Leaving An Impact on My Wife, My Community, and Broken Souls Like Me

The impact you leave behind is reflected in how others live by your memory and legacy

(Writer's Note: This will be my final blog post on A Life’s Walk with Cancer. Despite my current fight against Stage IV cancer, I plan to focus on my book, Ishmael's Cry: A Journey from Empty Hands to Loving Arms. It has been a privilege to share my cancer journey with you, and I hope my words have offered comfort and inspiration along the way. Thank you for your support and for walking this journey with me. With heartfelt gratitude, Alex).

By Alex Harrington

The news was delivered in a plain, wrinkled envelope. The words “American Red Cross” were prominently displayed on the front of the envelope. I started to feel my pulse quicken and wondered, “What’s this all about!?” With apprehension, I tore open the envelope and retrieved the contents. An emergency notification letter! The letter did not start with the customary formality that would be expected in a letter communicating an urgent matter or family crisis. Rather than using introductory words like “We regret to inform you” or “It is with deep sorrow,” the letter, typed by a station manager with the American Red Cross located in Seoul, South Korea, wrote the following in an emotionless tone:

“Civilian’s sister Terri Rathbun…requests notification and presence due to the death of civilian’s father, James Scripps. Death occurred 24 October 2004. Cause unknown. Death verified by Fayosh Funeral Home in Ford City, PA. [Civilian] is not aware and is and is asked to call his sister upon receipt of message.”

I must have reread the words in the notification letter of my father’s death about three times before I began to feel numb with shock. “He’s gone!?” suddenly swept over my mind surreally. I turned towards the window in my home office and looked at pedestrians walking by my villa apartment, located in Seoul, South Korea, trying to process the news of my father’s death.

Then, for a moment, I was transported back to our last conversation in 1994, the year of my honorable discharge from the Marine Corps after six years of service. It has been over ten years since I last spoke those words to him in 1994. “Ten years!” I thought. Ten lost years of any chance of reconciliation with my father before he died. Part of me wished that I had let go of my pride and reached out to him sooner to mend the broken relationship before his passing. But there was another part of me that was relieved that he was no longer living. Because now I don’t have to deal with the feeling of fear and shame when visiting him. No longer will I have to put up with the constant comparison that I’m not good enough. And no longer do I have to endure his hurtful words.

The following day, I booked a flight from Incheon International Airport, just outside the city of Seoul, to Cleveland, Ohio. The flight time took about 14 hours, a distance of about 6,600 miles. After landing in Cleveland, I rented a car and headed to my dad’s cabin in the Pennsylvania countryside. There, I was met by my half-brother Jim White, whose visage was strikingly similar to our father’s, the man I had once dreaded and feared.

Jim told me that our dad had been found dead on the kitchen floor. When I asked where he was buried, he told me that our dad’s last request for his fourth estranged wife was to conceal the whereabouts of his ashes from his own children. Even facing the door of death, my dad took us through one last hurtful jab by depriving us of the opportunity to pay our respects and find any sense of closure in the chaos and emotional wreckage we endured while living with him.

When I opened the front door to enter, I was not greeted by a welcoming, warm home filled with priceless, beloved memories; instead, a hollow shell of a life consumed with loneliness and bitterness greeted me. Not only had time stripped away everything of value, but the grasping hands of his fourth wife’s children had also ransacked the place. Jim even told me that as our father lay cold and lifeless, one of his barroom mistresses brought over some friends to plunder what little remained.

“Is this what you left behind?” I asked in the silence of my thoughts. No family stood by him, no tearful goodbyes or warm embraces. There were no final words of wisdom, no whispers of love, no “I’m proud of you” to cling to in the wake of his departure. The room offered nothing but the stale smell of Marlboro Reds, cheap whiskey, and beer—a lingering testament to his struggles. That was his legacy. It is not a story of love or redemption but one etched in anger, bitterness, and sorrow. He could have written another tale of his life. Moreover, he could’ve chosen a different path. But for reasons known only to him—or the demons that haunted him—he chose this one, leaving six children—John, Jamie, Jim, Terri, Marci, and me—to wonder what might have been.

Years later, from the last visit to an empty memorial of a man who bequeathed only broken hearts and emotional pain, I received a pittance of an inheritance in the form of a $2 check from his mother’s estate. The amount barely covered the postage required to send it. It was in that moment, standing in the debris of my dad’s life, that I made a vow: my legacy would be different. I would not leave behind an empty cabin and a bitter memory. Instead, my legacy will be one of selfless love for my wife, my community, and the broken souls of those who walked a path similar to mine.

A Legacy of Enduring Love

My experiences with my dad intertwined with my long-term battle against advanced Stage IV melanoma, have profoundly shaped my understanding of what it means to leave a legacy. Unlike the legacy my dad left to me and my siblings—one scarred by fear and pain rather than the love and security every child deserves—I am determined to create a new legacy, very different from the one passed onto us.

Having endured and survived the wounds inflicted by my dad’s verbal and physical abuse, I’ve struggled with feelings of unworthiness, shame, and a persistent sense of being an outsider with family and friends. Yet, through these very afflictions, my faith, perseverance, and resilience were forged together. Only by confronting the painful afflictions of my past, rather than turning away from them, was I able to heal and grow.

One would think that these painful afflictions would tear apart a person’s life, akin to a tornado tearing into a home, ripping apart its walls and foundations. But there is a deeper transformation for those who’ve faced and endured such afflictions. The affliction doesn’t destroy them; instead, it uncovers a wellspring of wisdom and strength. In the heart of our wounds lies the cornerstone of our actual value and purpose: to let our afflictions become the yeast for others that guides them toward their growth and self-discovery. This profound transformation can only occur when we fully embrace our afflictions and allow them to heal our minds and souls. Only then will these afflictions—instead of breaking us—enable us to become sources of comfort and nourishment for others enduring similar hardships.

Now more than ever, given my current health situation, I am committed to leaving a legacy of enduring love—one that becomes etched in the heart of my wife’s soul, my community, and men and women like me who have suffered at the hands of their abusive fathers. I want my legacy to be a beacon for those who need it most.

A Legacy of Love for My Soulmate: Loving Unconditionally

My heart’s desire has always been to find a place to call home, one that provides a tangible backdrop for cherished family moments and fosters love that knows no bounds for each one of its members. Home is not just a physical structure but a foundation upon which we build our legacies through our bonds, love, and memories.

My legacy began when I found Teresa, the incredible woman who holds the key to my heart. Teresa will always be the second-greatest choice I have made in my life—the first one was when I gave my life over to Yeshua. In her, I found the embodiment of everything I’ve ever hoped for in a wife—love that knows no bounds, a commitment that endures, and acceptance of one with many flaws. She was and is the kindred spirit I built a wonderful life with.

Many times, however, when I think about the uncertain road ahead due to my Stage IV melanoma cancer, I ponder about the legacy I will leave behind for Teresa, not just the financial support that will hopefully sustain her throughout the rest of her life, but more importantly, what type of man will she remember when I transcend this life to the next?

Whether I live a long life or my cancer takes me, what matters most is that I will continually strive to leave Teresa with cherished memories of unending love, laughter, and the knowledge that she was my most precious possession. During each day, as we live together, I will work hard—both in words and action—to build not just a home but a haven where love can flourish unconditionally. This has always been my heart’s desire. With her, I finally found my home.

Legacy of Love for My Community: Giving Back Generously

While working at a small town’s destination marketing office in 1997, I read about a juvenile detention center and its troublesome inner-city kids. I related to the challenges described, recalling my teenage years. Soon after reading the article, I volunteered in a soup kitchen at a local Salvation Army Center and met the late Major William Toddhunter, its director. As I dished out hot food to low-income families, I noticed several young kids and teens in line. During a break, I approached Major Toddhunter and asked, “Why doesn’t someone do something for these kids and teenagers?” With conviction, he responded, “Yes, you should!”

That fateful day, Major Toddhunter connected the article about troublesome inner-city teenagers with my own experiences, inspiring me to find a way to help those at risk. Soon after, Major Toddhunter and I, along with other volunteers, spearheaded the Richland County Young Marines, a youth program for inner-city youngsters and teens.

In the years following the founding of the Richland County Young Marines, I had the privilege of launching and directing other community-based educational projects. These included:

• a Korean student internship program that enhanced U.S. Army-Korean university relationships (2004–2005);
• a program where I taught conversational English to local Japanese through Friendship International in Sasebo, Japan (2001–2002);
• a Career Transition Academy that provided individuals going through a career transition with the “how-to” strategies to overcome job-search obstacles; and
• a career-related education program that has helped job seekers find rewarding careers in the public sector.

And just because I have stage IV cancer, I’m not going to stop serving the community. Currently, I’m leading a group of 25 volunteers to support a local church cleaning and decluttering. 

Whether through volunteering, mentoring, or simply lending a listening ear, I strive to be a positive influence. I hope to leave a legacy of unity and compassion, especially during these strenuous times in our country where so many are choosing sides. I want to lead by example and show that everyone is empowered to make a meaningful impact in their local community.

My battle with cancer has taught me that life is uncertain, but our legacy can endure, providing hope and inspiration to others.

A Legacy of Love for My Kindred Brothers and Sisters with Broken Hearts: Sharing My Story Courageously

As a Marine, I once found myself sitting across from the Commander of the 7th Marine Expeditionary Brigade. He asked me about my family, and while I didn’t say much, it was enough for him to quickly gather that I didn’t come from a typical “Leave It to Beaver” background.

“There’s one thing that binds all Marines together,” he said with a grin. “We’re a bunch of fricking misfits! And that’s what makes us the toughest sons-of-b!&@hes on the planet!”

From that moment on, during my enlistment, I felt like I had finally found my family—a group of genuine misfits. That sense of belonging has never faded, and today, I proudly wear the title of a professional misfit. Yet, it’s a badge of honor I never sought; it was bestowed upon me at an age far too young, and I know many other men and women out there who have yet to embrace their badge of honor.

Every child raised in an abusive and unloving environment carries a badge of honor, whether they recognize it or not. Tragically, thousands of these badges are earned every year. In the United States, one in 13 boys experiences child abuse. In 2022 alone, an estimated 1,990 children lost their lives to abuse and neglect—a number that has steadily risen over the past five years. The fatality rate is particularly high among boys, with 3.26 deaths per 100,000 boys compared to 2.25 per 100,000 girls (National Children’s Alliance and American Society for the Positive Care of Children). And boys make up a disproportionate number of neglect victims from birth to age 10 (Child Maltreatment 2022).

Men who have endured emotional, physical, or sexual abuse—or some or all—as children often grapple with feelings of unworthiness, shame, and a pervasive sense of being unclean. Despite their efforts to blend in, they often feel set apart from others. I know this internal struggle all too well. Even at 57, I still grapple with feelings of unworthiness, shame, and an ever-present sense of being different from those around me—like a perpetual outsider, peering into the world from the depths of loneliness. However, in the depths of my wounds, as well as through cancer, I discovered my true vocational calling:

To reach those whom others cannot, those bound and tormented by the shadows of their past. In my final chapter of life, I aspire to use my personal struggles and experiences as a tool to help them break free from their emotional and spiritual shackles and find healing in the boundless grace and love of God through His Son, Yeshua.

Through writing, I’ve discovered a powerful way to connect with kindred spirits—those who remain unreachable, weighed down by the burdens of their past afflictions and persecutions. By sharing my life experiences and struggles, I aim to show them that they, too, can break free from their torments and find healing through God’s grace and love. In my journey to connect with these broken souls, I aim to “write something worth reading” that will be of value to those who have gone through the familial battlefield. Oswald Chambers once reflected, “The reason we are going through the things we are is that God wants to know whether he can make us good bread with which to feed others. The stuff of our lives, not simply of our talk, is to be the nutrient of those who know us.” I hope to provide sustenance drawn from the experiences and struggles that have shaped my life.

When I look back with humility and pride, at the impact I’ve made in the world by serving in the U.S. Marine Corps and as a civil servant in law enforcement, as well as all of my volunteer and nonprofit involvement, I am grateful to have been able to contribute to these efforts and do some good in the world, despite being a misfit.

My father left behind a legacy of pain and tears. Despite the legacy he left for me and my sisters and brothers, I will leave behind a legacy of love—one that honors my wife, my community, and those broken souls like me who wear the badge of honor as survivors and misfits. I hope my legacy endures long after my passing and helps guide those broken souls out of their despair and into the light of a life brimming with love, healing, and hope.

ajh