Heart of the Matter

I was maybe six or seven, with the bangs, and living two houses down from my maternal grandparents' house. I had a dream that, up until now, I could still vividly remember. I dreamt of my dad packing up his clothes and leaving the family. And in my dream, I was running around the house, crying my eyes out, begging the other adults in the household to stop him.

I was nine, still with the bangs, and living in a secluded peachy-coral neighborhood on the hills. It was a weekend, which meant my dad was home. And he was on his signature laid-back poses, sideways on the couch, watching the almost malfunctioning TV. I was wondering where my mum was, and I found her huddled on two opened suitcases, with her clothes neatly folded on the bed. I didn't know much, except for the fact that she was leaving for sure. And that she was crying. I asked her what's wrong, where she was going, if I could come. She pushed me so hard, that I scraped my right knee against the bedframe that was too big to fitfully hold the mattress. Hence, my loud crying. My nine-year-old mind couldn't understand why my loving, doting mother would harshly push me away. It seemed to last forever. But I hung on to her leg, and all the while she was walking around, putting her things away, like I wasn't even there at all. Until, she stopped, and I took the opportunity to run to my dad to make him stop my mum.

And a year later, I was still the girl with the bangs, and I was living in my maternal grandparents' house with my two little brothers. Both of my parents left. And my little ten-year-old self, in a white top and a dark blue minnie mouse PJ's, cried silently in loneliness, clutching my mother's favorite album of Kenny G close to my heart.

Those events happened a long time ago. But for years, after my brothers and I have been reunited with them, it was still hard for me to overcome my bitterness at having been left with no proper explanation in my grandmother's house. For years, I refused to understand that it was all for us, so my siblings and I could attend prestigious institutions, to have a better life. I became the black sheep. I became the bad granddaughter, the disappointing daughter, the evil sister, the wrong role model.

I started harboring some of the seven deadly sins. I became fluent in the language arts of cussing. I rolled my eyes at every adult in existence. I blamed everything to my parents, who were the root of all evil-Sammy, at the age of fifteen.

And here I am now. Almost turning nineteen, free of the bangs, and living in a house my parents have sacrificed for.

I knew I had a problem back then. When I finally overcame my resistance to the idea of God being there, and of Him simply waiting for my call, I immediately rushed to confide in Him my problems and the issues--trust and abandonment--I have been struggling with the most. I asked Him to heal my spirit, to mend my broken heart.

Like the little girl I was back then, I ran to Him to stop me from becoming such an angry person. I ran to Him to change me, so I could forgive the people who've hurt me the most. And to be honest, it hasn't been an easy process although I could tell that He is really working in me. Up until now, whenever I recall certain things in the past that have shaped me negatively, I lose my patience and revert back again. But with His never-ending grace and patience with me, I've been able to come back through. And I really, from the bottom of my heart, thank and praise God for everything: the answers, the push, the little reminders, His love, His compassion, His forgiveness, His grace and purity.

Yes, some wounds are hard to heal. But with God's divine power, every damaged aspect of our beings will be healed. He will restore us through His strength. And just like any recovery, we have to be patient with it, particularly recoveries such as this.