My father.
I remember so well how he’d coming home from work after a long day and swing me in the air. I would squeal with delight- then as always, he would reach into his pocket and pull out a bright red candy and place it in my hand. With his eyes shining he’d grin and say “un dulce por mi dulce”. (A sweet for my sweet.) I remember tearing the paper off that piece of cinnamon candy and placing it in my mouth. I would dance around the room without a care in the world. Those were beautiful moments that I will never forget – for they taught me about the love of a Father.
I was his beloved daughter. He adored my mother and I. While we didn’t have much, we had each other and that was more than enough.
We had each other-until the day he was taken from us.
I waited at the window that day. “Any minute he will be here”, I remember my mom saying trying to easy my mind. “Why don’t you come help me make the tortillas for dinner tonight? she asked. Yet I could see the concern in her eyes as she too began to pace the floor of our tiny one room home. Another hour passed, then another. And finally a police car pulled up the dark gravel lane and knocked on our door.
I don’t recall their exact words but I will never forget the scream that came from my mothers soul as she crumbled to the floor.
My mother did the best she could over the next few years to take care of us. She had never been given the privilege of studying growing up and the jobs opportunities were not many. Often we went without food, but I tried to pretend not to notice. One day my mother and I were carry a heavy pile of wood back to our house to help keep us warm for the evening. An older man approached us and asked my mother if we needed work. My mother excitedly replied yes and explained she’d been looking. He explained to her how he had an exciting opportunity but it was for her daughter. He promised that I would be given free room and board and even “an education.”
Something about his laughter chilled me to the core. Yet I couldn’t let my mother down. I saw hope in her eyes for the first time in a long time.
The next two years of my life were unspeakable. Through Christian therapy I am receiving at Village of Hope Guatemala I am working towards healing. Our good, good Father is walking me towards wholeness.
We humans, we always hope for a better tomorrow. We hope for more. We hope for someone to come along and make things better. To save us from the pain, the worries. And He does.
My Father, He saves.
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3
