as old as Jesus

As was mentioned previously my father died two years and now two weeks ago. The two weeks is especially poignant as my sister turned 28 two weeks to the day after my dad died. I turned 33 two days after that. My sister was eight months pregnant and I had just had a baby in January. Neither of us is much of a stoic on a good day. Throw in a couple jillion hormones, one dead dad and you had two exceptionally emotional girls. Our birthdays that year were flat and sad, something to be endured. Torey was already pushing the envelope on travelling restrictions, but there was no way she was going back to Illinois until after her birthday. I can’t remember if she stayed for mine.

It was my 33rd which I was keenly aware was the age of Christ on earth when He died on the cross. He got in and out fast, didn’t waste time. Not wasting time was very important to me on my birthday two years ago, my dad newly buried. Seven months before he had had a bad case of bronchitis, which dragged on for weeks and weeks. It was actually congestive heart failure. I begrudged him the weeks he suffered in that particular denial and the years previous of similar others. I was burdened by guilt for the time I had wasted waiting for him to be a different person, planning then to have a real true relationship. After a certain point I held him at arm’s length, the anger and hurt between us mingled with so many prayers of forgiveness that never seemed to bridge. Squandered time.

That year after his death I thought a lot about how to live. Jesus came to this earth clear; He lived to please His Father in heaven. I wanted to be that clear.