My father was a writer. He wrote all of his life, inflicting upon many of us his novels, plays, articles, essays, and self-help books. Some were marvelous; some merely well-intentioned. But of all the things he wrote, his journal is his legacy: by turns wise and bewildering, it neared 1,100 type-written pages when he died in 2010. Although perused many times, this is the first time it will be read - cover to cover, page after page.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Competing Demands
There are a number of kids fouled up by parents who couldn't accept and understand, who didn't or wouldn't or never knew how to give what their children should have been able to expect. They are people wanting to love and be loved, but it is hard and they give up, settling for something less, settling for respect or control, a presence in role but not in person. They focus on their rights, but permit their children none. They can give things, but not themselves, and it is not enough. They ache from awareness of their emptiness. They are frustrated and hurt by the anger they receive. What might have been love is only sadness, and I wonder what comes to mind for both parent and child when they hear that God is Father.
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