Broken Heart

I broke my Dad’s heart the day I told him I fell in love with Jesus.

I was so young and enthusiastic and so happy to share this great news with my family.

But what was supposed to be good news turned out to be very very bad news for my mom and dad.  My mom wept like she just heard the news I’d died. My dad didn’t say a word but the anguish spelled out across his face spoke more than all the volumes of Tolstoy’s War and Peace combined ever could.

I was stunned.

I didn’t understand it at the time. How could I know that something that had happened decades before I was even born would leave such a scar on the tender soul a young boy who would become my dad.

It was Christmas time.  The family was so poor that they couldn’t afford to eat meat except for that one special day during the entire year.  The father was off to America, seeking better life in hope of bringing it back to his impoverished family. The mother was left alone on the barren slopes of the mountains of Dalmatia with five children and their seemingly insatiable appetites.

But, once a year they got to feast until they were full.  Until they felt one bite more and they will pop. 

There was a large smoked ham, home-made butter, and corn pudding. Goat milk. They could eat and drink as much as they wanted . The rest 364 days there just wasn’t enough food for all the hungry mouths to feel satisfied. 

But, this one day… this one glorious holy day, filled with aroma of baked ham and drippings, and lavish mounds of corn mush… it was like waking up and discovering in dizzying wonder that you woke up in heaven.