Not My Father's Son (Alan Cumming)
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 I reserve the right to use it in the future, should the need arise. It's where I processed untold grief and humiliation. I was raised in a household where my voice was silenced. Here, I speak, though lowly, and to whomever wanders in. Sometimes strangers are closer than kinfolk.
I feel my heart preparing itself for loss. A twin loss, it seems, as loss never seems to happen to me in only one way. It has to be piled on top of other loss — a pyramid of pain. It's not that I'm getting ahead of anyone. It's that I see the signs. I feel what is couched in words. In the unsaid. Signs my father is not himself. That he's nearly given up. That he doesn't care anymore.
And signs in my relationship with my beloved girlfriend. We appear to be in the final stages of breaking up. Exorbitant pressure from strife in her personal life, which I haven't mentioned, sucked the energy out of our budding relationship. Our relationship sits there, day after day, wanting nourishment, slowly succumbing to the lack. The question, then, is whether I should dispatch it out of care or let is die of neglect. Quick or slow is the question. Always an anachronism, I decided to leave it in God's hands. I'm used to having things I love taken from me. Though I am grieving, I decided not to complain or strive. Let's not make the inevitable more difficult than it has to be. I'll show myself the way out. And so I watch from afar as the love we built tumbles in on itself. If God sees fit to restore it, then I will recognize it as a miracle and treat it as such.
What's great about love is the act of loving someone. Being loved is a nice bonus. But I like the feeling of just loving someone. It's the giving that gets me going. It gives me purpose. Something to look forward to. And I'm forever thinking of ways to love them. And the love of my Heavenly Father is so much bigger. I can't wait to join my ancestors in my heavenly home and to be surrounded by pure, perfect love. Love that never wavers or disappoints. It's that kind of love I seek to show others. Friends, loving that way is a little reminder that the best is yet to come. Show the world God's love. It's worth it. If not here, then someday. "It will be worth it all when we get home."
If you haven't asked Jesus into your heart, wouldn't you like to? You can say a simple prayer like this: "Lord Jesus, if I've never asked you into my heart before, please come into my heart now and save me from all my sins." If you mean it, He will, and you just started your walk with God.
Thank you for reading. And God bless.
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