A Daughter of the King

At the tender age of 48, I became an orphan. My mother died last September and in the process of the probation of her will, it turned out that she disowned me. It came as a hurtful surprise because I somehow foolishly believed that in death perhaps she could once again love me, like she did when I was a baby, her baby, her little girl.

I'm not quite sure when she stopped. Not quite sure why she stopped. I only know that as she lay suffering with lung cancer and her days were close to their end, that she called out for me. She called my sister who was taking care of her by my name. I learned of this after the fact, of course, for you see, I wasn't allowed to be a part of my mother's death. I had been shut out of her life for the previous four years or so after my dad died. He left no will so everything went to her. His death was the start of my demise as a family member. No, that's not quite right. I was told that I didn't belong even then. At a time when I thought that perhaps my family and I could reconcile, I was blindsighted and shut out in a way that still rocks my soul to this day. My mother made her will soon after and I guess I was the last to know that I had been alienated. This was done two years or so before she passed last year.

Without going into more details, suffice it to say that being parentless is nothing new to me. Even when I was their "child" I wasn't one of them. I didn't act the way they wanted me to. I didn't smoke cigarettes and my desire for fresh air was considered to them to be a harsh demand that made me critical and judgmental. I didn't gossip like they did, didn't watch every possible Major League Baseball Game, didn't pretend that my dad's abusive nature didn't exist. I didn't look the other way when the scandal broke out and the skeletons were allowed out of the closet. Instead, I fought for my freedom, made the choice to not be a part of such dysfunction, and yet somehow still deep inside prayed and hoped my family would be restored.

It wasn't.

There are two times I remember my dad hugging me. Those thoughts still make me cringe as I can still feel his vile hands and arms around me. The first was when I was a teen and had some weird allergy that caused me to break out in hives and have chills and itch all over my body. My mother made me sit with him to try to "calm me." Ha! I had to will myself to get better because, as I just wrote, the feeling of his nasty limbs touching mine was enough to make me scream, an action that would have caused me to be slapped. So I endured his "comfort" and pretended to be all right, vowing that the next time this sickness came over me to keep it to myself.

The second time we hugged was initiated by me. I was a freshman in college and my grandmother, his mother, was killed in a car accident. I had grown some and the grace of God led me to offer him the comfort of a hug when I went home and saw him. I loathed his touch, his body touching mine, and the fear that was inside of me as I tried to "do the right thing" and what most people consider the normal thing to do when someone hurts.

Aargh. This is dredging up memories that I don't want to think about ever again. It's making me feel hate when I have already forgiven. It's not the area I wanted to go into when asked to guest-blog for this page. I wanted to write about how, even though I had a horrible childhood and parents that left much to be desired, I have a heavenly Father and am indeed a princess to the King of Kings. I wanted to write something to encourage and uplift and lead your thoughts to how you could create a wonderful page for this first assignment that Cathy has for us. I wanted to make Jesus proud of me.

Maybe that's why I tend to blog in the mornings. Things look different in the light. It's a dark and stormy night tonight here in North Carolina. The thunder, the lightning, the fact that this area is being flooded again are not conducive to me writing a sweet and loving tribute. Perhaps I should let this one stay in the recesses of my files and not see the light of day. And yet…

God came to be my Father. He came to be what my parents never were. I didn't even know how much I had missed until I myself became a parent. And the man I married? Oh, what a wonderful daddy he was, is, to our little girl who is not so little anymore. He still listens to all of her stories, all of her dreams. He still wants to buy her tires and make sure her yard is mown. He wants her to grow in Christ, especially since she now too is a parent. He wants her to be happy above all else. He has no qualms about giving her a hug each time he sees her. He has no problem with claiming her as his child. He doesn't feel shame nor show favoritism to her siblings (yeah, this is easy since she's our only kid!). He's always proud of her, always happy to see her, always willing to listen and to offer assistance when needed. That's what real dads do, you know. They let their kids grow but are always within reach to make sure they have what they need.

God, I need You right now. I need a Daddy I can lean on, a Father to hold me in this darkness of night when my soul is vulnerable and hurting. I need to know, to feel Your arms of love, have Your hands gently wipe away my tears and let me know everything is going to be okay. I need to lean on You and stop trying to do this thing called life in my own strength. God, I am tired. I want to be pampered and to feel like the princess that I am when You see me. I am Your child and You will not disown me, won't cut me off, won't discard me. You won't do things to hurt me and those I care about. Father God, please hold me tonight. I need You. May I rest in You tonight, please dear God?