Letter to the Readers

So, I'm writing this book.

And as I write and wait to see if it's God's will to publish my writings, I blog.

Below is what I imagine I'll open my book with, but I think it's good for you to read too. Because it explains everything. Everything. It explains why I began writing years ago, and it explains why I write now.

My father has been sick my entire life.  He has several, painful, auto-immune, degenerative diseases which affect his joints, muscles and bones. When he was diagnosed 28 years ago, one of the only effective treatments at that time for his level of pain was narcotics. And so like most people who are prescribed daily doses of narcotics, my father developed a need for them and began making choices based upon that need. As the strength of narcotics increased, so did my dad’s desire. By the time I was in high school, my father had chosen to retire on disability, was totally withdrawn from life, in bed 24/7 and had a diminishing relationship with his family (Daddy Disclaimer). 

My story – and my pain- is not derived from the fact that my father is ill, has legitimate diseases. It is centered around my father’s extreme need for his pain medicine and the fact that for the majority of my life, he consistently chose those medications over me, over my family.

Letter to the Readers

Two pictures hang above the desk in my office.  The one on the left is of a kayaker braving the tumultuous white waters of an angry river.  The kayak is vertical in the water; half submerged, half buoyant. Both arms of the kayaker are raised; fingers grasp tightly to the horizontal paddle. It is a picture of strength, of determination, of an iron will. Many who look at it comment that it’s an awesome picture of victory.  I look at it knowing the kayaker is terrified. Knowing the battle isn’t half fought.

The picture on the right is also of a man in a kayak.  His paddle is horizontal as well, but it’s resting on his lap. And the state of the water? It’s what the ocean offers in its early-morning tranquility. The man’s gaze is fixed somewhere in the distance, and at first glance you’d believe the viewer is not supposed to know where. But then you see it. Through the fog lifting from the water, there is a far-off shore. Some believe the picture is boring compared to its companion. In my heart I know this second picture offers far more life than its counterpart ever could.

I’ve struggled, dear reader, in knowing how to tell my painful story without drowning you in sorrow. Am I capable of weaving the story with beauty, truth and hope?

The difficulty of reliving the story in order to tell it is immeasurable. So why? Why do I feel the need to disclose it? 2 Corinthians 1:3-5 says, “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves received from God. For just as the sufferings of Christ flow over into our lives, so also through Christ our comfort overflows.”

I tell my story in order to possibly bring encouragement and healing for the trials you’ve endured. I also tell it because writing is one of the key gifts God has given me to process, to heal, to move on.  And so – with a weight on my heart I cannot describe – I present this to you.

There have been some ugly, ugly times. Though it would be easier to forget them, they remind me of the white hot fire that I’ve walked through and the beauty of the reconciliation I experience now.

With freedom and understanding and grace that has been missing for far too long, my father released me this summer (2010) to impart my journey. My entire journey. With family and friends. With readers. And I’ve a lot to tell. “It’s a story you need to share,” he explained as I chatted with him on the phone. “A story you need to work through by writing, like you always have. Who am I to stand in your way and tell you that you cannot process in the way that’s best for you?” But I’m getting ahead of myself. It took a long time to get to that point.

Before I left town for the week to hide in nature and begin seriously recording this journey, I glanced through thoughts for the book I’d jotted down years ago. I was shocked – appalled even – at my book dedication ideas. “To the men who stepped up.” “To the men who took the time to meet me in my pain.” “To my Heavenly Father who fulfills the shortcomings of my earthly one.”  My heart sank. I’ve come from such deep pain and depression. Such anger. But I no longer want to dedicate the book to the men who were in stark contrast to my father – although they have played a vital role. I no longer want this book to expose my father, to showcase his failings and the “undeserved pain” I’ve walked through.

When I began writing years ago, it was out of a need to tell someone – anyone – what was really going on. How I was so broken deep inside. The writing it produced reflected the condition of my being – it was raw and angry and broken and ugly. I still want to show that. Because it’s honest. And it’s a place every human goes.

 But it’s not the point of the story anymore.

God has changed all of that. Just like Job’s life, and Mary and Martha’s loss, and Israel’s wanderings, and Jesus’ death are not the point of the Bible. They are the tools that tell the much greater story of Christ’s resurrection. The story of a God who loved his broken ones so much that He became one of them. Experienced their pain. Wept through trials. Begged for release. And suffered immeasurably. So that He could understand His children. So that He could offer us new life. Oh, and He has. He has!

This is a story about God’s redemption and my restoration. Peace to you as you walk through my journey and hopefully bring healing to your own.

Perfect submission

All is at rest

I, in my Savior, am happy and blessed

Watching and waiting

Looking above

Filled with His goodness

Lost in His love

This is my story