Fiercely, Imperfectly

“It’s Dad,” says the voice, sounding near tears. “I’m calling to tell you I love you. I love you more than the whole world, pal. You gotta get some help. I don’t know what to do. I know you don’t, either. But I’m here, no matter what you need. I love you.”

This is a voice mail President Biden left for his son in 2018, as Hunter Biden battled drug addiction. Exactly how it was obtained is murky, but Fox News’ Sean Hannity got hold of it, aired it on his show, and suggested it showed Joe Biden’s unfitness to be president.

Predictably, the Twittersphere erupted—but not in the way I expected. I braced for the pile-on of the trolls and cretins that usually seem to come out of the woodwork for this kind of thing.

Here’s what happened instead. The vast majority of Twitsters condemned the piece, asking “How does a father’s message of unconditional love for his son make the president look bad?” They called Hannity’s invasion of the Biden family’s privacy despicable, and his attempt to score political points craven. They expressed sympathy for a father doing whatever he could to help his addict son, and wondered why the clip was news. “In a world of Trumps and Hannitys,” wrote one poster, “be a Biden.”

Pretty soon, other commentators waded in. One of my favorites, Nickolas Kristof of the New York Times, wrote: “Hannity thought it reflected badly on the president. My reaction was that if more parents showed this kind of support for children in crisis, our national addiction nightmare might be easier to overcome.”

I personally don’t use social media. I have one flimsy LinkedIn account, and that’s only because I had to for work. The only reason I saw this story was because it was picked up in some of the media I do follow.

I’m glad I did. It leaves me feeling two things in equal measure: hope and shame.

Carson Sloan

Here’s the hope part. Joe Biden’s attempts to love his son through the struggles of addiction show the kind of character and compassion I want in my leaders. I was also heartened by the many readers who, in their responses, chose lightness over dark.

Hunter Biden is troubled, no question. He has addictive illness, and the messy impacts on his personal and professional life have, inevitably, followed. He tried to use his proximity to the White House for financial gain. He stands accused of lying on a gun application permit. These are relatively lightweight findings after a years-long investigation by a Trump-appointed judge (whom Biden purposely kept in place after he was elected, to assure impartiality.) It was probably imprudent for the president to say “My son has done nothing wrong” before it all played out. Still, after years of digging and lots of braying about corruption by the former president, there’s no solid evidence as yet that Joe Biden himself is guilty of anything.

But all this political sideshow is besides the point. What the whole sorry stunt showed, more than anything else,

was a father’s love for his troubled son. Hunter Biden and his demons are clearly a monumental headache for Joe Biden in political terms. But that’s the thing about loving anyone with mental health challenges, including addiction. There will be headaches. There will be heartaches. You have to take it all, including the unlovely parts. That’s what “unconditional” means.

Here's the shame part.

I know something about trying to love someone through their addiction. Reading what Joe Biden had to say to his loved one, at what had to be a nadir moment, leaves me feeling like I have failed. Too many times, when it mattered most, I did not measure up to the test of unconditional love.

This story----from the poignancy of a heartbroken father, to Fox's predictable foray into sleaze, to the heartening response of readers----has me thinking about my own North Star; the values I claim as I move through the world attempting to be a good human. I sometimes lose my way. Sometimes, some other human shows up and reminds me that I have to re-route toward my North Star. Having failed, my job is to try again. Better.

Here’s a start.

For every time I showed judgment rather than compassion, I am sorry.

For every time I mistakenly believed that tough love was the right way, I am sorry.

For every time I couldn’t hold two opposite things at the same time—that I love you and I am mad at you---I am sorry.

For every time I failed to see past the bad, scary choices, and appreciate the glorious, flawed, brilliant, maddening, extraordinary person that you are, I am sorry.

I loved you fiercely and imperfectly. And then I lost you. So I guess there is just one thing left. I will love those I still have. Fiercely. Imperfectly. Better.

Light Show Carson Sloan