RUST ON MY SOUL (19th in Series of Novel)

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RUST ON MY SOUL (A Novel) (Published by Bridge Press in 1985 & Distributed Internationally) ***************************************************

INTRODUCTION (Repeated for those new to the series)

In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step.
NOTATION: It is a thought many have had. I can only pray it will have me. “Those who cannot learn from the past are condemned to be cursed by the same in the future.”

Morning

Connie’s gone! The silence from her room is a shout. Oh, God, how could I have been so engrossed in me that I was so unaware of her?

I feel like an ostrich who’s just taken his head out of the sand. I’ve heard her complaints but ignored the reason for them.

They made no sense to me. They seemed like an adolescent buzz saw – lots of noise, but no meaning. I called her a spoiled brat who didn’t appreciate all she had, and left it at that.
She’s been like a butterfly, all brightly colored, who fluttered around the landscape of life. But she was a butterfly with a burden, casting shadows that lingered like a stain. I refused to acknowledge the haunting in her eyes.

“I don’t feel like I have a home,” she said. “It wouldn’t make any difference around here if I just left.” What nonsense, I thought, and forgot about it.

Yesterday her anger was like a blister bursting. All red and oozing disgust. I ignored my tingle of panic. And now she’s gone.

Swallowed up by a world too big for a little girl who by now has taken of her rose-colored glasses.
Connie, I’ve lost your many times before – to time. It aged away your baby days. It readied you for school and we were pulled further apart as you entered a new world in which I could have no part.

You still sat in my lap and called yourself “daddy’s girl,” but you did this less frequently as you became more busy, and so did I.

I lost you to teenage loves. Love can be a runaway emotion and you were prone to dashes rather than marathons.

Your taste ran to long hair and lanky. This last year several new boys came around, equipped with skimpy beards and listless eyes. I feared drugs but would not give me fear a name.

You hadn’t been daddy’s girl in quite some time and I didn’t want to confuse hurt and observation.

I know now – too late – that you were shouting for help. Finding none; finding only irritation or muted anger in your father’s eyes, you simply walked away.

Connie, come home. I can’t promises miracles. Where you are, I can’t promise that, but I will take time to listen, really listen. I will give you more than just the outer edges of my attention.
Oh, God, please watch over my little girl.

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TO BE CONTINUED

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