On Finding Purpose... #DaddieIsTheSource #Adultbirth

That scene in Scandal is so stunning.

I know what you’re thinking. First…What scene?!?! There are so many! Right? And next…Since when did I start watching Scandal?

Admittedly, I’m a fake Scandal watcher. Because, well…peer pressure. Peer pressure and wine. There. 
#ugh #YallBeMakingMeTellOnMyselfLikeAllTheTimeOnThisThing

Now that scene (pregnant) Olivia on a park bench, alone, tired, discouraged. With no other recourse than what?

Daddie.

Man. Olivia, honey chile, I know exactly how you feel. And though the father-daughter relationship scripted so smartly by Shonda is nothing like the daddie-daughter relationship in my life, it kind of felt like in that moment, things would have been similar.

As I watched it, it seemed to me that Dad was mad. Tell us why you mad though Dad? I am mad because that thing that I created (Olivia) forgot what it was. Forgot who it was (and whose it was). And because I made it perfectly, how can this moment of forgetfulness be?

Which is probably true of creators, like fathers. How can the thing, fashioned by the skilled craftsman, turn, face him, and question its existence. Wonder its reason why? But that’s biblical too. ²⁰Nay but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus?

I imagine if I shared any of my moments like Olivia’s with my Daddie there would be a tinge more compassion. But he would in essence have the similar experience with me. We would get to that Am I done being your “Dad” now  moment. The world is so much bigger than this moment of feigned (not feigned) pity and self doubt, and your reason little GirlieGurl, for being here requires that you leave this place, this proverbial park bench, and go be it.

Go Gladiate Something. Go be your purpose. Daddie made you for a reason.

I got to Church late this one Sunday. Whilst the preacher began (without me #rude #notrude) the sermon. The first words written in my Sunday notes were out of pain, comes purpose.

And I suppose it is easy to forget or disconnect from one’s purpose because, well, life happens – and it happens to you really hard. You get happy (or sad), you fall in love (or something really like it, whatever it may be), love leaves you, you find yourself at the most amazing shoe sale, or you lose yourself on your way to that mythic sale, and maybe even discover races where you can run and drink at the same time! I mean, to hell with that purpose nonsense and pass the wine!

And all about you, the reason for you is making its case stronger and stronger. Your life security is growing and growing unbeknownst to you – you’re too busy searching for those amazing wine glasses (I NEED THEM). The definition of your purpose is happening, in real time. The reason you were made needs you.

That is a tough pill to swallow. And if your purpose, if the reason for you, is anything like Olivia’s then well, um…it ain’t pretty. #getyourwineglassesout

This is where I find myself. Looking around at what I have made of life and the mess that life has made of me. In this chair in Church (that proverbial park bench) waiting for my Daddie to come down from the pulpit and find me. I want to question the physical one that created me. I have so many questions. Nothing makes sense anymore. All I seem to get from this pile of pain is more pain #nopurposefound. An endless abyss of hurt, tragedy, and ache. Heartache. I see myself there. In a purple dress. And really pretty shoes #turquoisebeadedsandals. In pain.

While I’m waiting for him proverbially, I think back to a Happy Hour with friends. Someone asked me about my son that just got married this past January. Another friend asked (on behalf of someone interested in me, I think?) if I had a son. I said to my uterus, Um, is there something you want to tell me? And my uterus was like, Trick, tax season just passed. You already know I would have said something. #trueee

Then, my rational mind, informed us both about our time at Colgate. And the grown up already son we had. The one admonished by that rude fatherly figure, and nurtured by this loving-but-kinda-naggy motherly one. Me and Ernie’s pants-still-hanging-off-his-butt-but-he’s-such-a-great-young-man baby. And somehow, without genetics, he was able to become the best of the both of us. A wonderful young man and now loving husband. Whom we hugged and I kissed before he said I do…and I cried, just a little as, Ernie readjusted his tie, trying not to show the depths of his pride. And I remembered the pain in that process when I was asked that question at Happy Hour. The pain of a different kind of birth.

Adultbirth. I give birth to adults. And that is some painful –ish. Grow’d up high school graduates reborn into professional young adults is hard work. I get no awards and no raises. If anything, it increases my debt. Long unpaid hours. Late nights and later mornings – because we were up all damn night. Solving rubix-cubed life problems, financial aid woes, championship football games, special dates, family game nights, issues with parents at their actual home, hunger #theynevereverevastopeating, research papers, and hair. Doing all kinds and manner of hair styles. Because braids are popular, locks are cool, and a head full of curls is every single thing to a girl after a bad break up.

I didn’t always see it that way, until this past closing season on campus. I watched the exchange between a mother and her son. It was like strangers were talking different languages to each other. And this was going to end badly. I could see the frustration on his face, and the confused anger growing in her frown. I intervened, for both their sakes, translating the new him to the old mom. I’m also fluent in both dialects.

 

But therein I find my purpose. I have adult children.

…and when it gets hard, go to the park. Sit on a bench alone. And wait. Daddie will come to you. And remind you. And leave. Because he can’t spend all day being Daddie with you, because you have things you need to gladiate.

And something is telling me that my purpose is bigger than even this.

Your purpose…lived out…is painful.

Live it anyway.