Garage Doors, Conflicting Fathers, and Cosmic Questions

Actual Time and Date: August 5, 2004 10:20 pm

I’m typing this in Word because I need to get it out now, while the feelings are still fresh. Later, I’ll give an update about what’s been happening to me, but this moment needs to come first.

Recall nearly a year ago with a similar post. I came home from VBS/Borders feeling quite happy, filled with Caramocha, having finished another chapter of Shadowmancer (excellent book, by-the-by) and singing along to “Hallelujah/Your love makes me sing” When I see that my dad has just pulled in before me. Trying not to think mean thoughts about him, I figure he’s just come home from work. At ten. So anyway, I’m trying to hum to myself when he shouts to me across the lawn.

“Hey, Meg? Could you take the garbage cans to the garage?”

Okay, he just walked right past them. Confused/angry I answer, “Why don’t you get them?”

He makes a similar confused/angry/offended noise. “Because I’ve got groceries!” He holds up the bags as proof. “Would it kill you to do something for me?” Those weren’t his exact words. I can’t really remember what he said, but I remember his tone, which implied that I never do anything to help around the house. But you know what? I did the mature thing. I bit back angry responses and calmly asked if both of the garbage cans were ours.

“Yeah!” He says in the same tone and I could sense something like shouldn’t-you-know-that?!

So I dutifully carry the garbage cans to the garage, again fighting down mean/angry thoughts, reminding myself of the promise I made, that I would love my father no matter how irritating he might be. (It occurred to me once that if I never truly loved my dad, I could never truly love my husband, nor God.) So as I begin to lift the garage door, I can hear him talking through the open kitchen window. He was telling my mom what had just taken place. I only heard a few words.

“Job….car insurance!…dishes…”

It was all I needed to hear. Each word hurt, and caused my mouth to open farther in indignation. Okay, look, first of all, he can NOT act like I don’t do anything around the house. I clean up after myself, I do the dishes when asked and my room is clean, and that’s a lot more than he does! I breathe deeply, but can’t control myself any longer. I go over to the kitchen window.

“Hey, why don’t you talk about me like I can’t hear you!” I think I said something else. I’m not sure.

At any rate, I go back to the garage door, and try to open it. Now, the stupid thing is broken, and no longer automatic and often gets stuck. I can only lift it two inches off the ground. Try as I might, it gets stuck in the same place. In a spot of rage, I push as hard as I can, but only end up hurting my fingers. Frustrated tears fill my eyes. Blinking rapidly, I set it back down, inhale deeply, and breathe out a small prayer.

“I’m sorry.”

I take a few more breaths, and then gently lift the door with ease. I put in the two trashcans, then put Amber’s and Sarah’s bikes away, too. All the while I think of what I should say when I go inside. I wanted to scream at him, tell him just exactly how I DO pull my weight, and how he did NOT. But, I thought, it would be better to say that I was sorry first, and then sort of defend my actions. No, actually, it would be best to just apologize. Yes, the one that wouldn’t make me feel any better, but would be the right thing to do. So, trying very hard to control my breathing, I go inside. Immediately, the dog attacks me, but he’s standing there. So I look directly at him.

“I’m sorry for talking back,” I mumble, and make a fast break for my room.

“I’m sorry for talking about you behind your back,” I hear him say. When I get to my room, I start to cry a bit. No tears yet, but close. Deep shuddering breaths. That’s right, easy does it. I lock the door, just in case. I turn the fan on to make more noise, so no one will hear me crying. I know this routine.

“Why is the radio not on?” I say aloud to myself. “I need the distraction.” I turn it on, but no distraction comes. The song is “I will be here,” and the lyrics were just at that point, reminding me that my God is right there, and feels bad for me.

“Oh, Jesus,” I begin to cry. For real this time. Tears and sobs and everything. He holds me and lets me cry. I feel the need to write it down, so I begin to write in my Prayer journal, a tear staining the page. But then, “More” by Matthew West comes on. This is Our Song. I cry even more, as he holds me, strokes my hair, tells me how much he loves me, that he was proud of me for acting the way I did, that I truly shined for him. And somewhere, amidst the tears and sobbing, I find peace. Because I know that I have a shoulder to cry on, even though I can’t see it or feel it. I lean against my bed and pretend it’s him. I wanted so much to fall asleep in his arms that way. In my imagination, I looked at him and he smiled at me, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. He sings gently.

“And I see you, and I made you, and I love you more than you can imagine. More than you can fathom. I love you more than the sun…and you shine for me…”

I don’t want to move. I want to start eternity right then and there. But I get up and turn off the radio so at least the song will stay in my head a little while and we can talk together in the quiet.

I hope I fall asleep right there, but I know I won’t, as it’s actually a rather uncomfortable position. Also, I haven’t done my evening quiet time or prayed for my friends and I would feel bad about that later. I sigh.

“I wish I could see you and feel you. I wish you could physically hold me.”

“I know. Someday. But until then, know that I’m not going anywhere. I know it’s hard, but it’ll be worth it in the End.”

(Now, don’t be weirded out or anything. I don’t really hear a voice or anything like that, it’s just what I sort of feel like he would be saying if I could hear him.)

I sigh again. “I want so much to love my dad. You know, I can’t remember the last time he said ‘I love you’? I mean, I know he does, he’s my dad…but…I’d like to hear it once in a while. See proof of it. I wish…I wish he were more like you!” I begin to cry again. “I want so badly for him to be a godly man. I wish he had apologized first. He’s my father, the head of our family. He’s supposed to lead us to you, not me!” I pause, controlling my tears. “If he were more like you…well, you’re the best father I’ve ever had!”

“And you’ve had so many?” He seems playful.

I laugh. He always makes me laugh.

“Oh, you know what I mean. But you are the best father. Doesn’t he know that?” I sigh again. “I don’t know if he’d die for me…”

My thoughts begin to trail off, as they often do in my ADDness. Anyway, shortly thereafter I thought it would be a good idea to post in my blog, even though it hadn’t been working all day, maybe it would work now. It didn’t. But I just needed this to be put down. Well, I do feel much better. But…this post hasn’t fixed my relationship with my dad. I just really need him to be the instigator. He probably feels much the same way I do. But he needs to be the adult, for once. (We used to have this joke, in our house there were four kids: Sarah, Amber, Luke (the dog) and my dad. My mom and I are the adults.) It’s going to take a lot of work, though. My feelings against him go back about 4 years, and there’s probably some repressed memory from my childhood that has something to do with it. Ah well. I’m going to bed. I’ll feel better in the morning; I always do.

~Megan

“I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void. So goodnight, dear void.”


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