“Ines was *burn* on the 16th of May, 1978 in Spain, but I was in Nicaragua at the time, and when her uncle called me with the news, it was around 9:00pm on 15th of May” my father is telling the story that he tells every year on the eve of my birthday. This time he’s telling the story to my inquisitive husband. And oh, he meant I was “born” not *burn*. I didn’t burn. Excuse his English-as-a-Second-Language accent. So, this is why he always calls me wherever I am on May 15, to tell me “today is when I got the call and I could hear you crying on the other end of the line. I was so upset that I couldn’t be there with you and your mom, that I went by myself to have some pizza and a whole pitcher of beer to celebrate.”
If he knew I was writing this, he’d kill me. Please don’t tell.
Far away from my father before I even came out of the womb.
Fast forward a month after I was born, and I was back in Nicaragua visiting in person for the first time. Fast forward a few more months when the political situation in Nic was getting hot, and you will find my mom packing our bags (again) and about to jump into a Hercules airplane from the Spanish Air Force embarking with other Spanish citizens quickly being evacuated from Managua. My dad, mom and I are headed to the airport. We’re all supposed to get on that plane. All, right? Well, we get there and my dad pretty much shoves my mom who’s got me in her arms, into the airplane and says, “you’re getting outta here, I’m staying. Go where you’ll be safe. I can’t leave the country. I need to stay.” She’s mad. Have you ever seen a Spanish woman mad?? She mad.
Far away from my father before I was 2 years old. Again.
Abandonment is a big word. It’s a deep word. It’s my wound. My father NEVER abandoned me. EVER. But as I look back at my life and other hardships, it seems that the devil would have me *feel* and *believe* that I was abandoned. And since they say little girls get their view of their Heavenly Father confused with their earthly father… I get stuck.
Did God really say….? the serpent taunts in the perfect garden. Plants the devil seed of doubt. In my mind what the serpent hisses is, “did your father really do all these things to protect you? if he really had loved you, he would’ve never left you…” and on and on the list of “if your dad really loved you, he would’ve never ___________”
And so it is with my Trust in God. FAR away from my Father before I even came out of the womb. Far because I have *felt* abandoned. Although, I’ve NEVER been. That’s the devil trick. Making you *feel* things that aren’t true. So you gotta wade deep in the murky waters of hardships, wounds, trials, tears, heart losses, mistakes, and wonder, “am I abandoned?” So then what do you do? You look for the Light to show you the way. The darkness doesn’t have a switch to turn OFF. So then, you turn ON the Light.
Abandonment. Well then. If this happens, then I better get control of the situation. If not, who else will? So, I trust only me. Myself. And I. That’s what you do when you don’t trust your Maker. Your Creator. Then you hear things like, “made in His image. He is transforming you into His image. He rejoices over you with singing. He loves you with an everlasting love.” So, I look at my father at over 1 year old, don’t know who he is, I jerk away and my fingers grip my mom. And my mom says to my dad, “don’t worry, she doesn’t remember you, it’ll take time, she has to warm up.” Few days later you can’t take me away from my daddy’s arms. I wanna go with him everywhere. The opposite of abandonment. Daddy’s little girl. Happy-happy-joy-joy. Isn’t that our faith-trust? You come close. Intimately close.
You get so terribly close though, that the serpent comes hissing again. Then you find yourself at the door of that airplane. Not understanding. I’m getting in the airplane with my mom. Dad is staying. Months go by until I see my daddy again.
So it is with this Faith-Trust. I’ve come to grips with my wound. My faith is shot down if I allow myself to believe the lie that I’ve been abandoned. Multiple situations. I come close. I leave His side. Repeat. So why trust Him? Oh, but He CAN be trusted, child. He will never leave you nor forsake you. But if all I know is seeing my dad wave goodbye from the little window, with my nose pressed on the cold glass and the loud engines firing away before we take off, what do I do with that?
So the formula is this. I feel abandoned, then I know it’s devil-lies. I struggle with trust, then I know devil wants to sift me like wheat. So Trust is my word against *feeling* abandoned. So then I pose the question to my God and shut devil’s-filthy-mouth: Daddy, heavenly Father, did you really say that you will be with me forever even until the end of days? Oh yes, child.
I sit on my deck. My father drinking a glass of red wine telling stories about when I was born and I’m thinking deeper into the situation. Those stories don’t bother me. I need to write them down to remember the details. Those times of separation do nothing to wound my heart now. But they did remind me of my wounds that I’ve struggled with. Giving my wound a name was the beginning of my healing process. Recognizing it when it attempts to come back into my life to paralyze me with fear was the next step towards freedom. I listen to my dad. Wounded man that he has been. But healed. Healed with the blood of the Lamb.
I don’t drink the red wine. But I do remember the blood of the same color code. The one that gives me life. Heals the wound. Kills the word. Gives me Life-Trust. And I write my Life-Word down on a rock. I stand in front of the Remembrance Table. The Thanksgiving Table. Heart-broken at the beginning of the Road to Emmaus. Sad. But my heart burning as the God-skin walks alongside me. Listening to my loss. My grief. Reminding me to Trust. So at the end of the road, at Emmaus, I recognize Him. Recognize Him that in all those times of *feeling* abandoned, feeling lost and unloved, I never was. He was on the Road. I just never saw Him. So my abandonment-road ends with praise-trust.
Too much for tonight….too much for not having written in a while…too much for turning 33. Isn’t that how old Jesus was on the road to Emmaus? Oh God grant me eyes to see you on my road.
melting in His peace,
~Ines de Maria