Things Buried

God has a strategy with our lives. Things we may wanna bury for whatever reason always find their way to the surface. Nothing is lost—we either lose or learn.

This past week, I was on a cruise and was having a strong urge to write about it, as I do with everything in life. I write; I love it. I can write about anything… well, just about anything. I wanted to share some old commentary about trips I’ve taken and file them under travel, so I found the notes and have scheduled them.

In the interim, I was reminded of a time when I was a kid in the third grade and of a rare outing with my mother and father.

As you guys know from my last series, we were poor. We didn’t have a car, never owned a house, and I never had brand-new clothes or shoes. That was a way of life. I didn’t know any better, so who cares?

Well, one time, my father’s best friend Albert came by and said, “Why don’t we take the kids to the Museum of Science and Industry this Saturday?” Albert was nice. He knew we had nothing and would always come by with something for us. He volunteered to drive and take care of everything. My sister and I were so excited. We didn’t go places—especially not places meant for us.

Saturday came, and we piled into Albert’s station wagon and headed to the museum. It was amazing! I had never been downtown Chicago, much less to a museum. I couldn’t wait to go explore and do all the interactive things.

We got halfway through the first floor and got stopped by security. My sister and I sat on the steps while my mother, father, and Albert stood talking with the men. After about five minutes, the guard pulled out an empty Wild Irish Rose bottle found in the garbage of the men’s room. A janitor saw it and took the bottle to security. The museum had a no-alcohol-on-the-premises rule, and my father broke it. We were escorted out of the building and told to get off the property.

That was the first time I felt real shame. My sister was mad at the janitor. I was mad at my father.

While in the car, my mother yelled at my father in front of Albert. She cussed and tossed the word “drunk” around quite liberally. When we got back home, the argument got more intense. Furniture was broken, and a hole appeared in their pressed wood bedroom door.

He was so unapologetic. He saw nothing wrong with his actions. He didn’t care because it wasn’t anything he wanted to do. This was who he was until he died: selfish. A lot of what I’ve had to overcome came at his hands. Certain families didn’t allow us to play with their kids because my father was an alcoholic. We were always punished for him.

I’m not sure why this memory came up while on the cruise, but the tears in my eyes tell me it’s a core one, and I have to trace the root of why that bothered me and deal with it. God doesn’t just bring things to our remembrance for nothing. We lose or learn.