Day 32

Yesterday ended with tears in the middle of an empty parking lot.

The holidays have only amplified my feelings of sadness and guilt over the nonchalant disregard I have for my family.  Over the last 26 years I’ve been building up a wall against them—not wanting to love them deeply enough to allow them to hurt me.  Within the last five years, it’s been a lot easier to keep my emotional-distance—mostly because, physically, we’re 2,000 miles apart.  But these last few weeks have left me thinking of them, constantly, and last night the wall I had so intently built up against them crumbled.

They were already on my mind, but when I walked into a local thrift store escaping my thoughts of them was impossible.  Above me were the familiar voices of Dean Martin and Bing Crosby, softly crooning Christmas music.  In front of me were discarded mementoes from holidays past.  I was amazed as my eyes met each orphaned trinket how much I was reminded of home.

I'm pretty sure my mom has this same squirrel.

Visions of our family tree sparkled in my mind, reflections of a happy time.  Dad would spend hours decorating, Mom made an event of wrapping gifts, my brother and I hung ornaments as an organized team—or maybe we only thought we were organized—and Grandma and Grandpa would drive in from Walnut Creek to deliver Santa’s toys.  Christmas was the only time the Linfords felt like a family, and it was probably the last time I ever felt like we really were.

In January, it’ll be two years since Grandpa passed away, and this year will make it my fifth missed Stockton Christmas.

The entire atmosphere of the thrift store sank my heart.  My chest gave way to choked breaths, and I all but ran to the cashier to escape the nostalgia.  As I closed the door to my car, my eyes swelled, and my thoughts raced.

Why am I so far away from them?

Why can’t we be together?

Why can’t we be a family?

Why aren’t they saved?

Why can’t I save them?

Why do I have to be in this stupid city alone?

What am I here for?

I was throwing a temper tantrum.  In the middle of a parking lot.  I felt like I was five.  But I was angry.  Upset.  And hurt.  God knew.  Why can’t I be with my family during Christmas?!  Why does everyone else get to have family?!  He let me cry, be angry, and vent to Him in that damp lot and all the way home.

By the time I snuggled up into bed that night, I was spent.  Hugging my Bible, and desperate for perspective, I asked God to take me somewhere.  He led me to Malachi.  These are the verses that stood out:

“I have loved you,” said the Lord. “But you say, ‘How have you loved us?’” Malachi 1:2

I read this and I felt ungrateful.

A son honors his father, and a servant his master.  If then I am a father, where is my honor? Malachi 1:6

A lot of times I only trust God a little—not a lot, not all the way. 

And he will turn the hearts of fathers to their children and the hearts of children to their fathers… Malachi 4:6

I pray often that I can be a light to my family and show them the love of God.  I pray their love for me in itself would cause them to be curious of my love for Him.

I wonder when I'll spend another Christmas with them.  I wonder if we'll ever feel like a family again.  I wonder if I'll ever have a family of my own...