They are his word, that gentle force that moves over and into my darkness to whisper let there be light.
And my dad is God made flesh. He who stands before me to do the work of living, to do the work of breaking, to do the work of rebuilding with the pieces left over.
How many people can truly say they have loved a human being so hard that God makes sense?
Like looking into the bursting brilliance of the cosmos and knowing without logic that God is here, in this space with us, boldly announcing his presence in our past, present and future.
And we don’t have to be afraid.
And we won’t be lost to the ages because we are and always will be a part of it.
And wasn’t that the point of Jesus, to give us something beautiful to hold onto in the meantime.
I didn’t know how badly I would need what my parents gave me as a child.
Unconditional, naked, palpable love.
How can something so achingly vulnerable be the most powerful force in our universe?
That’s the paradox of love. God’s signature magic.
Raw love, the diamond before it is cut, the holy grail I never had to search for.
831 days ago, I was dying from alcohol at the mouth of my bedroom closet, and my parents were there.
Not physically.
I mean to say, they were already there. Inside my chest. Making the same commands that you see in nature. Grow. Push through the barriers. Defy the odds.
I’d give you my gratitude, dad, but you wouldn’t accept it because loving me is in the next breath you take and in the space before you take the next one after that.
I’d hold your face so damn hard and tell you I’ve never loved a man on earth the way I love you, but we were doing that before either of us were born.
Rumi said, lovers don’t finally meet somewhere, they’re in each other all along. And we were, we are and always will be.
I used to think I hated clichés, like the phrase, “gift from God,” but if this happens often enough on this earth to be commonplace, then my faith is restored.
My gift. My dad. My forever.
I love you. I love you. I love you. Do you see how that’s just like the chant that makes the flowers grow?
I can see your smile.
Your Father’s Day is my Father’s Day.
Your Opie forever,
SobrietyPoet
Sobriety Poet 