Listen. I’m grieving, I’m frustrated and I’m dealing with so much more than I would ever even think to write on here. My situation with God is very odd. I feel like a daughter who just found out her father was a mass murderer, for one thing. I mean I knew the story of Exodus but I always thought that the Bible would have a more in-depth version – basically, the Bible would give a reason.
But it doesn’t.
So, I know I believe in something. I always have. Unfortunately, right now I am trying to determine what exactly I believe in, which doesn’t really mesh with the pre-existing conceptions of Christianity. And I do know that my relationship with “God”, whoever or whatever that may stand for, is a very tenuous one at best. For one thing, I am angry. I am angry at God, or at myself, or whatever and whoever it is that has completely ripped apart my life.
And it really doesn’t have anything to do with money, not really, because it’s deeper than that. I mean yes, I am frustrated about money. I am stretched to a point that is so far beyond my level of “handling it” that I’m constantly depressed and snappish and drained of whatever energy is left after the fibro and nursing has had their way with my body. But that isn’t really the key issue here. The key issue is so convoluted that I’m unable to clearly express in words what my problem is so I just vent. And the problem with venting is that vents aren’t always the same or about the same thing from day to day.
So, with all of that said, if any of it makes sense – I don’t appreciate being reprimanded for not being sure about my beliefs in God or for how I worded something or whatever. And if you’re reading this, it mostly likely wasn’t you that did it – I got many comments and emails and whatever else in regards to that entry…I mean you have NO idea.
I’m young. I am very young, actually, and this is the first year I’ve ever been willing to embrace that because I just want a long, solid, happy life. But that doesn’t change who I am or what I’ve been through and it doesn’t suddenly erase the long, long walk I’ve had with faith.
I am confused, yes. It will pass and in the end I will be a stronger person for it but I need people to respect me and stop getting upset with me for not…I don’t know.
October 20th, 1958 – July 26th, 2004
“Nothing gold can stay…”
There are certain things about my father I will always remember: the way he smiled at me when he was having one of his good days, the way he saved up money to grill choice cuts of meat as a special treat… the way he always treated me like an equal, no matter how old I was or what I had done. There’s more, of course, but it seems that for the moment, these are what stand out.
To me, Dad was always like an overgrown kid. He knew what made kids happy and even when he was exhausted or the fibro had taken over his body, he did what he could to enjoy time with them. In particular, me. I wonder if he knew he wouldn’t live very long. He did always seem to act like he was going to have a short lease on life and tried to pack as many lessons into every moment with me as he did fun. He always shared stories about his childhood and his rowdy teenage years, repeating them as often as I asked, as if he knew that I would someday cling to those stories as best as possible so I could one day pass them on to my own children.
He was also never afraid of being candid with me. He was proud of knowing poetry and I can’t hear or speak of Robert Frost without Dad flashing through my mind. He loved to tinker with computers and write music and play guitar. When I think of him, I remember camping trips in Huntsville and grilling and hiking. I remember fishing in the early hours of the morning or the late hours of the night. I remember squealing because I caught my first fish and Dad understanding why I was so excited and Dad complimenting me on what I’d learned and Dad telling me he was proud of me.
I haven’t been fishing since he died…
There were bad moments. Terrible moments. Moments that used to haunt my dreams and be the source of nightmares for years. And yet, for the sake of love and his memory, I shove those moments away, under the mental clutter, so that I can love him fully. So that I can remember his laugh and his stories and most of all, his love. What good would grudges do against a dead man who, in the end, truly loved his daughter?
I miss him every day. Even though the pain has ebbed and it no longer pierces me to talk of him, the ache is there. I see a woman with her daddy and my heart weeps for my own father for whom, I too, was a princess. I’ll always love him and I hope to do justice to his memory. I hope he knows that, somehow.
Why is it that God seems so much more active in others’ lives than my own? I’m receptive. I’m listening. So why?
