When we were growing up, Loren and I referred to our dad as The Iron Hand. His word was law, no discussion allowed. Our family meetings consisted of Dad telling the rest of us how life was going to be. He and I had one of those meetings this past week. It went something like this.
Dad: Gwen, I wanted to tell you, and I've told Mom this too, that I am praying for complete healing for Mom.
Gwen: Okay.
Dad: God does things like that.
Gwen: Yes, He does.
Dad: And I want you to pray that way too.
Gwen: Okay.
End of conversation.
Isn't it amazing how when you walk through the door of your childhood home, you are suddenly a kid again? In my real life, I'm a 45yo woman, a wife, a mother, an educational therapist, complete with a college degree. My dad is an 88yo man who hands me his teeth after lunch. But, there in the living room of my childhood home, we went right back into our roles of 30 years ago. Dad used his imperious Iron Hand voice. I meekly replied with noncommittal mutterings. Why do we do that?
Despite the ridiculously dysfunctional delivery of his message, Dad's tender heart is clear. He doesn't want to lose Mom. And he's asking God to do something about it. Pretty sweet.
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Pretty sweet, indeed. You have seen him in a most vulnerable way. Helpless in many ways, at this point, but most of all helpless to help your mom. This is surely foremost on his heart and mind.
ReplyDeletePraying for healing, either here or in the heavenly realm... Also, for a gentle journey.
ReplyDelete*Sniff**Sniff*
ReplyDeleteAnd it is a weird dance we do sometimes when we find ourselves in the presence of our parents! You danced honourably, though, and I love you!!
I think you handled it the same way I would have done (and have done) in a similar situation. Love you, Friend. (((Gwen)))
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