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My Father's Daughter

My Father's daughter... this title...if you've read at all you know what Father I am speaking of. Somehow, tonight I feel like that rebellious teenage girl: angry and sad and wanting her father to figure out what's wrong and fix it as I push him away. I want to be rescued. I want to be told through my tears and all the fear that it's all going to be ok.

Life has been unexpectedly hard. And also really amazing... when I have the strength and state of mins to step back (way back) and look at what my Father has done..

This last year though. It beat me up. It was unspeakably hard... I guess I still need to process.

To move forward I think I need to come back to one of my first loves. Well two of my loves, really: my Father, my Abba, the One I'd call out to in the middle of the night because I always knew He was there.

And the other love?

Words.

I wrote before how writing is the one thing that could ever make sense of the chaos in my mind. I left it for so long and it shows. The tangled mess. The incomplete thoughts. The worry and the fear. The words being made into sentences always helped.

But I've stayed away.

I've wasted precious time.

I've lived recklessly. I've spent resources that I can never ever replace. All trying to be distracted. Distracted from the hurt. Trying to leave the blame elsewhere. Well, no more. I'll my Abba rescue me. I'll stop fighting. I'll stop this sophomoric game of feeling sorry for myself. And I'll come home.

This prodigal Daughter returns.

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