One year today.

When I was a little girl, maybe third grade or so, I played baseball for an all-boys team. I remember my dad standing on the edge of the practice field, smoking a cigarette (Doral Full-Flavor). He came to pick me up in his old Dodge Ram pick-up. (It was an ugly shade of green and the whole family could fit in the front seat--all five of us.) I don't remember the name of my team, though I played three seasons with them, but our uniforms were gray with our names printed in red. I was number 2 or 7; it changed from year to year.

We were practicing ground balls. My dad was standing a few yards away, watching but not watching, smoking and waiting so he could go back to the house and finish whatever it was that he was working on then. He always cupped his cigarettes; filter between thumb and forefinger, turned in toward his palm. It was a habit now, with the three of us kids, so he wouldn't burn us if we played too close. Anyway, Zach--who I secretly loved--was throwing ground balls to me as we rounded the end of practice. Baseball after baseball: bump, bounce, through the air, and a solid thud as it landed in my tiny leather glove. Bounce, bounce, bump, thud - again and again and again. Routine. But the boys didn't like having a girl on their team very much, and occasionally they would push me down and pick on me; all the things that boys do to girls at that age. I think Zach knew how I felt about him, which was the most vile, repulsive and embarrasing thing in the world to 7 year old boy. Oh, he hated me. And I could see it with each ball he threw. Faster and angrier they came, and with each thud my palm grew weary, and with each trembling catch my father would yell, "Don't be afraid of the ball!" Until, through the air, a baseball flew with no intention of bouncing or bumping, no, but focused, indeed, determined. Until I heard a crack, a pop! and tasted blood. Until, in my gloved-hand were two bloody teeth, and at my feet, a ball. Practice was over. My father walked, slowly, toward me, while the coaches swarmed, and he grabbed my hand in the midst of them, and we walked, slowly, toward the truck. Once we were no longer within ear-shot of my team-mates, he told me not to cry. "You better not let those boys see you crying." So, I waited until I was sitting high-up in that Dodge Ram pick-up, and the door was closed, and my seat-belt clicked, and we were bouncing, bouncing, dust rising from the gravel on the road, and my team-mates grew smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror, and my tongue found it's way into the empty space where my teeth once were, and my Daddy squeezed my hand and said, "It's okay if you want to cry now."



I thought I'd never stop crying.



But I did.




I thank God for the peace He has given me through this year. Sometimes I find myself so confused: is my father really gone? Did I ever have a father? It's as though my brain starts shutting itself down when I think of him. The shock is setting in all over again. Tears come, occasionally, and-just once (last night)-anger, but I have been able to catch myself for the most part and cry out to Jesus, and He comforts me.