he would relent. I pleaded all the way, telling him how sorry I was, but he simply ignored me, continuing on silently, thoughtfully and painfully. For 18 miles I drove behind him, averaging about 5 miles per hour.

Seeing my father in so much physical and emotional pain was the most distressing and painful experience that I have ever faced. However, it was also the most successful lesson. I have never lied to him since.