Not surprised

It's been 4 months since I talked to my dad last.

When I think about our last week of conversations, it feels like years ago. I replay them, looking for even more hope of God stirring in his heart, and looking for ways that I can be more confident in some sort of affirmitive response. I do thank You, Lord for the evidence that you give every man a chance to draw near, even in their last days!

And then when I think about that wretched week before Christmas, the hurt is as fresh as, well, right now. I don't know what I would have done with out Emily and April.

I remember the rest stop where I was when Phil called and said something was wrong. My coffee didn't have enough creamer in it, and I was annoyed, and then God told me my dad wasn't going to live, and it didn't matter. I hid that in my heart, in fear of speaking death over him.

And then I remember the rest stop that I was at when Phil called and told me he died. I remember the neon "Fudge" sign, this is what I focused on as he talked, I can hear his voice cracking as he told me he had to go.

I remember the brake lights and Hillsong "Desert Song" playing softly as I drove away from my hurting family. I.felt.helpless.

And tonight I write, just because it feels good to get it out, even if I'm keeping it conservative. I don't feel helpless tonight, just sad.

He's always faithful to His Word, and it says that "He is close to the brokenhearted."

He is close to me.