|Sep 24 2011|
I loved my daddy. He was not an unattractive man. He could have had anyone that he wanted. My mom always bought him Jovan cologne. That was his smell. He was what one would call "a jack of all traits". He could do anything with his hands. He was musically inclined. He could sing and play the harmonica like no other. I trusted him with everything in me. To this day I still find it hard to believe that he did not love my brother, mom, and me. He spent time with me and taught me how to sing. No, he was not completely a total loss back then. His family, my mothers family, we all were musically in-tuned with each other. Everyone has different recollections of what family togetherness was like. Our family sang and played instruments.
Religion is a big part of my family. Growing up in the Bible Belt, it was never an option to not go to church. You were there Sunday Morning, Sunday night, Wednesday night. It was just fact: If those wooden doors opened, not going was not optional. Both of my grandfathers, my uncles, and even an aunt, were all ordained ministers. My father, He was our Pastor. I grew up Pentecostal/Holiness. The church's beliefs went into speaking in tongues, that Jesus died for your sins, that ask and ye shall receive, to Repent. My mother played the piano for the churches where my father tossed us to and fro from. Where ever my father was is where the rest of my extended family was as well. I look at things in perspective and understand now that it was a cult. Not a typical cult however; they were so cunning and manipulative that they even made themselves believe what they quoted. Daddy could quote the bible like the back of his hand. All of them had that ability. Weird thing was that according to my family, my mother included, he was illiterate entirely as were his brothers and sisters save one or two.
My father was raised in scripture as were we all. Truth be known was that if it was said by him, it was multiple scriptures in repetitive form. He drew in people. They believed every word that came from the pulpit. He cried and spoke so meaningful with every deceptive quotation. Hands raised in reverence to The Lord God Almighty and Powerful. The real miracles happened before he even stepped up to preach. Special performances were always by members in my family. My aunt, uncle, and dad would sing songs that my aunt had written, and let me emphasize on harmony. It would blow The Happy Goodmans away. Then my mom, brother, dad, and I would sing. I am so talented as well. The Gospel Hymns that were sang from the voices of my father's mother for leading the congregation into song would bring a tear to anyone who is full of emotion anyway. That is exactly what happened too. The beautiful voices of my family would swell the vestibule into glorification of our heavenly father. I can still hear their voices pulling each soul forward to the prayer alters. I can hear my father as he is saying "Won't you come, let God into your heart. He is knocking on your door. Won't you let him in, Won't you come". People with hands still raised, tears flowing down their faces, inconsolable weeping from everyone including children, including me. Can you see it? Now the real vision begins.
We would leave church. Head to our home. My mom would have prepared a Sunday dinner where all of my family would meet back at our home. She had one rule, you wash your own plate when you are finished eating. My cousins, brother, and I would run around the yard playing, while the adults sat in the living room and kitchen area devouring the tasty feast that my mother had slaved over. Then we would all come inside and begin singing again. Songs that they had written, songs from the traditional red-back hymnal, songs that we had heard on the southern gospel radio station. We sang and "the spirit" moved. What a feeling!
That is all it ever summed up to though. How it felt when we all gathered, how the goosebumps of the exquisite harmony sounded flowing through every ear. Feelings, that is all I knew. As soon as everyone left, the atmosphere transformed rapidly. He would begin on my brother telling him how scrawny he was next to my built cousins. How stupid my mother was for something she had said to a relative. Not me tho. I never had any harsh word that I can recall. He sat me up on his lap and turned on cartoons for me while my mother and brother would go to the grocery store for dinner. Once they were gone he would grab a washcloth for me. I would soap it up and sponge my genitalia never feeling it would be clean enough. Then he would take me to a bedroom, lie me down, sniff the clean soap smell coming off of me, then place his tongue on my small body. I would try to not orgasm. I hated the fact that he could make me do so. He would then pull down his "Sunday Best" and reveal himself to me. He would ask if I would like to place my mouth on him. Sometimes I would be fortunate enough for my mother's shopping to have a briefness. Other times I was not so lucky. I want to be very clear that at no time did he ever penetrate me. This is an ordeal for me to admit which you will come to understand as my story progresses. I would lie there and pray that God would remove me from the situation. The aftermath would be him sitting me down and asking for forgiveness. He would say "baby, you have to pray that I can stop doing this to you." So I prayed. I prayed as hard as I could, asking God to let my daddy stop what he was doing. It took six years for those prayers to be answered.
But you, when you pray, enter into your room. And shutting your door, pray to your Father in secret; and your Father who sees in secret shall reward you openly. Mat 6:6
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