I can remember the day that I stopped hugging my father and the fragility of the lines that we won’t cross. Like clockwork, I would always say goodnight with a hug, even into high school. But then one morning, I awoke to him breaking the dishes, yelling about food, whilst with an outstretched arm, he swept all the food into a garbage bin. When I tried to stop him, I was met with a punch in the face. Afterward, I was told to tell him that it was okay and that I forgave him. As my mouth spoke the words, and my brain argued with my feelings that it was far from being alright – that was the last time I hugged him without marked hesitation.
I lived a life that was controlled by the fragility of expectation. Things needed to seem okay to everyone else. My words and actions needed to reassure my father that what he did was okay. I needed to convince myself that things were okay. The truth was, that everything was far from okay. I grew up on a working farm, a long enough drive that meant staying overnight when hanging out in town after school. I had heard about Jesus and knew that there were people who believed in God, but I refused to believe that one guy was in control of it all. This mostly came from a childhood marked by a father who had mental health issues that were left untreated and the abusive nature of his personality was very quietly lived with.
This meant, as I got older, that I began to see University and moving away as my ticket out of there. I was pretty set academically to do this. However, during the final weeks of trial HSC exams the control that I thought I had on my life vanished. My father had a psychotic episode where he tried to commit suicide through an overdose, as well as attempting to injure me in the process of stopping him. In a moment, that I still question whether I did the right thing, I rang the police. I can remember the clothes I was wearing, how my hair was, the sinking concern that I was missing my final trial exam and the bitter whisper of my father when I walked towards the door to speak to the police – “If you walk out that door, you’d better keep walking.” I had crossed the line of expected silence.
I watched as my father was taken away to be admitted under the Mental Health Act; and then in the three days that followed – the stories of him escaping from the hospital to be found walking down the middle of the highway in the hope he’d be hit by a truck. He was institutionalized briefly but released after being deemed ‘no immediate risk to himself or anyone else.’ What followed, continued to show me the fragility of the hope I had in my life, and how fleeting it can be with the venom of someone else’s words and actions.
At school, I remember studying Maths HSC questions in preparation for my exams but not being able to keep my mind focused on how to complete multi-step calculus questions; whilst my teacher wondered how I’d done so well in a previous test and now seemed to have no idea what I was doing. The hope that I had placed in being able to use my HSC as a way out seemed to be a sinking ship that I was slowly drowning in.
My relationship with my father didn’t get more tumultuous but rather quieter. Quiet as he walked out of a room that I entered. Quiet as I said hello or asked a question. Two days before the HSC exams began, my father broke his silence to tell me how much he hated me; and with a thrown mug, he told me to get out and never come back. As I told my mother that I had called a friend to come and get me, she told me how weak I was for packing my bags to leave.
Funnily enough, God can use the smallest and biggest things in our life to show who He is. For some reason, as I packed my bags – one of textbooks and notes, the other with clothes; I took a bible given to me by my Nan as a family heirloom.
I was told by my friend’s family that I could stay on their couch. But three days later, my friend’s mother called me to say that her daughter didn’t want me there anymore. Unbeknownst to me at the time, that wasn’t the case – but I went to my exams that day thinking my closest friend had abandoned me with everyone else and not knowing where I was going to sleep that night.
I was lucky enough that exams coincided to when on-campus accommodation applications were opened. I had a friend already at university asking me what college we were going to apply for, and I remember texting her back that I couldn’t make a decision where I was going to live next year when I had nowhere to live now. She contacted her Mum, who then offered me a place to stay for as long as I needed it.
I remember the night that I put my suitcase in the room of the house and realized I no longer had a home and that there was no such thing as the unconditional love of a parent. In my sadness, I remember opening the little Bible I had packed. It contained these self-help verses that it would suggest for reading if you were feeling anxious or upset or hurt.
Do not be anxious about anything. Instead, in every situation, through prayer and petition with thanksgiving, tell your requests to God.
The two little sentences didn’t make me feel any less anxious or in control of what was happening. It didn’t fix how I was feeling. Grief stayed as my home and family became lost but not gone. There but not for me. A fragile line, drifting away with my hopes of moving away.
So, I read more stupid self-help verses because surely at least one of them would help me feel better – even for a small second.
In the Bible, I read how God had created a perfect world, without pain and suffering but people had ruined it by living lives driven by our own selfishness, greed, or “what’s best for me”. The world that I lived in was broken by decisions that didn’t reflect God’s purpose for us; by people that he had made in his own image and given all that they needed – people that included me. I realized that the cause of suffering in our world was the result of our choices. Yet God still offers his unconditional love for us, despite all the rubbish, by offering Jesus as our Saviour who died for the rubbish things we did. It was an unconditional and devoted love, where God sent his own son for the sake of people who chose to live in direct opposition to him. In direct opposition to seeing him as the creator of our world. In my realization, I prayed and asked God to forgive me for the rubbish things I’d done in response to my family, in anger and for the things I didn’t know I’d done.
A few months later, I would come across someone who acknowledged that believing or having this belief in God and the idea that Jesus paid for sins was a nice salve for someone without much hope in the things around me at the time. It was the first time someone had suggested that what I chose to believe was a placebo for a traumatic event; he asked if I really needed to believe it anymore.
The reality is that everything in this world will ultimately fail you at one point or another, whether it be your parents, your happiness, your gifts, your friends or yourself. But there’s a clear certainty that because Jesus died for us, that God is far more steadfast than anything else that we might try to place our hopes in.
I lift up my eyes to the mountains—
where does my help come from?
My help comes from the Lord,
the Maker of heaven and earth.
He will not let your foot slip—
he who watches over you will not slumber;
indeed, he who watches over Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
– Psalm 121: 1 – 4