This is my tale of woe. My mom died of leukemia when I was three. My father is a second generation American of Mexican descent and my mother was a third-generation American of Swiss and German heritage. My father is also approximately twenty years older than my mom, I forget the exact number of years. His age, coupled with his ethnic background, resulted in a certain prejudice against my father on the part of my maternal grandmother. It probably also didn’t help that my father didn’t have much money (I will say this though, my father may not ever have been a man of means but he is a man of character and this is the inheritance I will step into some day).
I understand now why my grandmother didn’t approve of my father, she was just scared for her daughter and wanted the best for her. Growing up though, the prejudice my grandma held against my father- and the resentful, defensive, attitude he adopted in response- was for me at age five, six, seven, and eight years old, really confusing. It hurt too, to see the two people I love most, my father and maternal grandmother, always at polar ends of my own little universe. The mediator, the ambassador uniting their two worlds, was gone; my mother was dead, and now they were both playing tug of war and I was the rope. I walked into life at a very young age asking two foundational questions: 1) Where do I belong? and 2) Who do I belong to?
I got married in an effort to answer these two questions. I thought that if I got married I would finally know who I belonged to (why, my husband, of course). I put so much pressure on my ex-husband to complete me, to be my everything. I thought that, in being married, I would finally know who I was and where I was supposed to be. It just wasn’t fair to him, all that weight I made him bear. So, in the end, I parted ways with him with my tail between my legs.
The moment I surrendered my life to God, my two questions were instantly answered, “You belong to Me and with Me, always”.
What I didn’t know then that I know now is, my two questions where an issue of identity. I used to walk through life shamefaced, head bowed, tail between my legs because I had no idea who I was. I found my identity in Him. The common adage is, “a dead man tells no tales”. Well, I am alive in Him now and I live to tell my tale.
And the LORD shall make thee the head, and not the tail; and thou shalt be above only, and thou shalt not be beneath;
Dear World, I wish you a head held high.