A Dad Story

I could share for pages and pages about the awesomeness of my Dad.  My Dad cries over Baseball, America, Jesus, and his grand kids.  I was beyond irritated with his strict rules but knew, deep down, that he was an excellent father and that the last thing I wanted to do was disappoint him. 

But, instead of picking apart what makes him a good Dad, I thought I would share a story.  Its the defining story for me.  It will always be The Story of My Dad.

I can't remember the year, but I was having a rough time in high school.  We moved to a small town half way through my freshman year.  The kids were nice, but they had all known each other since Kindergarten and I could not break in.  I had made friends with some kids that weren't "bad", but were bringing me down and causing me a great deal of drama and heartache.  I walked away suddenly from my group of friends and found myself with no one to say "Hi" to in the halls.  No one to giggle with in class.  And, worse of all for any student, no one to sit with at lunch.  There were nice kids all around me, but I became crippled by fear and insecurity.

Every lunch, I would sneak into the library, wedge myself between a window and some bookshelves so that no one would KNOW I was eating in the library, and wallow in my misery.

On top of this, I had just spoken out against a teacher that I dearly respected but was teaching some things that greatly insulted my faith.  I'm a public school girl.  I can handle Evolution and existential discussions in English Class.  But this particular set of lectures was too much.

So, I was The Girl Who Stormed Out Of English Class on top of everything else.

One morning, I remember getting ready in the bathroom.  I remember it was still dark outside and very early in the morning.  I remember looking in the mirror and thinking, "God, I can not do this again.  I can not get up and face another day at this school."  I was sick in my stomach.  Filled with dread.  Trying so hard to be strong but ready to lay down my sword and crawl back into bed.

I trudged downstairs.  I remember being in the kitchen, in total darkness.  I heard something.  It was a low, soft sound.  It was someone muttering.

I followed the sound through the parlor and to the door of my Dad's study.  He had a glass door.  As I peaked in, I could see my Dad, literally on his knees, his arms resting on the seat of his desk chair, praying.  Praying very intensely.  All I could hear were low muttering sounds and then, every so often the name, "Sara".

I turned away from that glass door a changed girl.  I was strong again.  I could handle whatever came my way.  I suddenly remembered a lesson from my mother, that I don't need to worry about making friends, but about being a friend.  I charged that day at high school armed and dangerous.  Equipped with courage and confidence.  I had a new outlook, and a spring in my step.

Because My Dad was praying for me.