23-03-2005, 09:10 AM
This will be a little bit long, but for it to make sense, I think I'll type the whole chapter 
...He leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Psalm 23:3
It was an unbelievably beautiful morning in the spring. A golden sun was climbing in a brilliant blue, cloudless sky, and the sunlight sparkled in the cool air. Bob and I had decided to have our breakfast out on the patio, where our little fountain was dancing amid containers of pansies and mums.
Smiling at each other, we drank our orange juice and enjoyed the quiet beginning of a perfect day. Little curls of steam rose from our freshly buttered muffins as Bob read a page from a devotional for husbands and wives. We each enjoyed a cantaloupe half as we chatted about the grandchildren and the garden. Then, as we lingered over our fragrant cups of coffe, Bob pulled out our jar of Mom's Canned Questions.
A friend of ours developed this wonderful little product, which we sell at our More Hours in My Day seminars. It's really just a decorated jar full of little slips of paper, but each slip contains a question designed to stimulate thought and discussion. We use it often when we have company and when we are by ourselves, and the questions have brought us both tears and laughter as they helped us know each other better.
As usual, Bob drew out a question and passed the jar to me. I reached in and pulled out a slip. And then I seemed to feel dalk clouds rolling in to block the sunshine as I read my question. My impulse was to say "Forget it" and stuff that little slip of paper back in the jar.
What was on the paper?
Just this: "What would you do if you could spend one day with your dad?"
Such a simple uestion. But the mories it evoked had the power to fill my cup with pain and anger and resentment.
You see, my dad was a brilliant man, a creative Viennese chef. He used to get standing ovations for the food he prepared. From what I'm told, he doted on me as a little child, and I've inherited some of his creativity in the kitchen.
And yet my dad was also a raging alcoholic. Living in our home meant always living on edge, never knowing when he might explode. One wrong word from any of us, and the spaghetti sauce would be dumped down the toilet or down the sink; the pots and pans would be whipped off the stove and the plates off the table. There would be shouting; there would be arguments. And although my father never physically abused me, he did take his rage out on my mother and brother.
In response to my father's rage, I almost gave up talking. If saying the wrong thing could trigger and explosion, I reasoned perhaps it was better not to say anything at all. So I became intensely introverted and fearful, and I wished my father dead many times. When I was eleven, he really did die, leaving a cloud of guilt and resentment that hung over my life long after I thought I had forgotten.
Even after my dad died, I still didn't talk much. When I met Bob and we began dating, he used to say to me, "Emilie, you've got to talk." And then so many wonderful things began to happen in my life. The most important was that Bob introduced me to Jesus, and I became a Christian. Then Bob asked me to marry him, and my Jewish mama (who was very wise) surprised me by giving her consent. Relatives critized her for letting her precious seventeen-year-old marry a Gentile, but my mama sensed that Bob could give the the love and stability I needed.
... continue
...He leads me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Psalm 23:3
It was an unbelievably beautiful morning in the spring. A golden sun was climbing in a brilliant blue, cloudless sky, and the sunlight sparkled in the cool air. Bob and I had decided to have our breakfast out on the patio, where our little fountain was dancing amid containers of pansies and mums.
Smiling at each other, we drank our orange juice and enjoyed the quiet beginning of a perfect day. Little curls of steam rose from our freshly buttered muffins as Bob read a page from a devotional for husbands and wives. We each enjoyed a cantaloupe half as we chatted about the grandchildren and the garden. Then, as we lingered over our fragrant cups of coffe, Bob pulled out our jar of Mom's Canned Questions.
A friend of ours developed this wonderful little product, which we sell at our More Hours in My Day seminars. It's really just a decorated jar full of little slips of paper, but each slip contains a question designed to stimulate thought and discussion. We use it often when we have company and when we are by ourselves, and the questions have brought us both tears and laughter as they helped us know each other better.
As usual, Bob drew out a question and passed the jar to me. I reached in and pulled out a slip. And then I seemed to feel dalk clouds rolling in to block the sunshine as I read my question. My impulse was to say "Forget it" and stuff that little slip of paper back in the jar.
What was on the paper?
Just this: "What would you do if you could spend one day with your dad?"
Such a simple uestion. But the mories it evoked had the power to fill my cup with pain and anger and resentment.
You see, my dad was a brilliant man, a creative Viennese chef. He used to get standing ovations for the food he prepared. From what I'm told, he doted on me as a little child, and I've inherited some of his creativity in the kitchen.
And yet my dad was also a raging alcoholic. Living in our home meant always living on edge, never knowing when he might explode. One wrong word from any of us, and the spaghetti sauce would be dumped down the toilet or down the sink; the pots and pans would be whipped off the stove and the plates off the table. There would be shouting; there would be arguments. And although my father never physically abused me, he did take his rage out on my mother and brother.
In response to my father's rage, I almost gave up talking. If saying the wrong thing could trigger and explosion, I reasoned perhaps it was better not to say anything at all. So I became intensely introverted and fearful, and I wished my father dead many times. When I was eleven, he really did die, leaving a cloud of guilt and resentment that hung over my life long after I thought I had forgotten.
Even after my dad died, I still didn't talk much. When I met Bob and we began dating, he used to say to me, "Emilie, you've got to talk." And then so many wonderful things began to happen in my life. The most important was that Bob introduced me to Jesus, and I became a Christian. Then Bob asked me to marry him, and my Jewish mama (who was very wise) surprised me by giving her consent. Relatives critized her for letting her precious seventeen-year-old marry a Gentile, but my mama sensed that Bob could give the the love and stability I needed.
... continue