Jakarta. At home, day 8.
My pastor's wife told me a few months back as we met up over coffee, how challenging in itself for not having a father; a man's figure in the family who could give direction, let alone being a provider.
I was telling her on how the word 'city' impressed me last year in November; and how it led me to making decision for grad school. In Business. And that was a shift.
A gentle, soft-hearted person, she immediately understands how tough things must be. She was right; even though my late dad was not a spiritual leader and he had turned away from God for years until he died, yet he was the head of the family and I did treasure his presence as decision-maker and provider.
I was daddy's girl and am my mom's world.
Being at home since last week, my mom wanted me to visit my dad's grave, so we did last weekend. It had been important for her for us the kids to visit dad's grave regularly. For me, every time I come here for holiday.
Standing in front of his grave, I stared at the verses engraved; I chose that verse.
This time was rather different; I may not visit the grave for the next at least one year; I told myself.
It has been... seven years. But I still cried every time I remember you, Papa.
I am going to Europe again, after over a decade since I last went there. No, it wasn't America, Papa.
I still wonder, how things, how life would have been if you were still with us.
With that, I wonder too, all the time, if the wounds caused by your death remain; staying there, hurting people around me, as I keep the walls built surround me.
God is faithful, Papa. He always is.
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