Death to Family

It's a pretty bleak moment, standing on a strange sidewalk and crying. The branches are almost completely bare now, and most of the beauty of autumn leaves has shriveled out. Brown and dead and waiting to be covered by snow. Dumpy college rental houses lined the street, and my back was to a not-that-bad rental where most of my friends were laughing inside and eating breakfast-for-lunch. But I stood alone, whispering to God, with a distorted and wet face.

Blessed with few misfortunes or horrible experiences in my life, I sometimes wish I had a more jaded background so I can relate to people. Now I had one. My phone was clicked shut in my hand, moments after a conversation with one of my oldest friends. Divorce had struck his family too. I sobbed alone for him, for the pain that I still grapple with, for the tears he might cry, for his family - or at least, the people that used to make up one. My face was wet like it never gets, except when my family died or when an old friend tells me my family divorce messed me up. I have forgiven and I have prayed and worked through these things, but today I cried again. Because I know the stigma that he and his siblings will be placed under. Under the sins of the father, for not being able to look forward to his family coming together for special events, for not knowing if love is really worth it. Commitment and forever and romance become like babbles of a child, words that once made sense and now they do not. I prayed on the sidewalk, alone with my Father, my Bridegroom, my Physician, my Comforter, and was glad that he was with my friend at the same time.

I wiped away the tears with both hands and took a few deep, calming breaths. I turned back to my house of friends and chose happiness, which was the first step to moving on.