Why do I allow it?

I don't like my dad right now. I've said those words over and over in my head for the last week or so. Actually, when I first said them I was sitting by myself in the car with lots of pounding, yelling, and tears. And the word "hate" replaced "don't like."

My dad and I have never had a "healthy" relationship. It's a very long backstory that isn't terribly interesting; suffice it to say that dysfunctional sums it up pretty well. But I don't think I've ever realized just what a poor father he can be until this Thanksgiving.

I always see my dad over Thanksgiving. Even if I just pop in to say hello, I always go to his house. You could almost say it's a tradition. So this year, when I got into town, I called my dad on Wednesday and asked him to call me back and let me know what time I should come by. Wednesday passed. No call. Thanksgiving day came and went. No call.

Finally on Friday evening, he called. And his words were "We just got so busy, I didn't think about calling you." My own father forgot me. Forgot his first-born. His own flesh and blood. And I hated him for it.

I hated him for making me feel insignificant. I hated him for acting like it was no big deal, like it was funny. But most of all I hated myself for allowing him to let me feel like that; for letting him ruin a holiday that, up until that point, had been wonderful. I had spent time with my mom and brother and aunts and uncles, eaten lots of good food, seen some old friends. So why did one sentence from a man who I haven't considered a "father" in years absolutely tear me to shreds?

And I can almost feel my heart hardening in my chest. But I don't know what to do. And it hurts. And I'm tired.

Jello Thighs vs. God's Creation

I hate exercising. I hate almost everything about it. I hate getting all gross and sweaty. I hate that my legs feel like Jello when I'm done. I hate running for miles without ever actually moving from one spot. I hate exercising.

So yesterday I was working out in the school's gym. All these skinny, toned people surrounded me, sprinting at speeds that would have shot me off the back of the treadmill and through the wall. And I could not stop comparing myself to them. The way they looked, the way they ran, everything. And the more I compared, the worse I felt about myself.

But as I continued to walk, pushing through the pain in my side and willing my legs to keep moving, I realized that I don't just compare myself to people at the gym. I compare myself to others at work, at church, and social gatherings. I compare myself to my friends, my family, and perfect strangers. And I never measure up.

I wish I was more confident. Why is it that I can see the good in others, but rarely in myself? How can I believe that I am God's creation while obsessing about how big my thighs are? Where is the line between being humble and being self-depreciating? Because I've been commanded to love others as I love myself...and I'm having a hard time loving myself.

Remembrance

A few weeks ago, I helped plan a women's retreat at the church I attend. One of my responsibilities was developing a Quiet Time guide for Saturday morning. I ended up finding an interesting devotion on Hannah, and how God met her needs. The Quiet Time read in part:

God is willing to meet us just as He met Hannah. Whatever our distress, whatever hard situations we face, He is willing—more than that—he is eager to meet our needs and give us His grace and comfort. No other person—not our husband, not our closest friends, not our parents, not our children—can render relief, support and encouragement that our God has waiting for us.

One way to build confidence in God is to form a habit of remembrance. It’s so easy to forget everything He’s already done by being preoccupied with what you want Him to do right here, right now. But by forgetting His blessings, you form a habit of ingratitude. By frequently thanking God for what He’s done, you build a habit (or an “attitude”) of gratitude, which will also deepen your trust in God’s compassion, mercy, faithfulness and power.

I thought it was a neat concept, so I hurriedly typed it up and printed it out to pass out at the retreat.

Fast forward to the retreat itself, Saturday morning. I sat on the porch, wrapped up in a sweater, reflecting on the guide in my hand as I looked out over the golden leaves. And the more I thought about Hannah's story, the sadder became. Hannah's joy was bittersweet. She received a son, God answered her prayers. But she also gave literally gave up her son. When he was a child, she took him to the temple, and left him there. I think she wept. Some of those tears were tears of joy. But I believe some were because her heart was breaking.

The reason I think this is because my own "remembrance" brings with it intense grief. The thing that I thanked God for that morning was my stepfather, who died nearly four years ago. For the first time since Dennis died, I thanked God for the 19-years that I was able to call him my father. I thanked God for Dennis's hugs, his wisdom, his love, his laughter. But I also wept. Because I miss him. I know that's a recurring theme here on this blog, but it's true. However, for the first time I thanked God for Dennis before I wept. And for the first time, I told God that even if He had placed Dennis in my life for 19 days, I would still thank Him.

And I meant it. Despite the tears and the questions and my railing against God, I meant it.