When I was little, I’d imagine him riding in on a white horse coming to rescue me from my life of hell.

Only, when he came back, it was not reprieve or salvation, but rather a final blow to an image created in my own mind.

He was no hero. But a liar.  And I was no princess, but a bastard no one wanted.

And just like he came, he left.

Not to be seen again for 17 years.

Out of nowhere he showed up when I was 29 years old. And with much concerted effort, we tried. We tried to move past the glaring reality of his betrayal and disloyalty.  I tried to forgive, to accept, to receive him. We had moving conversations. Years of attempts at reconciliation. But what can you do without a baseline of trust?

And then 2 or so years ago, he left again. Without a word.  No phone calls. No emails. Just silence. And then more recently I realized he had severed the last tie we had. And just like that, he was gone again.

Only this time. I wasn’t a child.

The barriers I’d put up before I knew the Lord were gone. My heart exposed. Poised to trust and hope. And so this last blow hurt more than I had anticipated.

I have come to understand that we are all a byproduct of our environments. If given the chance, none of us would choose to live a life born of war, violence, ignorance, poverty, or suffering.   I don’t believe any sane mother or father would want to mistreat or abandon their children.

But intentions and reality are not the same.  Good intentions don’t mean that pain is alleviated. Or that suffering can be avoided.   My parents both grew up in the midst of political turmoil, war, poverty, and pain.  Whole, emotionally well families were not the dream.  Alive ones were.

I don’t blame my parents for what they were unable to provide, but I still grieve.  I grieve their inability to make good choices. I grieve their ignorance. I grieve their selfishness. I grieve their environment. I grieve the kind of godless existence that would produce such brokenness. I mourn and mourn and mourn til there is nothing left in me to mourn and then the next day, I find, there is yet more in there to discard.

I am two people. An adult that understands. And a little girl that doesn’t.

I hate it. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself.  And I refuse to. But in this season, I can only stare honestly at myself and weep for the things that that little girl still to this day longs for.  If I’m honest with myself, I hate that she longs for it. But I cannot hate her. I must embrace her because she is myself. She is the self that I have silenced and cursed and ignored.

I stand as a bystander watching her ache, cry out for parents, for someone to understand her.

I know that the Word says He is father to the fatherless.

Can a mother forget the baby at her breast
    and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,
    I will not forget you! Isaiah 49:15

I have no false hopes that this love can come from a human source anymore. But I am still grieving that this must be my reality.

I am fully aware that this type of love can only come from God.   He is here. He is healing. I must let go in order to let Him embrace me.  But it is slow. It is terrifying in its intensity.  And all I can do is lay. Lay as a lump of coal burning in the fire of His embrace and hope the embers will eventually die down and I can emerge once again.  But this time, not as two people, but one.