Hope and Dreams

One day soon I will finish writing my post about Stephen, my long-lost penpal . I loved that man, you know- not in a creepy internet way, and no, I'm not gay- but I was going through some horrible times and our correspondence really helped me through that period. He was also ill and also had almost no one else to talk to , so it was a mutual thing. Guitars and being crippled- we had that in common to start, we discovered much, much more over time.
I eventually healed and was able to play again, but Stephen was not so lucky.

How many of you love people that you know only through the internet? ( Show of hands?...yes, I thought I wasn't the only one) . I don't mean romance, I don't mean cyber-sexing or whatnot, I mean people that you would deeply miss should they suddenly disappear from your (virtual) life- I don't think one can feel that horribly bereft feeling of loss and confusion without having felt some love first...if you didn't care, it wouldn't hurt, would it?

I've felt it- feeling it now even, and it hurts, but it's OK. I'll get over it.

I didn't know what a 'blog' was when I knew Stephen , but I have always enjoyed exchanging letters; today I have smart and funny new pals that I have intermittent exchanges with -good people who take a few minutes here and there to send a few words my way- but Stephen was one -of-a-kind. Our mails would be many 'pages' long...nowadays, I sometimes get a mid-length letter from a current pal or (pal-ette) and they will close with " sorry for going on so long" or a similar sentiment. I always think this is peculiar...

(One last penpal note, and then I will share something that made me happy)

-Please, never apologize for sending me a long email.
I love receiving them. It means that somewhere, someone took some of their valuable time and used it to communicate with me.

Those of you who have never been lonely ( show of hands? I see...none ) will not appreciate what a rare and marvelous thing it is to receive a thoughtful personal letter that someone wrote just because they wanted to, because they like you and they see something in you that makes it worth the time and energy to devote to the dying art of true, heartfelt correspondence. With you.
No money scams, no sexual overtones, no creepy motives- just the sheer human joy of knowing that someone does care about you and they aren't afraid to say so. The breaking of barriers, the sharing of hearts...I miss Stephen and I miss... others.
I could tell him anything- if I was wrong, he'd explain why, not simply give up and stop writing. We worked all that stuff out-after all, no two people agree on everything-unless one of them is lying. We didn't have to lie- we just worked it out. It's not hard if you care enough to try.

*sigh*

Again, I get a call from my grandmother before I can finish this post: Pastor Jones has spent the evening talking with my father about his alcoholism and what to do about it.
Tomorrow, dad will meet with a counselor from an intake center who will undoubtedly decide that he needs the "28 Days program".
I pray that Dad accepts this and checks himself in. My brother and I will pay whatever it costs.

"Allan", said my Grandmother," your father told Pastor everything you said to him on Sunday, and Pastor wanted me to call you and talk to you about it."

Oh no. Did I fuck up? I didn't have a plan or script, I just found him, called him out and forced him to look at what he was doing to himself, and most importantly, to his mother.

I was completely, brutally frank with my dad. I didn't mince a single word- I'll not post all that here, but it was not an easy talk and I have been living since Sunday with the fear that I may have been too harsh, that I might have pushed him to suicide. The last thing this family needs is another suicide; especially if it's my fault.

"Ok, what did Pastor say?"
Bracing myself.

"Pastor said he is incredibly proud of you. He said you did and said exactly the right things and that no one, absolutely no one , could have done better; that my father took it all to heart and decided to come home and get help, to be with his dying mother and to make peace with his children. He says you may have saved your father's life."

My grandmother was in tears, thanking me for bringing her son home, for doing what no one else had been able to do. She will have her son with her when it is her time to leave this world.
I can never repay my Gran for all the care she has given me, but if I can help her to pass from this world in peace and calm, then that at least is a start.

I have hopes, I have dreams and I believe that I have a chance of seeing them come true.
That is all.