I was eighteen when my father died. I’d be exaggerating to say I never knew him. My mom made him leave when I was twelve, and I saw him a half dozen times between his departure and his death six years later. But he’d actually been thriving in my early childhood in Helena, Montana. He had a job then where he felt valued, kids were accumulating on the familiar pace of five per decade, and we had lower-middle-class financial stability. I remember driving in a giant Ford station wagon, delivering newspapers in the freezing pre-dawn darkness, watching him cry when particularly beautiful music played on the classical music station. He sang with a loud baritone that I inherited, and reliable pitch, which I did not. I relished his pleasure in throwing Sunday waffle parties for friends and neighbors. I also remember the stories he made up in the telling, in which we children were the main characters. I no longer remember my name in that fantasy world, other than the sibilant alliteration—savvy Sam or super Sam or the like—but I remember that the protagonist of the story cycle was a boy named Polly Push. The boy got that name because his favorite words were a request that his older sister
I really relished reading about your journey. I am not nearly so profound, but feel I share your thoughts at the end about the things you enjoy and are helpful. I am a single mother of 10 children, most with special needs, who entered my family through adoption, some as teenagers. Because I have sons in prison and on the streets, and two kids battling alcoholism, and several with mental and physical handicaps, etc., some people look at me and I can hear them thinking, "What a crap parent she is!" Others put me on a pedestal with angels and Mother Teresa, and I am accustomed to hearing how all will be resolved in heaven, and all these experiences are teaching me things I need to know. Actually, most helpful are good crime detective recommendations, and bringing me chili rellenos. I take care of prayer, service, etc., and usually enjoy happy days. Thanks again.
Thank you for sharing your journey. It’s real and helpful, and helped me feel God’s love.
I really relished reading about your journey. I am not nearly so profound, but feel I share your thoughts at the end about the things you enjoy and are helpful. I am a single mother of 10 children, most with special needs, who entered my family through adoption, some as teenagers. Because I have sons in prison and on the streets, and two kids battling alcoholism, and several with mental and physical handicaps, etc., some people look at me and I can hear them thinking, "What a crap parent she is!" Others put me on a pedestal with angels and Mother Teresa, and I am accustomed to hearing how all will be resolved in heaven, and all these experiences are teaching me things I need to know. Actually, most helpful are good crime detective recommendations, and bringing me chili rellenos. I take care of prayer, service, etc., and usually enjoy happy days. Thanks again.