A 23-year-old man waits in the hospital for his first-born son to arrive. His young wife, great with expectation and hope, celebrated her nineteenth birthday just three days earlier. I have often wondered if there was any anticipation and joy in this situation. The earliest pictures from those days showed a home that was simply adorned and parents that occasionally had smiles on their faces. Mom was a pretty girl from the suburbs and dad was a bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks. What was going through their minds? What was the life they had expected? Would this new bundle of joy bring healing, happiness, and wholeness, or would his arrival disrupt two already broken lives?

Yes.

Somewhere along the way the smiles faded and a hard life began to take its toll. 

I was the firstborn of three. My brother always seemed to be in trouble and my sister, the youngest, was daddy’s girl. I don’t remember much from those early years, whenever it is that children remember things, so I am left to wonder what happened. At some point, I learned to be afraid of two people: God and my father. Looking back, I had embraced on my own the belief that I was bad, unworthy, and going to Hell. How many second graders think like that? I was not savvy enough, at that age, to make the connection that the two authority figures in my life both thought of me the same way. 

I was baptized as a baby and participated in first communion, catechism, and confirmation. The guilt and fear remained. I ran to confession on Saturdays, probably did something wrong on the way home, and had to wait another week to make things right again. I was caught in a cycle where I believed I was not good enough and even the church couldn’t help me. 

Psalm 130:3, though unknown then, resonates now as I look back, 

Lord, if you kept a record of our sins, who, O Lord, could ever survive?

For me, adults were record-keepers, so what chance did I have? It was in those early days, where my formation in both body and soul took root, that I believed I was unforgivable. The two people in my life, where I looked for love and acceptance, were too busy keeping a record of all my wrongs. Maybe that’s why confession and absolution were short-lived, the sacrament could not overcome my despair. 

From the depths of despair, O Lord, I call for your help. Hear my cry, O Lord. Pay attention to my prayer (Psalm 130:1-2 NLT).

Many decades later, I willingly go back to explore, ponder, and bear witness to a young boy who longed for connection, acceptance, and love.  

For him, I give voice and pre-date this lament to the early/mid 1970s:

God, I need to say something to you.

Where are you? I feel I am around people who don’t even like me.

Scared to death of a father and not connected to my siblings.  

I believe I’m loved by mom, but that’s more hopeful than spoken.

Even though I go to church and catechism, You’re as far away as ever. 

There is no passion, joy, or expectancy, just duty and obedience. 

Where are you? The tears caused by family and friends are overwhelming. 

This is too big for me; what am I supposed to do?

And yet, part of me holds on to the hope that you care.

Let me know you see me, hear me . . . love me. 

Help me to be strong and courageous. 

I am taught of your grace and mercy; may it be true for me too.

Be a good father to me. I hold onto you, with hope, that you will not let go. Amen.

Messages get imprinted on our souls, intentionally or unintentionally, when we are young. Those messages can either build us up or tear us down. They can either give us a firm foundation on which we can navigate this life well, or set us up to struggle like we are running the race of life through quicksand; bogged down, sinking, and always in last place. Like the psalmist who cries out to the Lord from a place of despair, I too cried out to him. However, it would be many decades before I would recognize the Lord’s pursuit, protection, and love in my life.  

I wish I could say, looking back on those days of loneliness, heartache, struggle, and fear that I no longer struggle; that I don’t occasionally feel defeated. I cannot. I have grown physically, mentally, and spiritually, but there are days when I feel like I am an orphan and I don’t seem to fit in anywhere. But, in strange ways and at strange times, I am reminded of the truth that God loves me for who I am. King David writes in Psalm 27, words that convey the true inclinations of my heart; Even if my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will hold me close… Yet I am confident I will see the Lord’s goodness while I am here in the land of the living. Wait patiently for the Lord. Be brave and courageous. Yes, wait patiently for the Lord (Psalm 27: 10, 13-14 NLT).

I finish this last paragraph on my birthday; thoughtful of a life lived, joys and sorrows experienced, and peace in my soul, because it is well. Trials, temptations, and brokenness will always be with me; the old messages will still haunt me and I will continue to disappoint others. The suffering is not meaningless and it is being redeemed. It is because of the brokenness, and not despite it, that God will use it for the good of others. 

God, who is rich in mercy, does not see me as who I was, but who I am. I am a man who is being conformed into the image of the one who saved him from utter despair. I have hope in my heart because of his unfailing love that is directed toward me. And it will be Jesus who has the final say, and not my deeds, sins, or filthy rags by which others may see or judge me.

My sorrow is consuming me, Lord, and I desperately need your help. 

Do you hear my cries or am I screaming into thin air?

Turn your gaze toward me and see me in my despair, not counting my sins against me. 

I feel like a captive because of my transgressions, but in your mercy, you offer me clemency that I may know you. 

My hope is in you. I search and long for your coming, more intently than a night-watchman searches for the break of day. 

Hope fills my heart because of your unfailing love, it cannot be contained. 

My steadfast hope is in the redemption your people, including me, where you, and not sin, will have the final say. Amen and Amen.

A reflection on Psalm 130