Here I am again, rehearsing the verbal abuse, the deafening threats, the crushing pain in my chest that takes my breath away. Why do these cruel thoughts keep rewinding in my weary mind? Why can’t I forget so many days and nights alone, devastated, without comfort? Why can’t I be relieved of this draining burden that saps my strength and sucks my joy?
My will to continue has waned. All hope for what I could have been, would have been, should have been, is gone. Stolen. Despair has finally consumed me. I can’t go on.
But somehow, from deep within, my spirit gently rises. A trickling though presses itself past the despondency to unfold a faltering notion. What if I go back to where it all began, to where life around my “little girl” table and chairs was, where I escaped from reality. Maybe then I could find peace; pretending tea cups and dollies, and chairs with hearts engraved on them would at least temper this relentless agony.
Clinging to hope, I found my way back to the old farmhouse. Paint peeling, shingles off, exposing bare rafters, cobwebs. And the porch, my hiding place, strewn with old leaves and debris. And then I spotted my imaginary friends lying broken and still amid the weathered, miniature furniture! My heart raced. They waited for me all this time! I gathered them in my arms, and fiercely hugged them to my breast.
Yes, that must be the answer! Reliving the past. Arranging all of us around the warped table, I hummed a little tune, passed the cookies and poured the tea. Just like before. But something was missing. Perhaps I needed to sing, sing very loudly to drown out these throbbing, sad memories. But even then, my anxious heart wrenched.
I slipped from that beat up old table, and the, kneeling there, I suddenly wondered; could time be waiting for me? Could time be waiting for me to allow myself to live again? Could desire and passion ever creep back into my soul? Could I risk being hurt again?
Woe is me! How do I loose these encumbering chains, and walk free? My spirit is so heavy, my body sick with trying. Trying and trying, lapsing more and more into hopelessness. Surely there is an answer for my anxious plight. My disquieted heart beats wildly.
And then suddenly, as if on cue, it began to rain. As I tilted my countenance upward, warm gentle drops of water splashed over my face, over my heart, over my very being. I don’t understand. My wounded, broken spirit is being lifted and washed. My bowed shoulders now supported outstretched arms. I began twirling. Twirling and twirling in the cleansing rain. Smiling, laughing, free!
Then momentarily, I paused, realizing that only a loving father could comfort his wounded daughter the way I’d been comforted. But I don’t have a father. Oh, but precious child, you do have a loving Father! You have a heavenly Father who has loved you and kept you through all of life’s storms. You have a heavenly Father who will never leave you or forsake you. You have a heavenly Father who binds up your wounds and heals your pain. Yes, your heavenly Father is “Abba Father,” your “Daddy.”
I crawled up on His lap, rested my head on His chest and let Him hold me safely in His everlasting arms.