Why Schoolteachers Should Never Be Moms

November 30, 2015

Take Your Courage in Your Hands

November 30, 2015

Here at the End of All Dreams

November 30, 2015
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I had so many of them, Father, and you took them from me. You didn’t snatch them or threaten; you simply held them, waiting, while I, kicking and screaming, tried to reach.

“No,” you said, and your voice was kind. The scratches did not hurt you; the screams did not move you; you waited while I kicked and climbed and wore myself out.

Then I remembered that I am only a child–I had thought I was something more–a god maybe, or at least an adult–and I knew that I was not big enough or strong enough to bend the arm of God.

Nothing can change Him.

And I cried, my will subdued, the tears no longer hot, but cool.

I am like the little one so long ago who lay on the bed after Dad punished her, knowing she had to listen to what he said. There was peace in that knowledge, and humility. No child is happy who gets her own way, no child so loved as the one whose parents help her break her monster Will.

It is how I know you love me, Father. When you gather me in your arms, gentle, and hold me against your shoulder–still sniffling a little, but content–I can only think, I was caring about doing and gaining and accomplishing, but you cared about me.

You cared nothing about what I could get out of life and everything about who I was in my soul. While I made plans to change the world, to chase after longing and capture desire, you made plans to capture my heart. The twisted selfishness, green through my soul–you made plans to lift it out, gnarled and crusty and slimy at the edges, and toss it in the garbage where it belonged.

I am the boss, You said. I know best. Listen to me.

You are the boss. I will listen.

You are more to me than a thousand dreams, your love so gentle like bubble bath and paper curls, your arm as strong as an iron tree.

You are good, Father. Oh Father, You are good.

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