"eli, eli, lema sabachthani?"
i'm having trouble finding words today; instead of happiness, rest or peace, i am disheartened, discouraged, disillusioned and beneath all that restlessness.... i am angry. it is father's day, and so we send cards and grill steaks to celebrate our father figures, but what does that mean... connectedness, relationship, belonging? morality and courage and heroism? stability, strength, safety? i know no such connection and i have no such thread of identity; furthermore my attempts to write a better story have failed miserably, and i listen to the same goddamn skip in the broken record (over and over and over) as i watch my children coming up. i write these words for the father-failures that have filled not my soul with flowers, but my bottle with tears. the child in me is angry at the father who drove away under false pretenses and didn't return; the adolescent in me is angry for the new family that was (and is) worthy of his time and his affection and his presence; the naive wife in me still holds him responsible for the broken love that she believe(s/d) was all that she deserved; the mama in me watches my children and wonders how he could just (dis)miss those important moments and all of the priceless nuances in between. i am hurt and angry with you and with him and with all of them that have followed in your sacred steps: loving and leaving. you have seen my need and then walked away you have seen my tears and you didn't stay i have reached for you, but you always let go, and so he let go and now they always (unapologetically) let go... and now the grown up girl doesn't begin to know why she is broken and so full of your sins and when to build bridges instead of a fence; where she begins and wherever she ends and how to know love and how to just be friends; why did you leave me with no voice or defense and now your silence is the greatest offense. why wasn't i worth staying and when did you decide that they were the chosen and we were left outside? where grace met providence the girl realized that the father faithful had died. where are the keys that release yesterday? to let the girl become the woman that is no longer enslaved to the mud and the blood of the sins of a man? how is the heart healed so the orphaned child can believe in a father that wants to provide, to protect and keep promises and stand by her side, be the values she seeks and the mirror of her worth; as the image of heaven and the shelter of earth; does it even exist, this idea of love? all that she knows is she was never enough. (is she ever enough?) on this father's day i do not know how to commemorate the loss I feel for the fathers fiction that have come and gone; there is no roast in the oven and no quilt on the lawn; there will be no superfluous text and no disingenuous platitude of paternal accolades. i can only press into the sadness and continue the orphan's lonely journey on to the home she has yet to find; however i take hope in the blank pages and i color the margins with my own prisms of love and safety and courage; and i shall leave a trail of breadcrumbs so that when these little ones of my own someday go in search of their own father fantasies they perhaps have an easier path to walk than i. "eli, eli, lema sabachthani?" father, why have you forsaken me? maybe in eternity, i will then understand the human condition and the sovereign hand that writes hope and writes healing from the pages torn out and sings melodies of love over the requiem of doubt... let the sun ever rise on my dark, cloudy days and let comfort arise from the shadowy grace of the humanness of sadness and the kindness of the lathe that pushes me on toward the truer father faith.
1 Comment
9/3/2016 09:13:23 pm
Sarah: found my way to this website and these incredible words (as well as the piece immediately following ('Taking Me Back'?) via a like you left on one of my own pieces (part of an Instagram novella called 'Insomnia'). I am always dismayed and disappointed at my fellow males who willingly leave such obvious intelligence, spirit, and beauty...no reason seems adequate. I would love to be a part of your arts collective, tho I don't live in Chattanooga. Still, it is a part of my own work and is close enough to where I grew up and not terribly far from where I live now. A short intro: I'm a writer, recording engineer and occasional painter. I also record my own music that is often dark and steeped in fantasy, psychedelia and noise rock. I was born in ATL, though I spent my early childhood near Daytona Beach and grew up from 12 to 20 on Lookout Mountain in Alabama. I now live in Knoxville where I'm writing a novel and recording. I'd love to know more about (and be part of) your organization...and thanks for your amazing words!
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about the writer.“Words are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap” (George Bernard Shaw) past tense.
January 2019
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