When I try to think back to my earliest memory, the images that come to mind are not usually something I am excited to remember or share. I see myself as a very little girl (maybe 2? The age at which my dad left?), sitting on the loveseat in our living room, looking out the window….waiting…watching…hoping he shows up…but utterly expectant of the coming disappointment. 

Although there has been some growth in my relationship with my come-and-go-father since that time, the pattern has been set and he has not veered far off the path he chose 30 years ago. 

To be honest, as I write the number 30, the number startles me. I am writing this the day after my 32nd birthday and he left when I was just over 2 years old. Three decades: 30 years, 360 months, 1,560 weeks, 10,950 days (not including leap years…that math is much beyond my current brain capacity).

Can this struggle really have gone on this long? 

“I nonetheless trust in Your Mercy.”

On my birthday this year, my father failed to show up again or to do more than text me. I am tempted to yet again make excuses for his behavior. I am tempted to say, “It’s okay, his best friend just passed away and he needs time to grieve.” (This is the reason he sent me via text me when I tried to FaceTime with him.) “At least he remembered the correct date this year!” Or even, “This has happened before, you know how to deal with it.” 

But the words sound empty. I’ve done the same thing over and over again. And I feel, I know deep in my soul there has to be a better way. 

Jesus said, “I came that they may have life and have it more abundantly.” (John 10:10)

To me, His words don’t sound like a description of a life (or a relationship) that revolves around making excuses. If I cover the wound and make excuses for the one who caused it, can real healing ever take place? At the same time, how can I feel, truly feel, the weight of all of this? How can I grieve the loss, without drowning in the pain?

So far, in my journey I have either covered up my wounds or drowned in their pain. I have somehow forced myself to see this as an either/or situation: Either I am ‘healed’ (by my own false understanding of the term: the pain goes away, is covered up) or the wounds consume me.

I see (understand) no other way out.

‘’O Lord, though I cannot comprehend You and do not understand Your ways, I nonetheless trust in Your Mercy.”

There it is: a ray of light, a shard of hope… I don’t yet see it fully, but my understanding does nothing to dim its brightness. 

The wound and the healing, side by side, held together on the Cross by Christ. 

For the first time in my life, by the grace of God, I don’t want to run from this tension. I thought this journey was ripping my heart apart, but instead it has been stretching so it can be filled with Love and Mercy Itself. 

Now we come full circle. 

I sit. And wait.

How long? I don’t know. 

This time, I don’t wait with the burden of disappointment on my shoulders. 

I wait for the God who shows up. 

Stephanie is a wife and mother of 3 boys. She and her family live in PA. Her husband works for their local parish and she homeschools their boys. According to her eight year old, she enjoys reading, napping and watching The Chosen.