Today is the worst day. My worst day, not Oskar’s. Only a month and three days after my ninth birthday, there I sat. I couldn’t imagine all the people. Every pew full, I was a tiny fish in a big sea. The concept was strange. The excitement of a new dress and riding in a limo, I was confused. A few days earlier we sat at grandma’s house, watching the news. Supposedly two boys shot lots of kids at a high school called Columbine. I was busy drawing a robot for Mr. Flower’s class. Even then, I wondered the point of it all. Forget the robot, things are happening. Life is being taken away.

I begged Aunt Juli to take me to school with her. Since I was on a small vacation from school, I had time to do what I wanted. Helping her teach the small children seemed priority. After all, my mom was always asleep. And I was a squirmy little girl. I remember crawling next to her. I remember her skin and the fragrance of lotion. I convinced Aunt Juli to take me. And of course, it was that day. The worst day. I was wearing headphones, playing a computer game that taught me math. What do you know at 9 years old? You don’t know the importance of tucking away memories. Or saving important things. And as my young mind went into survival mode, I forgot, in order to protect myself from any more pain.

I was drowning in the sea of people. I think they were surprised. She was supposed to make it. We prayed for her. God was there. She was faithful. He doesn’t take the good ones. Uncle Jim held me above her. My tears fell down. Snot smeared across my face. I haven’t cried like that since. Uncontrollable, uninhibited. At a mere nine years old, one month and three days, I looked at my mother for the last time.

Well, physically, at least. She’s everywhere. And I’m thankful. In the way my sister takes care of me, and others. The way she can’t stand injustice. My dads ability to encourage me twice as good as other parents. It takes an awareness to see, but she’s here, loving me, whispering goodness and mercy sweetly in my ear. 

talking,speaking,listening,conversing,sharing.learning.growing.understanding.

A deeper journey into myself, really. What could be more important? My father is a man of deep thought and reflection. I see him sitting in his chair, glasses in place. What used to be an ottoman is now redeemed as a table, covered by books. Within reach, writing instruments are plentiful. A man who appreciates options, color is important. He sits still. Quiet. Only now and again leaning forward to underline truth. Listening carefully, I can hear the pencil meet the page. I cherish the books that are passed to me. The circled letters transform into a dialogue and I find myself covered in wisdom. 

I can’t imagine. A man who didn’t know family as it should be, finds himself as the sole provider for two little girls. The woman he chose, gone. Taken. The dynamics were different, of course, but I never once wondered if he loved me. Never once. He encouraged me to go and see the world. To spread my wings and find what it was that I loved the most. Leaving him was harder than anything else. I look forward to our phone calls, giant cards in the mail with my name carefully written, and the assurance of a constant love. I could bask in that beauty all day long. I find myself incredibly grateful for the goodness and mercy the Lord has given me that is my father.