It was a family meal.
I was the eldest at the table, the head.
During conversation, someone spoke,
something offhand, cutting, hurtful to me.
That was it, the proverbial last straw.
Similar insults have occurred before.
From the same person, flippant, rude.
I slammed my fork down loudly striking my plate
as I rose in haste and left the dining room.
I walked swiftly to my room, aware
that someone was following me.
I shut the door behind me and sat down in my armchair.
The door opened and someone entered,
looked at me with sorry eyes, came and sat with me.
Sat, wedged between arm and my body, with back to me in silence.
That gesture broke me and I cried.
Sobbing, heaving and another person entered.
Young, supportive, well intentioned,
and the two exited without a word. No true resolution.
The relationship unchanged. I was angry.
Angry with the second person for surging in, disturbing our moment.
I yelled out loud, and the sound woke me up.
Reflectively then I wondered about the dream.
Realized as if a light went on. The offender was me.
The me of the dream was God.
I was the one who repeatedly injured the Father.
Injured is an inadequate word. Offend would work.
Sin is more accurate. This was a teaching moment.
How often a cohort of sorts has interfered,
diverted my attention, and pulled me from enduring repentance.
More was expected of me, rightfully so since I am of the family.
© Ron Unruh, Feb 2019
