At two in the morning, my father, intoxicated and clumsy, stumbled over air. "What are you doing up, sweetie?" questioned my father. Whenever he is like this, no one wants to be around, just ask my mother. The reason why she works diligently, and why she is never here. "I am just reading," lying my way out of this predicament. "Please tell me you aren't reading that stupid book," he exclaimed starting this war again. I was dodging that remark by sneaking into my room. I know my father is just befuddled, but it still hurts how he doesn't accept my religion or my identity. Everytime, he gets under my skin by making me question my faith.
My faith is everything, but do I need to give it up for someone like my father? Faith is what keeps me alive everyday. iIf I didn't have it, I don't know where I will be, probably still hanging out with the bad people who influenced me to cuss. Faith helps me get through the dark times. I feel lonesome, mainly because my parents are never home, and I have no siblings. I love God because, at the end of the day, when I feel lonely, I know that I have him. I know he is always there for me, better or worse. When I dislike everyone, there is only one person that is an expectation; that's God. I will never give up on him. My mom always said, "Everyone experiences change in one point in their life." Change was always hellacious for me to adjust, like when my grandmother died. I never grasped the idea that she was gone. I ignored the transmogrify, and I secluded from everyone. I stayed in my room for weeks, not knowing if I should go out there and pretend that her death didn't happen. I guess my anxiety just got the best of me, but the alter affected my life. I doubted God's presences, which I regret it;, I now know that he is exists. He is ready to comfort me for whatever obstacles he throws at me. I truly believe that he is there; even though, some people like my father will try to argue that he isn't there. The only opinion that matters is God. When I feel weak, I turn to God to make me strong. God rescued me when no one couldn't.
My mother silently slipped into the house, pretending that she wasn't at work the whole night. "Hey, I am sorry. I had a thing at work," she revealed, like I haven't heard this one before, so I nodded silently. I was blinded sided with the conversation because it felt like years since I last heard her voice. "Well, I am going to check on your father," my mother uttered with bewildermented and concern. I stay cooped in my room, listening to my parents bickering over the fact that is he was a drunk and that I was reading the Bible. I never grasped why he didn't like my faith. I jump out of my skin with the curiosity when my mother came into my room. "We are leaving," she shouted slamming doors with frustration, and then, she paused. She took a minute to digest the information, and she shouted, "We are done with this crap, so you can get out." As painful as this sounds, the only thing that my father was good at was leaving us. "Mom, why does he hate God?," I wondered, with mascara and tears running down my face. My mother stammers with compelling information, "He..He..He has good intentions, but...Your father used to go to church with us until his mother died. She was a lovely womaen, and she loved going to church. He just can't accept God after that, and he just feels lonesome." I nodded, trying to soak up the information that my dad and I actually had something in common.
Later, my parents were separated, and it was my first time to see my dad after everything. He had disappointed and furious written on his face. I started to say something to kill the awkward tension, but he interrupted, "Look, I am sorry. I am going to rehab to get better, and after that I will go to church with you. I am ready to get better, and maybe, I can come back to you and your mom." Sorrow was in my eyes, because for once in my life, he was actually trying to accept me. "I am fine with that," I smiled, with tears running down my face. I hugged him like it was the last hug we will ever have. "I am really sorry for being a bad father. You just reminded me so much of your grandmother that it was hard to be around you, and the church that my mom went to," elaborating on the reason why he was a troubled man for the duration of my life. The tears were streaming down his face like raindrops plummeting down the window. I loathed my father for years, but he really just needed help. I haven't seen my father cry like this since he found out about death of my grandmother or when he found out my grandmother had breast cancer.
"When is your father coming?" questioned pastor Mike. "Anytime soon," I stated with no doubts. I found my way to the center row saving a seat for my father, and I turned my phone off. "Shall we begin?," commented Pastor Mike. I was infuriated at my father not showing up. I never should have believed him in the first place.
Later, I turn my phone back on, and come to find out, I was flummox with all the messages.
My father- I love you
I am sorry
My mother- Where are you?
We need to talk.
My aunt- I am sorry for your loss.
My phone slipped out of my hands like if it was buttered, and I collapsed to the ground with frustration and sorrow,ness. Whispering to myself, "I am sorry, Dad. I am sorry."
