Fatherless

A cloudy sky threatens to suffocate the tranquil February afternoon. Dark gray clouds sag around the green forest behind the Hogar. A group of vultures circles high above to the left of where I sit. I make no attempt to control my spastic gaze, which only occasionally focuses on something concrete in my line of vision. My soul is heavy. The poignant notes of a guitar stir feelings within me, feelings of compassion, of contempt, of struggles. His gnarly fingers fly over the strings, dirty nails strumming each note with power and conviction. He has no sheet music; each song seems to be wrenched from his heart, melancholy chords violently changing to triumph, then to discordant rhythms full of frustration and confusion. I read the writing on his worn hat, Rising Stars Basketball Clinics.

Meet Brian, Jeffry and Yohira’s dad. No one knows where he lives, what he occupies his time with. He shows up to visit every so often, his mind still apparently sharp, yet ruined through years of alcohol and drug abuse. He looks just like Yohira, they have the same long nose and thin lips. He speaks to me in English, which is hard to understand at first, but quite flawless. I ask him where he lives and what he does for a living. He tells me he travels a lot and is trying to start a basketball school for kids from all over Honduras. The hat is his only credibility, and I’m not sure if I buy it. He’s been playing the guitar since he was 10. Brian walks by on the sidewalk with his headphones on. He tries to block out the sound of his father’s playing, of his existence, but I’m quite sure he’s well aware inside, well aware of the pain and sadness and the lack of a father’s love. Brian’s dad excuses himself and gets up to try to talk to Brian. Brian refuses. His dad returns agitated. He says he can’t understand why Brian has changed. I try to tell him it’s because it’s hard for him and he gets upset. He says he can’t understand what can be so hard; it’s all about God’s love for us. I agree, and stop talking before he gets angrier. I want to yell at him. I want to shake him, pound him on the head and knock off the ridiculous basketball hat. Yet I’m also overwhelmed by pity.

Kenia leans on the fountain and swings herself back and forth on a skateboard. Yenny drapes her head and hands on me and Tania scribbles on the tiles across from where I sit. Marcos sits down in his white cutoff t-shirt and stares ahead. Rain drops intrude on the moment and my guitar is handed back to me. I force myself out of my reverie and back to reality, a reality full of questions. How can someone bring a child into the world and then leave them, abandon them, forget them? How can a yearly visit make up for a lifetime of absence? How can a pat on the back replace a thousand hugs and kisses? How can it not be hard to grow up without a father and mother? What’s so hard about that? A person can run away from their problems, drink away hurts and drown in despair, but they can’t dispose of their children, or can they?

They can. They do.

It sickens me to look around at this group of kids who are growing up without parents. Some don’t even know what their dad looked like or what happened to their mother. Some have parents who are too poor to take care of them. Some have abusive parents. They’re hurting, crying, screaming, and dying inside. They won’t admit it, but they’re afraid. They feel worthless. When someone gets too close they push them away. I’m often pushed away, by the ones I have fought the hardest for.

He’s fighting too, a heavenly Father disgusted and broken by the hurt He sees. He’s fighting for these children’s lives, yet so is Satan. Each day he tries to crush their spirits and overwhelm them with despair. I see it in their eyes. I feel it in their hugs. I hear it in their attitudes. I’m fighting too. We’re all fighting. It’s draining. I cry a lot. I think a lot. I pray a lot.

Life without a Father’s love is unlivable. Let them know their Father.