So, How Was Your Day

I know you wouldn't have guessed it, but today was a bad, bad, bad day. I found out about my brother around ten. Got in my truck and cried. Wiped my eyes and got out to deliver invoices. Then did that same routine two more times. Got to therapy at twelve. Using every ounce of strength that I possess I do my best to speak without completely falling apart. Thirty minutes into it, seemingly out of the blue, my therapist says "Sometimes I feel like you hate me." What?? Where the hell did that come from. So I think about that and I guess I could typically see that. I do put on a rather tough front so as not to be vulnerable to attack. But could she not see my face, could she not see my blood shot eyes? Could she not hear the shakiness in my voice? It took me five minutes to respond to her because I knew I would be in tears every time I opened my mouth so I just kept waiting until I felt I could control it. She asked me if I thought therapy was helping me, did I want to keep coming. Which said to me, 'you are wasting my time and I don't think you are worth the effort.' We also talked a little about God and we see things quite differently, most Christians see things different than me. She said I should talk to my pastor about it.

I wasn't gone from her office more than thirty seconds before I was crying again. I pulled over and called my preacher. He didn't have time to talk. Going out of town tomorrow for five days had to get things in order, could you call back next week....uhhh, ok. I am getting the distinct feeling that my preacher doesn't really want to talk to me very much.

So, I followed the earlier routine the entire rest of the day. Cry my eyes out, wipe them, get out and do what I need to do and hope no one notices....repeat. I listened to the exact same song from the time I left the office this morning until I pulled into my driveway at 5:45. Every Now and Then by FFh. I was afraid that if I let any other song come on that something, anything would be said and I would completely lose control. No idea what that could have been, but I was doing my best to be safe. I prayed all day, mostly saying I don't understand, and you have to help me, I can't do this.

Beyond the struggle I have with God on this issue, there is the issue of the child. A child that I will never allow myself to know. But what happens, twenty years from now, when that child comes to me and says, "where the hell were you, why didn't you help me?"

My prominent thought today was how could God just deliver this child directly into the hands of this sick man. And then, my thoughts zeroed in on those hands. I saw those hands, I saw the destruction. I thought of the first time he will touch that child. And minute by minute, touch by touch, he will strip that child of everything. Of innocence, of security, of worth, of fearlessness, of hope, of love, of dreams, of the belief in a loving God, of the belief in good, of belief in themselves. All he will leave is an empty shell, left to be filled with all that is painful, broken, sad, empty, worthless, dirty and flawed. I am that child. And I want to hate God for knowingly, willingly, sending yet another child to the inevitable fate of that man's hands.