My dad turns 45 today. With the exception of the birthdays he celebrated before he joined my mom and I in Canada in 1994, this is the first time he’s celebrated it without us. I found out today that he was supposed to go fly to the Philippines on the 15th, two days ago, and that his flight’s moved to Wednesday the 19th. He’s supposed to be there until December. He moved out on the 13th but, even then, I don’t know what to make of it all.
I’m not really sure what to make of this post. On one hand I’m eating through the backlog I’ve built up in the last month. On the other hand I think I’m just trying to make sense of what’s happening through the form I’m most comfortable with: writing. There’s a strange duality in how I feel about everything of late. I try to underplay it with depreciating humour, which of course is a defense mechanism against letting it affect me too much, especially when I’m out with friends. But I can’t help feeling conflicted when I get home and sit and think. I have a lot of anger and hatred and resentment—that’s natural for me—but at the same time, there’s an infinitesimal ounce of care that I feel buried beneath all of that cynicism and disillusionment; that’s natural for me as well.
Psalm 22 has been a real source of comfort and assurance over the last week. The nineteenth verse sticks with me:
But you, O Lord, do not be far away! O my help, come quickly to my aid!
These are obviously trying times and though my faith in humanity/men/a man is tested, I am happy that my faith in God is not.
(September 17 for August 19, 2012)