father figment.

"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.