Step Eighty-Seven: A Poem For You

Dear Readers,

A poem for you...

If there were word I could say

to somehow unfold your pain,

whispered lyrics, whose purest notes

piece nights darkest tremors.

Words of beauty, vibrancy, and grace,

words infused with life.

I’d plant them in your heart,

let wild orchids grow,

blooming through your worst memories.

I’d let silken petals

enfold and embrace you.

I’d let their softened hue

ease the sharp blade of sorrow

let their touch comfort and warm you.

If such words existed, if any balm to aching hearts I had

I’d give them all to you,

my sweet friend.

Yet, no such balm I’ve found

and no such words I know.

I can offer only this –

I love you.

I love you

when your fears are many

when you heart despairs.

I love you

when you see but anguish and disgust

when you don’t feel worthy of being touched.

I love you

when you smile and

when you cry

I love you.

I love you

when you’re sure you cannot go on

I will be your courage, strength, and heart.

I love you

for who you are

not for what you’ve done nor what you’ve seen.

And my love is with you,

in the quiet of your heart.

I never leave you.

My love for you is patient,

my love for you is kind,

my love does not boast

nor is it proud.

My love for you is not rude

nor self-seeking.

My love for you cannot be angered,

it knows no wrongs.

My love for you is truth,

I never give up and I never lose faith,

I am always hopeful.

My love for you endures.

My love for you was spoken from that cross.

So in case you haven’t heard me lately,

I love you, dearly,

My beautiful daughter

Step Eighty-Six: Given Strength

Dear Readers,

Every once in a while, I manage to convince myself that if I could say the many thoughts that daily cross my mind, if I could speak to my father the inner monologue that seems to rattle about in my brain, if I could make him see, make him understand... then everything would be okay. Sometimes I even manage to convince myself so well I have my phone in hand and all I have to do is press the call button. Surely, if I gave full vent to my anger, pain, and need... if I told him I loved him and wanted him... surely then it would all be alright. Surely then the 19 years of pain and 12 years of tension would all disappear. I fool myself into thinking that things would be different than they have always been. However, my thumb always pauses on the call button, that small green telephone acting as a reality check. That's when the grief and the anger come pouring back in, like an unpleasant dive into my own private ice bath.

I grieve because no matter how old I get, I know I will always want my father. I grieve because I know, no matter how much he may change, my father and I missed some of the most important memories. I grieve because I do love him, whether this is foolish or not. I grieve because it is the only process I have left to me. I cannot continue in the dysfunction for the sake of a game and I cannot continually wait for him to change the man he is. I can only grieve and come to accept the scar tissue.

When I begin to dial my father's number, I know the pain is rising within me. I find the ache is greater on these days. Great enough to almost want the dysfunction in exchange for his love. And when I resolve not to call him, when the tears come breaking through, I find myself retreating. Pulling myself away, seeking some kind of refuge from the pain and this is where everything changes.

Love takes me in. I curl up beneath my blankets, close my tear filled eyes and find myself on my Father's lap. I bury myself in His chest. His arms surround me, comfort me, hold me. I cannot pretend that it is the same as having a physical, tangible, touchable father. It's not but it is a beautiful refuge. It is the one place of sweet release. And as I let the anger, grief, and pain wash over us, He whispers gently in my ear.

I want you, Leela. You are my beautiful daughter. You are my precious child. I am here, I will protect you because I love you. More than I love anything else, I love you.

It still hurts, I still wake up crying and alone, without a father but it gives me strength. Strength to feel my pain, to face my grief, and to survive on the days I'd most like to give up.

May He give you strength, as He is continually giving me, to face the things of this day.

Step Eighty-Five: Hope Offering

Dear Readers,

An excerpt of my thoughts tonight...

In seventh grade, I began volunteering with the youth group to regularly visit an old folks home and paint the nails of the elderly women. I walked away from the three years I spent doing it with laughter, tears, and plenty of stories. Yet there was one lady who shaped my views on age and “growing up” in a tremendous way – Miss Daisy. A southern bell to the core of her, she may have gained a few years but that only served to add some flavor.

My first impression of Miss Daisy was a remarkable one as she cha-cha-ed her way into our room, highly decorated walker or not. If this had not been incredible enough, as she sat down across from me she looked me in the eye and demanded, “What’s the wildest color you have?” Attempting to be mature, I calmly pulled out the popular array of hues in reds and pinks. As I set them before her, I’ll be darned if this sweet 92 year old woman didn’t give me the best stink eye I’ve ever seen. Reaching across me, she pulled from the cart the most obnoxious neon orange, setting it silently before me. As I stared flabbergasted by her request, she started laughing. Unsure of whether I was being mocked or not, I solemnly picked up the color and turned it over in my hand. Was it even legal for someone over the age of 60 to wear nail polish in such bright colors? When she had collected herself, she said, “Close your mouth, child, it’s better than it looks.”

I spent 3 years “painting” Daisy’s nails. Eventually, the youth group stopped going but I remained, often only to visit Daisy. We would sit and talk. She would affectionately call me her “favorite grandchild.” Even as our love grew, her health deteriorated. It did not seem fair, at the time, to love someone so close to death, to love knowing they would soon be gone. At our second to last visit, between great heaving sobs I told her so. In a gentle whisper she murmured, “Hush, child, it’s better than it looks.” I often wonder if Daisy knew these would be the most influential words we would share, I wonder if she understood the hope they gave me. I wonder if, in her wisdom, she knew I would forever carry them with me long after her voice had faded. I wonder if she knew how they would shape the way I view all of life.

It is a beautiful truth that seems to surpass all obstacles, that knows no bounds – things are better than they appear, even in the worst of moments. May you find hope in this.