His Blind Butterfly

Past Journal Entry

He longs to heal me. I have a procedure coming up in few hours—a three hour long surgery. You’d think I’d be used to the poking and prodding by now. I believe that no matter how tired or overwhelmed we might find ourselves, and no matter how painful things are, there is an innate part of us that doesn’t want to give up without a fight. I had a talk with the girls tonight—mainly with my oldest twin—about the end and what to do. I think that if we could help them know what to do when the end comes—if we could leave them prepared—we will leave room for the grieving that will bring forth the healing. When I was talking to her, I realized how much I remember about the days after I lost my father. How painful that time was. But how much harder was it because we had been caught off guard and we were unprepared for the funeral—and the future? We get so used to the well-oiled ways in which our little families run that when we lose someone—especially the head of the household—we are at a loss and don’t know what to do.

There I was: a four-year-old little girl, with my curly hair that my mother so painstakingly brushed; now it was a tangled mess. She urged me to take good care of my dress as she knew what a hyper little one I was. Most of all, my eyes filled with hot salty tears that I thought would never stop. I cried silently, first dragging myself out of the bed and away from that awful room. Then, hiding behind a corner table in the living room where the silent tears could continue. I was blind—there was no point in looking around to see if anyone might be watching. But I did listen to make sure the monsters didn’t appear. Through the years, I’d been reminded of all the things that disqualified me from being the little girl my parents might want. I grew up as a very hyper and crazy little girl. Where my older sister, who was also blind, was straight-haired and calm, whereas I was as wild as the curls my mom worked so hard to tame. Oh, but how I loved my dad and sister. I lived for every moment spent with them. Dad brought us books on tape, which my sister played repeatedly to calm me especially at night in hopes that the nightmares might stay away.

One thing I loved about my life was my dad’s involvement in the church. His missionary work took us to the snow in Idaho. I loved taking risks—and playing in that snow was quite the risk. I loved singing in the kids’ choirs and having my sister play the guitar. I had many nightmares. Now when you think a child has nightmares, it probably breaks your heart because a little one should never have to endure any night terror or nightmare. My older sister would put books on for me to hear right before falling asleep in the hopes this would keep them away. I loved the story of David and the story of Esther. My dad was my knight in shining armor—his armor was the Bible, as he read to me to try to get me back to sleep. He would often tenderly read psalm 91 , gently anointing me with oil and saying a prayer in hopes that I could sleep. Despite all the crazy stuff, I had a beautiful childhood. We saw so much violence firsthand because of my mom’s family, and my parents were always involved in helping any member of our family or the church. There was always someone staying over, and it wasn’t weird to hear the doorbell, or the phone ring, at all hours of the day.

 Dinners were one big party with my cousins all sitting around the table, or the floor when the table had run out of room. My dad made it a point to rarely miss a dinner. It was one of my favorite times of day. After praying for the food he sat and listened to all of us, making us all feel like we mattered. He also ate the food I didn’t finish in order that I or the rest of the kids wouldn’t get in trouble for not finishing the food on our plates, when other poor kids might’ve had less. We were a lively bunch. Talking to the girls tonight I wondered if I had forgotten His voice. I thought of the end of my dad’s life. How much do I remember? How much of him is still left in my heart? His voice is fading a bit but the feel of his hand in mine is still clear. The way his arms feel—I can still recall the texture of his skin, the mole on the back of his calf. There were often a few of us all around him, but I always felt he was paying me the most attention. My daddy. Why did he have to go and when he went I thought i’d killed him. I felt guilt. I thought i’d had something to do with his death. Now I was disqualified again. Disqualified from being a daughter, as now I was an orphan. Worse of all, I was disqualified from life and from love because the one I felt safest around, the daddy I waited for every night, the one who listened to my thoughts and dreams, who believed in them instead of laughing at them. The daddy who learned braille just to help me with my homework; that daddy who described the world around me and brought color into my blind days; that daddy was now gone and there was nothing I could do to bring him back. The daddy who told me when I asked why I was blind, it was “so God could glorify himself someday,” and when I’d ask why, I couldn’t play on the playground like the other kids, even though I did play pretty crazily. I used to rile up the other blind boys and girls, to the point where I would end up getting yelled at by a teacher and placed on the side where the bad kids waited out while everyone had recess. So my dad’s answer to when I asked why I wasn’t like the other kids was that “I was rambunctious enough now—if you could see I might not be able to keep up with you.” My daddy, who believed that one day I would see. He prayed fervently for this, and for so many other things—some that already have been answered and some that will be one day will be. As I talked to my girls, it all came back to me. 

The week I lost him is so vivid—it is as if it happened yesterday. How strange. There are some moments that are so painful we want to forget them. We put them away thinking they are forgotten, only to be confronted by a similar moment—then it all comes back. Talking about my end forced me to remember my dad’s end— or his beginning. Because there is no doubt in my mind where he is. Thank You Lord. Years later, during an experimental surgery, I was being prepared for this one I qualified for because my optic nerve was intact. I received that sight my dad had prayed I would one day get to enjoy. I lost it shortly after that, but I dream of it coming back one day. What qualifies me for a miracle? Nothing and everything. I am a child of God and so His grace and love qualifies me. I love you daddy. I will be getting this surgery and I will come out smelling like roses.