I Hope You Rot..

And that, my friends, is what you call marketing.  Be honest, you were hoping to read bashing words, blood curdling tongue lashings, even.  What a trauma addicted society we live in...but that's a whole other post. (Note: I am too.  Like reading internet comments and watching the dung fly.. I'm working on it!)

Back to my point

All over my house I have this one piece of Scripture that is imprinted on various items.  Most of them were gifts given to me by loved ones.  I have coffee mugs, journals, plaques etc, everywhere with ps 46:1.  God is our refuge and strength.  Recently, I unwrapped a new journal with this on the front purposefully because I would use it to empty out some painful areas and the cover just seemed appropriate.  Before writing the first sentence I mulled over that verse.  Really?  Refuge?  What does that mean to me?  

The first picture that came across my mind was like a scene in the desert. (I have a vivid imagination, so bear with me) It's hot, like super hot.  I'm seeing oasis' everywhere.  Just something to cool me.  I'm so tired and can't walk another step, almost in crawling position.  I see a huge building in the distance.  Actually, I'm more struck by the shadow the building cast.  I think, if I can just make it to that shady part I can rest.  It's safe.  It'll shelter me.  I can lean against it and catch my breath.  

Refuge.

These past few weeks I've had a thousand little things and a few big things just knock the wind out of me.  Today, after getting my purse stolen and all the familiar feelings it brought with it, I had to run to my Refuge.  In the midst of being so vulnerable I needed to feel safe, protected, and at peace.  I could choose to get angry (ok I did for about an hour), I could be sitting here keeping vigil over my car, or I could think of a million things that could go wrong. Or I could sit here in the shade after having done all I know to do and just pray and trust.  

Or maybe I'll take a nap!

Happy Father's Day, eventually..

I remember those few awkward phone calls like they were yesterday.  Prolonged silence, as we were too unfamiliar with each other to enable a sizable conversation, followed by a hollow declaration of his love for me.  Then before exiting my life once more he'd ask if I loved him.  Without question I'd reply with a yes, knowing if I'd spare a moment to think, he would notice my hesitation and I'd have a split second to acknowledge to myself that I was being dishonest.  With slurred and mumbled words he'd say goodbye for another year or two and I'd resume life as if he didn't exist because in reality, he didn't. 

Growing up I repeatedly heard my birth story. Daddy really, really wanted me to be a boy. When the doctor handed him the swaddled bundle he announced, "here's your boy, we just cut him a little short!"  The first eyes that looked upon me were eyes of disappointment.  Every time I heard that story as a child I was reminded that I was not wanted.  I'm sure he grew to love me the best he could but couple that with him abandoning us a few years later, the thoughts of being unwanted and disregarded like yesterday's trash only solidified. 

At 14 years of age I remember telling my sister that I wouldn't cry at our Daddy's funeral. She was ashamed at the thought and I knew I'd crossed the line by saying that but how could I?  It would be like an indigenous person mourning over a lost cell phone.  Fifteen years later my words proved true. The tears I could muster up were from an absence of pain. I longed to grieve as a normal child would over the loss of their parent. I think the fact that I couldn't was more tragic than the grief itself would've been. Ten years later I'm still learning how..

Today I visited his grave, the time of sadness came earlier than usual over this dreadful holiday weekend.  Usually I expend too much energy in trying to keep the lid on the box of pain until the holiday passes. But not today.  First I shed many a tear at my sisters headstone mainly because I miss her terribly but secretly I was trying to prime the pump, hoping that some tears could be shared with Daddy just a few feet away.  As soon as I read his name they evaporated. The familiar awkward silence enveloped me. I was angry, I was hurting, but like always, I couldn't tell him. The longer I stared at that plaque, I knew I couldn't keep it in another second.

Loudly I told him everything I ever wanted to say.  My tone grew more shrill, decibels increased, the language became more colorful and painted his marker like graffiti.  I was no longer a frightened little child but a grown, fierce woman, disgusted by the injustice and armed with knowledge greater than his lies.  I walked away satisfied that I'd finally stood up to the man who robbed me immensely, yet still void of what should be.  I felt vindicated.  It was bittersweet, but sweet still.

On the way home, as I sobbed with both hands gripping the steering wheel, desperately trying not to kill myself, I was waiting.  Waiting for God to do something, anything, like He always does, to comfort me.  I hate being emotional even though it's become my schtick recently.  I began to search my memory databank to find a good memory to calm myself. The search grew frantic as I was coming up empty handed and I kept thinking, "I can't blow my top now, I'm driving for Pete's sake!"

And then I heard the sweetest melody!  It's a song we serenade our youngest with.  I felt like a smitten school girl with her ear to the speaker when the DJ calls out her name. "This one goes out to my girl who's crying her eyes out..."

Just have a listen. Suddenly, it didn't matter anymore. My daddy may have been disappointed but God considers me lovely!
http://youtu.be/8r92A7ndnZk