The day after my daddy left, it stormed.
I was sitting exactly where I am right now, outside at my computer, with the rain pouring as fast as the tears were coming down my cheeks. The sky flashed now and then as lightening peppered the sky, and the thunder boomed.
It felt so appropriate. It felt like my insides were manifesting in nature.
I had not posted on Facebook since Daddy left, but as I sat, reading messages from kind friends, I finally knew what I wanted to say.
The storm gave my words to me:
Tonight, the thunder roared, using the entire sky as its megaphone.
My own weren’t as loud…only because it had the advantage.
But it was a close call.
It was really close.
It’s okay if you need to roar, too.
When I was at the beach last week, I found out that my Sunday School teacher, Bible study leader, and friend, Barbara Mayo, wouldn’t live through the week. She died the day after I got the news.
And the day after she died, it stormed at the beach.
I sat and watched the lightning over the ocean for more than two hours, thinking about Barbara, thinking about Daddy. When I was little and it would storm, Daddy would put me in the car and take me to a good spot to watch the lightning. We called it God’s fireworks. And our family loves some fireworks.
But that kind of fireworks were mine and Daddy’s favorites.
The storm is doing my talking, and I feel exactly the same way I did one day after my daddy left us.
I am heavy.
I want to roar.
I want to scream just as loudly as nature is able.
But tonight, I’m going to let the sky roar for me, as I sit and absorb its magnitude.
I sit and absorb the magnitude of Daddy leaving.
I wish he knew how much all of the things he did with me when I was little made an impression.
I wish he knew that I was watching the lightening for so long, all by myself, studying the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
I wish he knew that I desperately need that glimpse.
Just a glimpse.
The sky roars and I stay quiet, absorbing the storm.
The only thing I know to do is absorb the storm.