Day 192

"So..." he started chirpily.

His voice was happy and curious, and I could tell he was excited even over the phone.

"...how you doing?  Still 365 days?"

I smiled.

"Yes, dad, still 365."

I was tickled to know how much it made him smile.  Of course to Dad, my dating fast is just a time for me to love me.  He doesn't understand the relationship I'm trying to build on God.  But his excitement brings me joy nonetheless.

And it makes me wonder...if my earthly father finds so much joy in my sacrifice, in my discipline...then, how much more is my Heavenly Father rejoicing above?

Of course I'm sure He'd be rejoicing more if I had more faith in Him through this process...more faith in His will for my life and its goodness.

Today I sat next to my coworker, settled in my self-pity.

"It's a trick," she said.  Imitating the enemy, she continued, "'Oh, I can't tempt you with a hottie, but I'm going to test you.  All these old perverts.  It's a test of how you see yourself through God.'"

And she reminded me of a story in this book.

A story of a woman who idolized the blessing rather than worshipping The One Who Blesses.

Will I still love God if He doesn't give me what I want?

Will I still love Him if a marriage isn't in my future?

Will I believe that I'm beautiful to Him without an earthly husband?

That's a huge struggle for me.  Believing I'm worthwhile without relying on a man.  And the further I go through this challenge, the deeper I delve, the more I realize this is a wound that isn't close to healing.

This is the rebuilding time.  The time is now.  Break me down, God.  Help me heal.  Help me see myself through Your eyes.

Day 98

It was the room I remembered from my early childhood.

The blue paint, the matching nightstands, the bed placed against the wall under the window.  It was my parents’ old master bedroom.

My father was dying, and like a version of Minority Report, we already knew when and by what means it was going to happen.

It was his heart.

He was in so much pain.  His eyes filled with tears.  I sat kneeling next to the bed, holding his hand.  I was panicking.

I have 17 seconds, I thought.

He saw my eyes shift toward the phone.

“Why try?” he gurgled, his voice sputtering from pain.

“Because I have to!”

I had never dialed 911 before, so I listened intently as my finger pressed the last number.  A pause, and then the recorded operator picked up.

A recording?

“You are number 73 in waiting,” her monotone voice buzzed.

I dropped the phone, exasperated, and began weeping.  I held my father, and waited, precious seconds ticking down to the end of his life.

I felt a dark shadow smirk from the bathroom.  Through tears, I couldn’t make out its identity, but I knew it was not of God.  And as it leered, I continued to sob.

Needless to say, this dream terrified me.  Friday morning, my alarm woke me from that plane, and sent my heart into mourning.

Daddy’s little girl.  Sometimes this term houses irony.

Nobody’s words have cut as deeply as his have, and this is spawned by my deep love for him and deep aching to be loved by him.

As a father wanting more for his daughter, his desire for her to be ambitious and self-dependent grew in her a heart broken from unsatisfaction and a supposed inability to attain.

My efforts were never enough.  Congratulations were never just congratulations, but instead just a car on a train tailed by a caboose of, “Now what?”

Now what?

There was always something I could improve upon.  Always just one step closer.

One step closer to what?

As if one day I would reach something where accomplishing would no longer be had.

Never being good enough…

And this is where my heart has turned now instead…

To one father I will never be good enough.

And to The Other I will certainly never be good enough.

But it is by The Other’s unfailing grace, love, and faithfulness, that I can embrace not being good enough.

For if I ever beheld that I was good enough, everything that is good would fall from my life and I would forsake the most precious gift.

And it is by such a gift that when I go back to California, I can love the first father I knew with the love of The Second, who is really second to none, but the Number One Who has stolen my heart and protects it, redeems it, sustains it, believes I can be who He has called me to be.

And so I am his daughter.  The one who was hurt.  The one forgotten, and never encouraged, and never congratulated.  But because I am His, a new love exists and one so powerful that I am willing to fight for my family like I haven’t before.

And so, I begin in baby steps.  I cannot love my father unless I know father.  And as this thought reverberated in my core today, God placed a simple book at the tips of my fingers as I perused the walls of Francesca’s, the most unlikely of places—I assumed—for the Hand of God.

Scrolling through its pages, I imagined some of the answers I could hear.  I pray that this opens doors for my relationship with him, and that whatever hurt abided is flushed away, leaving healing to grow and flourish in its depleted place.

ACTION PLAN PA:            Share an afternoon at IHOP, relive old memories of his day at the cannery.  If the weather and season permit, plant a plant in his garden.  Ask him to write in this compilation, of which of his all his gifts bestowed upon me would be his greatest yet; discuss it.

Day 6

I really feel blank right now.  Instead of one train of thought, here’s a couple sporadic ones:

·         Today my friend bought my lunch.  He picked up the ticket and I expected us to go to the counter and pay separately, but when I saw him signing the receipt, he had paid for both our meals.  I was truly touched and thankful.  I didn’t know there are guys who still do that for their girl friends.  It really reminded me of something my dad would do.  He never lets women pay, and normally refuses to let his friends pay.  Money comes, and money goes, I’ve realized, and if you can give, it always makes someone’s day better.  So thank You, God, for showing me men can still be gentlemen.

·         I’ve almost finished reading A Cross Shaped Gospel.  I’ve really enjoyed it.  I find myself nodding my head in agreement to every chapter.  I’ve been down those paths…liberal churches and racism and classism.  I thought I was crazy to think some of the things I’ve thought, but there was reassurance in this book.  There’s also been some conviction about other topics.

·         Communion and unreconciled relationships.  I still cannot forgive my ex.  After almost a year after its end, his actions still haunt me.  I’ve heard Bryan say it before, “Don’t come to the table if you have unreconciled relationships…” and he states it again in his book.  Ugh.  God, really?  I hear Your voice telling me to not take communion again until I’ve forgiven him.  I’m scared, because I don’t know what it would take.  But part of me thinks if I had a reason—a tangible reason—to move on, maybe I could.  So I’m considering not taking communion until my heart is in a better place.  I don’t like having this disdain in my heart.

·         First impressions.  Rick Warren tweeted this: 1st impressions are often WRONG since they're based on past experience, your current mood, the surrounding, or appearance.  That being said, I feel like I give terrible first impressions, especially in group settings and especially with girls.  I’ve never had a group of girl friends before—why would I if I’ve always been boo’d up?  So now I have to redevelop myself.  I just pray that the new friends in my life have so much grace for me.  My story is so counter-culture.  Who I am is so counter-culture.  I’m socially awkward in every way.

·         Breakfast and Mexican food.  My two favorite loves.  I could eat just these two types of food the rest of my life and be happy.

·         Anniversary-ish. It’s been a little over a year since I was saved.  Thank You, God, for capturing my heart!