Sounds of Hope

I've always been a Daddy's girl.  I miss my dad more and more every day.  That may sound odd since he's been gone for nearly 41 years.   Today I've been thinking about how much I still want to be a Daddy's girl.  No, I can't climb on his lap anymore and ride the horsey on his foot while hearing Rida Rida Runka .  I can't snuggle in his arms and hear him say Lille Venn.   I can't beg for the extra piece of lump sugar while having my Biblical knowledge tested with the story of Naaman . I want to be a Daddy's girl by being like my dad.   I have a very eclectic group of friends both in real life and on Facebook.  My scroll on Facebook fills up with all sorts of things - mostly nonsense.  I see things about how to love your pets and why dogs are wonderful.  I see things about politicians.  Unfortunately, I see a lot of hate stuff about people who are different or those who are perceived as enemies.  I see calls to action to r...

I walked to the pay phone in the hallway.   Everything was green, the walls, the floor, a dull green to match the mood.   I picked up the phone and dropped my coin.   I dialed the familiar number of the church.   My call interrupted the merriment of an Afterglow, a time of fellowship after a Sunday evening service.   Pastor Calloway soon said “hello.”   I said, “my father is dead.”   He said, “I’ll be right there.” We stood in the hall.   I don’t remember for sure who was there.   I know I was there.   I think my husband was there, but then he might have been with our son.   I think my brother was there, perhaps his wife or one of his boys.   Marta, the nurse my mother loved was probably there.   We waited as the body was disconnected from the tubes and wires.   A day before a young doctor knelt by his urine bag begging for it to fill with yellow liquid.   That liquid was like gold.   It meant my dad would ...