Family Dinner

“Your Daddy doesn’t care anything about you,” he said.  These words, not the first time spoken, from the man I married.  He’s an encourager, that one.

His words hung in the car’s air, so thick I felt them settle over me like old clothes, comfortable in a way, yet shameful in another.  Like putting on your Sunday best and leaving home feeling pretty, but shrinking back when you arrive and find others clothed so much nicer. 

It was an invitation to a “family” dinner.  The family is his, not mine, yet at times I long so badly to fit in, to establish relationship, to gain common experiences going forward to build upon and grow into so that one day it might be true.  This is the family he chose nearly 30 years ago.  This is the family that did not include my younger sister and me.

Photo: digidreamgrafix@freedigitalphotos.net

I was a senior in high school; my parents having been divorced for a little more than a year.  It was a hard age.  I was, it seems, forced to become an adult and make adult decisions for which I had no wisdom.  I lived on a sort of auto-pilot, the first of a lifetime of living what I call “suck it up and go on”.  It’s life, big girl panties style.  And it’s messy.

So, Daddy gets a new wife, two new young sons, eventually a new daughter as well.  Mama is busy, trying to figure out this different way of life she’s chosen, struggling with her own story and trying to find her way. 

Without my parents to set healthy boundaries, I unconsciously set out to find security for a future in an adult world that was fast approaching.  And without even realizing what I was doing, I chose marriage.  At the time, as clear as day, I recall thinking surely this is the right thing because I don’t even feel the least bit nervous about it.  This is the thought of a 20 year old girl about to leave to go to the church for her wedding before only immediate family.  Prince Charming had declared only immediate family would be allowed because I’d never be able to reasonably limit the number of my family attending, and that just wasn’t going to happen.

In hindsight, I can only assume I was doing the only thing that felt safe.  At Daddy’s house his new wife was happy to see me go, even packing up my things and putting them at the back door while I was honeymooning an hour away.  For years I’d remember something that didn’t make the move with me and realize she’d chosen what I would keep and what would be tossed out, like me.

And yet, it is hard for me to blame Daddy.  I see myself in him, in his decisions.  I think a new family felt safe to him.  Letting her do whatever made her happy and kept peace worked for him, still works for him.  Here, I do the same, but with horrible results, enabling the one who thinks he’s the only one in the world that matters.  But peace is elusive.

To make matters worse, I’d tried this day to reach Daddy to ask if I could come by for a short visit because I’d not be able to make the family dinner, having honestly made other plans before the invitation came that overlapped the timing of it.  I called and I texted him and his wife that morning, around 10:00.  The reply came after 8:30 that evening. 

So all day the words played over and over in my head and my heart.  “Your Daddy doesn’t care anything about you.”  And when we’re confused about our relationship with our earthly daddy, it’s hard to have a healthy relationship with our heavenly daddy.

I thought of all the years of prayers for peace and deliverance, and wondered if he’s right.  Do replies really come or are they only imagined?  Do they come at all?  Are they late?  Am I too late?

My text to Daddy explained why I couldn’t come and closed with “Please don’t give up on me”.

Abba, Father, please don’t give up on me.