Talk to him

Why couldn't I let go of the resentment? Why couldn't I simply talk to him, and talk to him honestly? Why did I always think there would be more time?

I finished reading a book called Divine Direction and the last chapter triggered memories. The author said he had led many memorial services, and sometimes when it came time to share about the loved one who had passed away, there was an awkward silence.

At my dad's service, there was an open microphone for sharing memories. We were urged - Eme, Steel, Craig and I - to go and share, but none of us did. In the others' case, I think it was mostly shyness. For me, I was so determined to dislike the man, that no good memories came to mind. I did not want to honor in death a man whom I had not honored in life.

And he wasn't a saint, to be sure. But with the bitterness rooted out, I can remember now his joy in "seizing the teachable moment." If there was a skill or bit of knowledge he realized he could pass on to us, he would happily spend hours teaching us. That's why I'm good with computers, and Steel is good with cars, and Craig is good at woodworking. Recently I found myself singing the Greek alphabet, and I remembered I learned that because my dad had created a program on the computer to teach us Greek.

Mrs. Johnson, my first and second grade teacher, had been my dad's first girlfriend. She told me he wrote her a song on the piano. I remember he used to complain about music. It was for women, he said, it was irritating - but he was actually quite good at it. He couldn't sight-read but he made beautiful melodies just by trial and error.

Once, instead of taking payment for computer services, he traded for a trampoline and roller blades. He worked long hours when I was little, but I never felt that he was missing. He would fix my bike whenever I crashed it. My favorite time of the day was sitting on his lap in the evening, playing "tickle monster."

First, he would hold up one finger, bent at the knuckles. "Do you know what this is?" He would ask. I would shake my head, knowing exactly what it was, but wanting him to say it. "This is a corkscrewing tickle monster." There were many different tickle monsters, but the game always ended the same: "Do you know what it's going to do? It's going to TICKLE you!" And he would tickle me until I was gasping for air.

God, please clear my heart and make me pure. Teach me to love a daddy like You. And if there is anyone that I hold bitterness in my heart toward, please help me to root it out and love them like You would.