Reconciliation

By Fredrick David Hoff

I was a rebel of a child.  Even in my grade school days, I was “a handful and a rascal” to quote my grandmother.  This is the story of how her son (my father) and I were reconciled after many years of my prodigal son antics.  The task has fallen to me to tell the tale of how a wayward child found his way home.

In the early days of my life, I was hyperactive to no end.  My sisters had to sit on me and tickle me until I laughed, cried and/or struggled my way into exhaustion.  My father’s discipline during these tantrums only made me angrier and wild.  This led to lots of yelling laced with much cursing and degrading comments that seemingly poured upon my wounded heart.  I was hurt that my mother paid little-to-no attention to me once my little brother was born and became the “baby” of the family.  I had the “middle child” blues and I wasn’t going to take it anymore!

My Grandmother Ortie was a dyed-in-the wool Catholic who tried her best to tame her unruly grandchild.  She took me to church whenever she could get my “good clothes” on me and yes, I was expected to be “good” in those most uncomfortable clothes.  She alone saw through my pain down to my sensitive soul and she called me her angel.  Although she often commented to me in her stern, grandmotherly voice, “Freddy, I see those horns holding up your halo!”

As I graduated into middle, and then later high school, my father tried his best to reign in his wild number one son.  He took me fishing, but I couldn’t and wouldn’t stay still or quiet.  He coached me in football, basketball, baseball, and skiing where I did find some relief for my pent-up energy and occasionally violent mood swings.

When it came to the real discipline in our house, my dad was second to none in laying down the law of how I was to act “as long as I was living under his roof.”  Those turned out to be key words in our relationship as we will soon see.

To add fuel to the fire of my basically unsound mind and unstable disposition, I began drinking alcohol and doing drugs at an early age.  I was 9 or 10 years old when I began sneaking into the liquor cabinet or stealing beers from the fridge.  The booze somehow seemed to calm me down, which was a harbinger of things to come.

By age 16, I smoked marijuana, did acid, “shrooms,” peyote, and snorted the white powders like they were going out of style.  My son, my grandmother explained, it’s called “the devil’s dust”  after the ensuing years of debauchery.  I was a rebel and a rabble-rouser, a bully, a bad boy, and a macho man all through my high school years.  I had left church long behind to chase skirts and my next high.

When I left home to continue my education, I knew it would be a long time coming before I would return.  Yes, even with my addictive tendencies and sometimes inebriated mind, I got fairly good grades and was an all C.I.F quarterback in high school.  As an accomplished four-letter athlete, my goals were to become a college football star and to study architecture.

My family had money, so when I got to the campus as far as I was concerned, the party had just begun.  Within six months of my arrival at school, I was lost in a world of drug dealing and sexual conquests.  My college football career had ended with an injury and my dreams of stardom collapsed.  Like the prodigal son in God’s Holy Word, I was wasting living on the things of this world.

It is about at this time in my life that I began to have bouts of heavy, exceedingly deep and dark depression.  I see now that the devil had me by the tail and that my true-self, the kind, sensitive, loving child that my Grandma saw within me, was all but consumed by this maelstrom of the adversary; the prince of this world also known as Lucifer.  My bit of sanity hung in the balance between a life lived for death or a life reborn and begun anew.

Years passed as I struggled with my demons, but always my father was there to support me and let me know that no matter what, he loved and cared about me.  As I gaze back at my life I now understand that my dad’s unconditional love was a picture and an example of the love that God has for all His children, even for me, the ultimate wayward child.

Trouble with the law soon followed, and the time I spent in and out of jail began its ugly and unrelenting cycle.  Through it all, my earthly father was always there, coming along side of me calling me home.  Because I just would not settle down and find peace, I missed that part of a wonderful life with my family and loved ones.  I finally wandered down my dark road so far that there was no coming back. I wouldn’t be here to share this testimony with you today, except for the love, grace, and mercy of God, my Father in Heaven and His Son Jesus Christ.

I was convicted of manslaughter in 1996 and given 28 years 6 months to think about and pay for the things I had done.  God saved my soul through His Son Jesus.  He made sure there was a Bible in my isolation cell when I first got to jail. It was my 19^th felony arrest; and God willing, my last.  I began to read and learn all the things about my Father in Heaven that my grandmother shared with me as we walked so many years ago on our way to and from the church of my childhood.

I gave my life and my will to Jesus in those first weeks of my incarceration; and again, there was my dad, my grandmother’s son, standing right by my side throughout the trial, conviction, sentencing procedures, and all the visits over the years.

My grandmother, my mother, and my father have since passed on to be with Jesus, but the good Lord made sure my dad and I found common ground, ground for reconciliation.  A peace between my earthly father and I was born through a gift from my Heavenly Father, the gift of salvation that comes only through faith, faith in Jesus, “the salvation of the world.”

I have been reconciled, reconciled in more ways than one.  This prodigal, wayward and unruly son, has found the way home to my real home in heaven where I believe both of my loving Father’s await me with open arms.

Fredrick David Hoff