come home

the past few weeks haven't turned out the way I had planned in my mind. Last Friday my father was admitted to the hospital and has been in the hospital ever since. He is okay, but he needs surgery on Monday. Monday is Dec. 22nd. Three days before Christmas. We don't have a tree, we have no decorations. it's not that I thought it would be much different since my brother died I figured we just wouldn't go through the motions of a "normal" Christmas, however I never thought it would be like this. 

I am not yet done with my christmas shopping and haven't mailed my cards. The motivation is gone and I think I'm just done with the celebration of Christmas that typically happens. I love Christmas for what it originally meant. I love the fact that God's son was born to Mary in a lowly stable in Bethlehem. I love that a star guided shepherds and three kings to kneel at his hay bed. I love that Jesus loves me so much to died on a Roman cross for me. 

I think that many people might find it odd that I haven't turned away from my faith. I actually find it hard to believe myself. After my grandfather died, I never turned my back to God, but I stopped listening. I had to explore. I had to figure things out. I tried yoga, I read about Judaism, I invested in some Kabbalah books and wore a red string. Yet, all roads led me  back to my methodist church. It was the only thing that ever felt right. The only thing that fit. It's like finding the perfect outfit, or like as a child you have a favorite dress that you just can't live without. You wait for it to be washed and dive into the dryer to find it. 

After my brother's death, my pastor told me I could be angry with God, and that it was okay. I think it is okay. It hurts really deep, and I still have moments where I am deeply angry at God--why couldn't he have made my brother take a different road, or stay longer at work that night, or leave earlier. Why couldn't he have had me think to call my brother, and maybe had delayed his drive home. All this longing becomes a weight that bears down upon my lungs and hampers my breathing. 

So I carry on. I try to move forward and make sense out of what I can wrap my head around and leave for later what I cannot. There are so many times when I wish my brother would just come home. How I long to hear his foot steps upon the cellar steps, loud-fast-strong. The sigh in his breath. His insistence on sitting on the right hand side of the couch with his legs out-using the "not broken" tray table. 

and a single tear rolling down my cheek reminds me that what I am writing really did happen. And I am waiting for my father to come home.