I’m 58. And I’m still here. And that’s a miracle.
December 3, 2021
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about my father. I seem to have forgiven him.
I’m 58 years old. I say that a lot. It’s such a weird number. It’s such a big number. And it’s so close to 59, which is so close to 60, which is really old. I can’t believe I got here. I say that a lot. It’s a miracle, really. I say that a lot, too.
My father has been dead since I was twenty. So 38 years he’s been gone.
When I put myself back in that place, when I think about those episodes of abuse, it makes me nauseous. But then I just turn away. I don’t want to see that anymore, I really don’t. And I don’t need to. I looked too close for too long. It’s so far gone now, so far back.
I remember at the time, when I was young and the Southern Baptist doctrine was shoved down my throat and beaten into me, I distinctly remember knowing for sure I was going to go to hell because I couldn’t honor my father. And I believed that for a long time. Maybe until I was in my 40s? And by then, I had a whole new slew of reasons why I knew for sure I was going to hell. Failure to follow just one of God’s commands was a miniscule infraction. I’d failed to follow so many of God’s commands, I was black with sin. Ugly and black and doomed.
