"Uncle Charlie" Died

reflecting on the passing of the person who hurt me the most in this life

Friends.

I sat with this post for over a week and have mulled over the words again and again and again to make sure I have the story right, to make sure my heart gets to say what it needs to say so that it can feel a little bit lighter. I passed it on to people to read, to get their feedback and their thoughts. It’s one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written, perhaps one of the most vulnerable things I’ve ever shared - a part of my life journey that I don’t like to talk about, that I don’t typically let people into.

But.

I’m sharing parts of it today for a couple of reasons, which I’ll state later on; but, for now … I had a weird feeling one night while sitting on the couch with Dana a couple of weeks ago - a feeling that my Step-Father died.

Strange, right?

Back in March 2023 my Step-Step Dad passed away. His name was Jim Siepert and to me, HE was my dad - the man I looked up to, the man who believed in me. He had been in my life for almost 20 years and losing him was a heartbreaking loss.

My Step-Father, though?

His name was Charlie A. Graf (I called him “Uncle Charlie” from the time I was 3 because at 3 years old that’s the name I gave him and it stuck); and he was in my life from the time I was 3 until the day he walked out on me and my mom towards the end of my time at college - emptying the checkbooks and leaving us with absolutely nothing. It was an agonizingly difficult time that marked the end of an 18 year season of life that contained some good times, sure, but ultimately left me (and my mom) wounded, broken, and beat down.

And back then? No one knew this, no one had a clue. On the outside we were a happy family; my friends always told me that I was “so lucky to have such a cool and involved and loving dad like Uncle Charlie.”

But.

Honestly?

When the friends went home and the doors closed, things were different. Real different.

Anyways.

I had this feeling that he passed away (he was 78) and so I did a Google search and within seconds found his obituary stating that he passed away a few days earlier.

And.

Of course.

I read the obituary. That’s what you do, right? “Oh look, this person passed away” and then you read the obituary that (typically) shares a blurb about their life, who they are survived by, a few of their accomplishments, etc.

This obituary, though?

Phew.

It painted a picture that (based upon my experience) was far, far from accurate - portraying a man who was loving and kind and full of joy, a man who was there for everyone with the life aim of following in the footsteps of Jesus. There was mention of his first wife (my mom was his 3rd), but no mention of my mom, of me, or even reference to the 20ish years we spent together … it was if those times were erased from reality. It also had a link to a video of his memorial service that was held at his church a few days after his passing, a service that contained a video of him sharing his own life story that the pastor had previously recorded.

And friends?

I watched this video and immediately felt my blood pressure go up as I listened to the man I called “Uncle Charlie” tell stories from his life that were far, far from accurate, causing a volcano of grief and rage to erupt within me. For the last week my emotions have gone up and down and left and right and All. Over. The. Place. I’ve cried. I’ve cursed. I’ve trembled. I’m exhausted.

I mean.

It’s one thing to feel a sense of grief over someone’s passing (even if that someone did/said a lot of hurtful things).

BUT.

It’s another thing to feel an added layer of grief by being gaslit by someone who is now on the other side of the veil and can no longer be confronted or held accountable for their words.

In his video he said that his divorce (from my mom) was due to her “infidelity”, which was the “cause of the problems in our home”. The reality, though? For years he was physically present but emotionally and mentally absent, emotionally and mentally abusive, and full of rage and anger that used to scare us to death. A few years before the divorce he looked at me straight in the face as my best friend was walking through our front door for dinner and a sleepover and said, “daddy doesn’t want to be here anymore”.

It was a night we had been planning for weeks.

I was excited.

My friend’s parents were coming over for dinner.

We had plans to play video games.

Order pizza late at night.

Stay up watching movies until our eyes bled.

… and Uncle Charlie tossed a grenade in the whole thing by telling me (who was 15 or 16 at the time) that he was so miserable that he no longer wanted to live with me and my mom. The night was ruined and the weight of shame I felt was unbearable.

“Uncle Charlie doesn’t want to be here any more?” I felt like I wasn’t good enough, I felt like I wasn’t worth fighting for, I felt like garbage - like there was something wrong with me.

And that feeling? That feeling that “there’s something wrong with me”? Gosh. As a teenager it’s easy enough to feel like there’s something wrong with you, right? Growing up is hard. Fitting in is hard. Trying to find yourself is hard. Every day of junior high and high school feels like an uphill battle.

But, this?

When you live with someone who is supposed to make you feel loved, but makes you feel unloved.

Who is supposed to make you feel safe, but makes you feel unsafe.

Who is supposed to make you feel important, but makes you feel worthless.

Who is supposed to build you up, but tears you down.

Who is supposed to be your safe place, but makes you live with your guard up 24/7.

Sigh.

It makes the hard things about growing up and finding yourself and believing in yourself all the more difficult.

Anyways. He ended up staying, but things only got worse.

As a teenager he challenged me to a fist fight multiple times, got in my face and screamed so loud that spit was flying on my glasses. I yelled and told him to stop, to leave me alone, to get away from me; and (instead) he would bang his chest, go nose to nose with me, and say, “you want to fight me? Let’s go. Go ahead, I dare you. Hit me. Right now - HIT ME.” I can remember waking up in the middle of the night hearing him screaming, my mom crying … wondering if I’d wake up the next morning and still have a family.

It’s a mix-mash of memories. Isn’t that how trauma works? You remember some things from earlier in life and that’s meshed with things later in life … but all the things? The memories make your…

Insides crawl.

The hair on your arms stand up.

Your heart race.

Your body feel like it’s right back there agan.

As a child (maybe Jordan’s age) I would hear him pull into the driveway and I would hide in my room because I wasn’t sure what version of Uncle Charlie was going to walk through the door. I watched him break down a bathroom door on top of my mom who had locked herself inside to get away from him. I lunged on to him because I was afraid and he pushed me onto their bed as I listened to the cracking of the wood, the cries of my mom, and his screaming and yelling. I watched him throw a broom through a wall. One time he got so mad at his mother (my grandmother) that he hooked up a snow plow to his truck, drove around her house multiple times with the plow down, and ripped up her lawn. Another time he got so angry at a customer at his place of business that he threw the customer through a glass door, jumped on top of him, and slammed his head into the pavement.

Sigh. These are all true stories, and just a few of many more. None of which, by the way, was even so much as alluded to by him on his video that was played at the memorial service - not even a vague apology or a hint of remorse.

Instead.

He said that during the divorce proceedings he had a heart attack, but since he had no family and no friends he found himself all alone in the hospital where he had his moment with God, dedicating his life to Jesus, vowing to be a different person, etc. He said that he was on the operating table listening to the doctors talk about how he was going to die all the while knowing he wasn’t done yet, that God had more for him to do.

That story, though?

Goodness.

The procedure he had during the divorce was (by his own admittance to us at the time) an “elective procedure” resulting from an actual heart attack he had when I was in the 6th grade. We were at the Meadowlands Fair in NJ for a family outing with my best friend and he started having chest pains. The paramedics brought him into the locker room of Giants Stadium where they got his vitals and then got him in an ambulance and rushed him to the hosptial with me and my mom following in our car.

It’s true - he did almost die.

It’s also true that he heard the doctors talking about him while he was on the operating table (a story he told often when I was younger).

In fact, the doctor told me and my mom to go in and “say our goodbyes” because “there was nothing else they could do”. My grandma came. Other family members came. I called the church and we started a “prayer chain” … and he lived, vowing to be a different person.

Far from being alone, though - he was surrounded by family, surrounded by love, surrounded by prayer.

Did he forget this?

Did he deliberately twist the story?

It was a moment in my life I will never forget. Yes, we had problems in our home, but … I loved him. Right? He was “Uncle Charlie” and I didn’t want him to die. I remember crying, I remember praying, I remember holding his hand in the hospital, I remember sitting by his bedside (I was in the 6th grade), reading my Bible and telling God I’d do anything if he lived.

Sigh.

When I was in middle school I took his last name as my own. Yes, for many years my name was “Glenn Graf”. We got a lawyer, I got dressed in a suit and tie, and we went before a judge to have my name changed, leaving the name of my biological father (who is a whole other story!) behind. The judge asked me why I wanted to take Charlie’s last name as my own and through tears I talked about the lack of relationship I had with my biological father and how Uncle Charlie had been in my life for so many years, being (what I thought was) a “dad to me” in the absence of my own - playing catch, helping me with my homework, etc.

Fast forward to the divorce proceedings, I was sitting in the back of the courtroom as a seminary student who had a full load of coursework, was carrying a 4.0 GPA, and was an intern at a church. I was there to support my mom as we hoped to close this chapter of our lives and move on. She told me I didn’t have to come, but we had been through hell together and I wanted to look Uncle Charlie in the eye as he took the stand to tell his story, verbalize his demands, etc.

The day is a blur, but one thing that will forever be lodged in my brain: at one point the judge asked about me, what Uncle Charlie’s plans were to be a support to me, to continue to be a presence in my life … and I’ll never forget his response.

“I have no plans”, he said. “Glenn doesn’t have a job, is mooching off of me, and I never wanted him to be my son anyways.” He told the judge he wanted me to pay him rent while I lived in the house I grew up in (which would soon be sold) and that he wanted a restraining order against me because I was violent … to which the judge gladly obliged.

What.

The.

As I said - I was an intern, I was carrying a full course load for a Master’s Program, and I was acing every class. HE challenged me to multiple fights and I never laid a hand on him, never raised my hand, never “took the bait”. My mom’s lawyer ended up gathering proof that Uncle Charlie’s story wasn’t true and the judge, in turn, reprimanded him, told me I didn’t have to pay rent, and undid the restraining order.

Sigh.

Those words, though?

(“I never wanted him to be my son” and “he’s mooching” and “he’s violent”)

Ugh. They have rang in my ears for the last 20 years, echoing against a wall of memories like the ones I mentioned above - sprinkled with good times and smiles here and there, for sure … but overshadowed by years and months and days and hours that were lived in fear, insecurity, and self-doubt.

Self-doubt?

I’ve told the story before of “an important person in my life” who tore down many of my dreams …

At one time I wanted to be an artist, but my art (I was told) wasn’t good enough.

For many years I wanted to play third base for the Yankees, a dream that (I was told) wasn’t reasonable.

I wanted to be a veterinarian, a goal that (I was told) wasn’t realistic for someone who was as soft as me and would be unable to deal with losing animals - putting them to sleep, not being able to make them well, etc.

I wanted to go to Yale Divinity School or Duke University to study theology and religion, but it was emphasized to me how hard it would be to get into such prestigious schools.

The shattered dreams go on and on, but the one who shot them down? Uncle Charlie. He wouldn’t always come right out and say it so bluntly, of course, but the feeling I was always left with after verbalizing my hopes and dreams and goals was that …

They weren’t realistic.

I couldn’t do it.

I’d probably fail.

I needed to grow up.

I should find a more reliable profession.

I needed to make money more than be happy.

Etc.

When I was in middle school I expressed my desire to go to art school and to be a cartoonist or animator for Disney or Hannah Barbara or Warner Brothers, but Charlie (who was an artist) said that my art wasn’t "up to par” - I couldn’t draw hands that well, my sense of color wasn’t great, and I relied too much on tracing paper. I told him that I liked to trace because it taught me how to draw the things I struggled with - I used it as a “tutorial” of sorts (since online tutorials weren’t a thing yet(!)).

But.

Even so.

He never really spoke words that would help me believe in myself and get better. Even as an artist, he never invited me to “make art” with him, never showed me how to use his airbrush that he used almost every day, never showed me how to do anything artistic.

And so I put my art stuff away. I had drawn every day for years and years, but I remember closing my sketch pad and telling myself, “I’ll never draw again”. And for 30+ years, I kept that promise to myself until a few years ago my wife and daughter and mom got me some art supplies for Christmas and helped reawaken a part of myself that I thought was long, long gone.

But, man.

For most of my life I have struggled with self-doubt, struggled to believe in myself because the man I looked up to the most as a child didn’t do much to show his own belief in me.

I struggled with self-doubt all through high school.

I struggled with it in college.

I struggled with it in seminary.

I struggled with it as a pastor.

I struggled with it as a husband.

I struggled with it as a father.

And so, yeah. When I watched the video of him speaking at his memorial service, my blood boiled as I listened to him tell stories that weren’t true and painted himself to be a support and believer in everyone … everyone but me.

Anyways.

I share this story with you today not because I want to drag his name through the mud. As I said, there were many good times. There were laughs, there were smiles, there were memorable vacations and Christmases and Yankee games and playing catch in the backyard.

It wasn’t all bad.

But.

I’m in a place where I watched this very public video that was filled with very inaccurate information, which brought up some very real feelings inside; and so this is my attempt to do 2 things.

(1) To share some of my own story, process some of my own pain …

Very.

Real.

Pain.

… and name my experiences.

Because somewhere deep down inside, somewhere I was hoping for an apology - an apology that I (now) have no chance of ever getting. An apology for what he said in court about never wanting me to be his son, an apology for the times he tried to fight me, an apology for the fear he created in me as a child, an apology for the way he spread lies about my character, the ways he (directly and indirectly) put me down, crushed so many of my childhood dreams.

Even if he didn’t mention specifics.

Even if it was vague.

Even if it was subtle.

Just a sign of remorse.

Just a hint of an apology.

Perhaps it’s selfish? Or maybe it’s naive? Maybe a mix of both. But a younger version of myself who still lives inside of me was hoping he’d say, “I have a lot of regrets about my past marriage, about the way I treated my ex-wife and step-son. We all did and said things that we would probably take back today, but I know that I did and said many things that caused pain and deep wounds. I might never be able to speak to them again, but since they will see this video and have to go on to keep living their lives - I want them to know how sorry I am and that I truly hope the best for them.”

Is it wrong to hope for that?

To expect it in some way?

To long for it?

I don’t know, but deep down inside that’s what a little version of me was hoping for - that’s what a father would do, SHOULD do. Instead, though? Instead it felt like I got flipped off one more time - this time from the grave.

(2) To remind myself that if he hadn’t discouraged my dreams of being an artist, playing professional baseball, being a veterinarian, going to Yale or Duke or wherever - I wouldn’t have the life I have now.

That’s weird to think about, right? Like really weird.

But.

It’s true …

I wouldn’t have gone to Nyack College.

I wouldn’t have had to do a Youth Ministry internship.

I wouldn’t have ended up at the church I spent my college/seminary years at.

I wouldn’t have met Dana in that church.

We would have never dated.

We would have never married.

We would have never had Jordan.

I wouldn’t be living an amazing life with my very best friend had I pursued any one of those other dreams.

And so.

Yeah.

It was hard. It was painful. There was a lot of pain. A lot of tears. A lot of fear. A lot of weight. A lot of burdens. And there’s a lot of baggage to unpack and heal from.

But.

Somehow and in some way God or Jesus or the Divine or the Universe or whatever used it for good and for that, I am grateful.

And lastly, (3) - this is my way of saying something I never got to say to him - I forgive him.

I do.

And it’s important for me to say that, to put that into writing so that I can read it again and again and put that energy into the universe. I might be angry with him, I might feel my blood boiling at points, I might feel my blood pressure go up when I think of some of the things I mentioned above, when I think about the video of him sharing his story … but - I forgive him and I truly hope that he is at rest. I hope he takes his seat at the big banquet table of heaven with nothing but joy for all of eternity even if (when I get there!) I’ll choose to sit at the other end.

I know that his own childhood was filled with various traumatic experiences and I know that he carried his own baggage, his own wounds - his own unhealed hurts that were stuffed down and never dealt with so that they overflowed onto me, my mom, and many other people he came into contact with.

But he was more than his wounds, right? Aren’t we all? He was more than his mistakes. He was more than the horrendous things he sometimes did and said.

There was good in him.

There was a good heart deep down inside.

There was love.

There was joy.

There was.

But he (like we all do) very often forgot who he was, forgot the image of the Divine that he was created in … and lived from his own hurts, his own wounding - thus hurting those around him, instead of living from the love and the joy that was within him, that is within us all.

And so here I am in all of my grief, friends - wrestling with hurts, wrestling with questions, longing for words I’ll never hear … and choosing to verbalize forgiveness and pain and disappointment and gratitude in this very messy, all over the place post.

Yeah.

This post is messy, I know.

These words are all over the place, I realize.

Rather than a beginning, middle, and end - it’s a giant ball of memories and feelings and words and tears and anger and confusion.

But.

That’s grief, isn’t it? And it’s OK.

I forgive you, Uncle Charlie, even though you never showed me any remorse; and I will be for Jordan what you weren’t able to be for me. May you rest in peace.

Much love, friends. Thanks for reading.

• Glenn || PATREON / ART STUDIO