Same Song, Second Verse

She woke early, the sun streaming through a crack in the blinds, promising a glorious day.

Although she wasn't a morning person, she deliberately chose to get up, showered quickly knowing the bathroom would soon be in high demand, and headed for the couch in the den.

"Daddy?" she called as she stepped into the den from the bright hallway. The den's blinds were closed and the room was a little shadowy, hard to make things out. But she knew she was always welcome, and plopped down on the couch.

"Daddy, I was hoping to talk to you this morning. There's been a lot on my mind lately, and you said I could come and talk any time, that you're always here to listen. I'm so glad for that, because I can really use your guidance. I'm not really even sure what my question is, to be honest. I'm just feeling sort of weighed down and confused and down. A lot of the time I feel like I'm missing something, Dad. I don't know if I really am, or if I'm just ... confused. I know, I know, I already said that. Sorry to chatter on like this. It's just been swirling around in my head for so long. Sometimes I feel so strongly like I'm missing something, like there's something you told me, or wanted to tell me, or are hoping I notice, and it's just out of reach. Like I'm not sure what you're saying. I really would like to know, Dad, is there something you're trying to tell me? Am I missing it?"

She paused for a minute, squinting into the shadows, feeling a little troubled. He promised He'd be here for me, so I'm sure He is. she thought to herself. But ... why isn't He answering me?

"You know, I've been reading that book you gave me. I am so thankful that you gave it to me, because I know you wrote it with me in mind. I mean, not JUST me, of course, but including me. I know you meant it to be things I need to know, and telling me more about you, and I really love that, Dad. It's such a neat gift. ... but I have to admit, sometimes ... I'm just not sure which parts I'm supposed to be reading, when. You use some really neat analogies, and there is some fantastic family history, but sometimes I get confused, wondering which ancestor I'm most like and whether I'm supposed to learn my lessons about this one or that one or what. And I know great Scholars have studied your book, too, and have different recommended ways to read it, and I've read some of there stuff, too, and learned quite a few different ways to read your book and learn from it. And I have learned a lot. And I want to pattern my life after you, after what you've said in your book. It's the best advice I've ever seen.

But ... still. Even here with the book ... I really just want to talk to you. No, I do enough talking, Daddy, you know that. I just want to hear from you. I'd like to climb on your lap and feel your arms around me, reminding me that it'll be okay. Pointing out the areas where I'm really doing okay, following you. And, of course, setting me straight on the things I'm off course on. I know I've been headstrong in the past. I know I've even been rebellious at times. And I'm sorry for that, you know I am. Sometimes it's hard for me to see past my own rebellious bent. But, really, you know that's not what I want.

I just ... I don't know what I'm doing. I get all mixed up sometimes. Did I already say that?

Oh Dad. Point me in the right direction. Let me know where I'm supposed to be going, and whether I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing..."

She trails off, leaning her head against the couch pillows, crying. She feels overwhelmed and lost. She sits quietly, for awhile, listening. She can hear the garbage truck down the street, groaning as it works, slowly moving closer. She hears a cat whining to get through a closed door, and her own snuffling as she remembers that she forgot to bring tissues in with her. She squints around the dim room but isn't sure where any are.

"Dad?"

her question hangs in the air. She wonders, I know I'm not little anymore. Am I too old to be swooped up on to his lap?

A thump and a shout from upstairs eventually pull her from the room, she's needed to mediate an argument and get the cereal bowls out.

She takes one last look around the dim room and softly says, "I'll be back later. I love you, Dad."