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Not My Father's Son (Alan Cumming)

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Recently, I've been reviewing old posts, refurbishing some, marveling at others. One was a Father's Day post from 2021, shortly before I moved to Nebraska. (The ones I wrote to Cindy always floor me, as how can a human being say no to someone who loved them that much? I simply don't understand.) For some reason, I've become aware of my father's state of late. He turned 80 in February. When I tell people his age, they cringe. Old Vietnam War vets don't live as long as others from the same era. Living in and breathing in Agent Orange does that to you.  Alan Cummings memoir is not for everyone, though I think we all can relate on some level. I was drawn to the book, which I found in a bookshelf in the clubhouse where my parents live, as I always felt I didn't belong to my father. Mostly because he made it clear we had nothing in common. There was abuse, too, of many colors. I'm not into rehashing for the sake of rehashing. This blog was an open diary, and ...
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They don’t build them like that anymore

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How many years did I wonder about you? I asked God if you were even out there, if there was anyone for me at all. So many times I asked Him about you, gave Him a list of things I wanted, begged and pleaded, eventually giving up. And you gave up too. We walked alone so many years, or with liars and cheats, people who couldn't love us, couldn't see us. I flung myself at brick wall after brick wall, hoping someday something would stick. I only broke myself. Finally, I abandoned the search. On Christmas Day, I gave up, mourning a last unsuccessful bid for love. My eyes turned toward God, accepting defeat. I laid my heart at His feet. I told Him to give it to whomever He wished.  You said you gave up too. I wonder if you laid your heart at His feet like I did. What did He do with those two hearts at His feet? Did he see how they fit? He surely did. Those two searching hearts, abused for so long, abandoned and neglected. How easily they fit together, like they were made for one anoth...
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Anatomy of a seashell

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(This is a companion piece to my last entry, “I see you.”) Recently, I visited a public library and picked up books on seashells, in particular, shells found where I live. It's an odd thing to realize these were once homes for creatures. In the back of your head, you know that, but when you're on the beach and looking at shells, you're looking for a pretty one or one that isn't damaged. You’re not thinking about what used to be. All you care about is what you’re holding. Is it useful? Is it pretty? Some have holes bored through from some other, wickeder creature. Do we realize these shells are armor, that what transpires under the waves is battle, life and death, that these discarded shells are testament to wars won or lost, some poor creatures having been pulled from their shells or digested right in them? Maybe it's just calcium carbonate to the average beachgoer, if they even consider the building blocks of what they’re holding, but now I look at them differently...
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I see you

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What follows is a text message — directed to the author of this blog — minus personal details, including the woman's name. I haven't logged on to this blog since last year about the time of my last post, shortly after the blog eclipsed 40,000 hits. Now it's nearing 50,000. The reason I came back was to correct something: I was wrong. There was a happy ending, as the following reveals. My next post explains more.  I include much of her message because it answered many whispered prayers over the years. No, God didn't answer how I expected, but, when we let Him lead, we must trust He has what is best for us. If you're wishing for a partner, the Lord knows your heart. Do not expect any gift to be given without testing. God needs to know if you can handle the gift. Otherwise, it will ruin you.  What follows is a love letter, but, unlike so many on this blog, I didn't write it. It was written to me. She said it first. She said, "I love you." It was important...
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