When People Let You Down

My story doesn’t take place in the kitchen. There’s no dancing and I don’t remember cuddles with my main man. Although I longed for a dad who would love me and be proud of me, I never really knew my biological dad. My memories consist of him going to the church early to prepare the sermon. He would study long hours and return home long after I was in bed. I don’t have memories of sitting in his lap, but I do remember watching him. He would hold the Bible the same way every Sunday. When the music began for the invitation, he would bow his head, rest his elbow on his other arm and pinch the top of his nose as people flooded the altar. I knew my daddy was the best preacher ever. He would proclaim the Word of God and even my little five-year-old mind and heart would be pierced with conviction. He was the closest thing to God that I knew.
One Sunday morning, after Dad headed to church, the rest of us loaded into the old gray Oldsmobile. We pulled into the church parking lot and noticed Daddy’s car was not in the normal spot. As we surveyed the parking lot, we realized his car wasn’t there at all. Mama swiftly headed toward the church office, my brother and I following closely behind. We opened the big wooden door and I skipped over to the couch as my ruffles fell softly on the leather cushions. I looked up and saw Mama reading a note that had been left behind. I watched as Mama put her shoulders back and dried her tears. She found the head deacon and told him he would need to preach the morning service. That was the Sunday morning that Daddy abandoned the church, mama, brother, and me. There would be no fairy tales and cuddles or deep voice telling a sweet bedtime story. Daddy was gone and he was not coming back.