Tonight, I had a dialogue with my dad that lasted until 1:30am. We started by debating whether or not the part in "Crash" where the housekeeper saves the bitchy Sandra Bullock is essentially Christian (another way to say that is if it is a reflection of God). Then we went into everything, talking about movies and theology and humanity and God. It's funny how any topic brought up in a conversation like the one my dad and I had tonight seems worth discussing. Anyway. This was a good conversation. It was the first conversation that I can remember where we both logically discussed and argued our sides of a topic, agreed sometimes, and left in good spirits with one another. It was the first time I told my dad that the past 2 years had been rough because I was trying to find my identity, which I had previously placed in him and Mom. It was the first time I told him that I knew I could disagree with him and still be right.
At the end, I could tell my dad was tired and that he needed to get some sleep. We had been standing in the doorway between our den and the kitchen (its a large doorway). I crossed over and gave him a hug. He returned the hug then tried to let go after the typical hug-length had ended, but I didn't let go. I tucked my mouth into his right shoulder blade like you do in meaningful hugs, placing my nose millimeters above his gray Texas Tech t-shirt. I didn't want to let go of him, because for the first time that I can remember, I felt love for my dad. I truly, deeply, honestly loved him. I wanted to hold him for hours, to share the love that comes from physically embracing another human being. The only way I can describe my feeling is that I had a desire to hold my father for as long as I could. If that's God, thanks.
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