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.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
There Are Days
"There are days," he told me, "Most days, if the truth be told, when I am so uninvested in life, not even a spectator since spectators care about what they watch." I've had days like that, but others too. It sounded such a frightful burden. He had nothing to look forward to, nothing but more of the same. More burdensome days, days he trues not to share lest we be infected by the pain of them. Protect us, Lord, from such terrible sadness.
Labels:
depression,
prayer,
sadness,
therapy
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