The Accent of colour: Agape

CHAPTER ONE

Normal. What is normal? Normal is understanding that people have their own problems. If we stop for a moment and look deeply at ourselves we understand this brokenness. We are broken-people, survivors of circumstances.
What is Love? Many people confuse love with lust; they both start with the same letter. Yet, they end down two different roads. This confusion has put love out of our comprehension, expunging the very action out of our vocabulary.
Love, what does that even mean? According to 1 John 4:18-19 "There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. For fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. We love because He first loved us." (ESV)
To understand what love is, we first need to understand what love is not. If you are expecting some 'sappy' romantic love story with unrealistically high expectations, put the book down!
However if curiosity gets the better of you, continue-

"Bye bye poofter!" I yelled out. With the learning of this new word I turned a few heads. The train station was almost empty, except for a few onlookers who watched intently.
The yo-yo child exchange is where the switching occurred. Drop-off. Pick-up. Drop-off. Pick-up.
This is, in fact, the early beginning of my life. The very rhythm of departing from one parent and reuniting with the other was an inauguration into my childhood.
The long train rides home. The driving; the sleeping; toilet stops; fast food. This was an annoying, tiring and frustrating process.
My sister and I were in the custody of our mother.
With dad in seeing distance I turned to her and asked her a question. "Mummy, how do you say 'I love you' very, very, very, very much to dad?" Being attentive I listened closely, making sure my ice-cream would not melt. "I don't know." She answered.
"But there has to be another word for it," I questioned further. "Naughty is another word for bad."
Even from a very young age I had a curious and adventurous spirit. I couldn't sit still. I got bored easily. I always wanted to explore. Curiosity had gotten me so far- into trouble!
With a wicked smile on her face, she had found the right word. "Poofter!"
I turned back and waved frantically at my father. The silence of disappointment set in and wiped the departing smile off his face. The deed was done. With the use of one simple enough word I had broken my father's heart. 'Poofter' was not a term of endearment, of love. It was an offensive term full of malice. I was about five years old at the time.

The echo of laughter filled my ears, my mother was amused. I did not understand why she was laughing, or why my father was upset. What did I do wrong? With a puzzled look on my face, I tried to understand what was happening. I wanted to comfort my father, but my mother's grip on my wrist was restraining.
Shaking his head in disbelief, he turned and walked away with his spirit deflated, all the while keeping his head held high. He was not going to let this defeat his soul.

It was the beginning of 2006 I prayed a prayer. Jesus I pray that I see my dad. Sometimes prayers aren't always answered, because there is something better that YAHUWAH has planned. On the nineteenth of May 2006 my prayer had been answered. Earlier I got into a fight with my cousin, I pushed her into the door. The previous day we had gone on a year six excursion to the Art Gallery of NSW and the Royal Botanic Gardens.
Teachers headed the front of the line; a sea of students flowed on to the path of the Royal Botanic Gardens. Distracted with conversations, Ms H. motioned us to one side, so that the general public could move freely without students invading their personal space. During the gentle walk through the gardens my cousin pushed me. I was right near the kerb; I didn't have any legroom to steady my balance. The vegetation met me with light scratches.
My next thought was obvious: I'll get her back! In other words, vengeance! I felt animosity toward her. If someone hurts you the most natural thing in the world is to repay them for their action, with something equal to, or greater than the pain they inflicted on you.
Quick reflexes? Second nature? Call it what you will. There is, a reaction on both sides of the equation, this is a symbolic representation of life. Where the coefficient is the amount of times someone causes you pain; the reactants people, follow in the current of the arrow; the products produced from these types equations is brokenness and more suffering. No one wins. When we choose to part take in these equations, we lose a part of ourselves.

Friday morning I ditched school. I did not even go to school. I got three quarters of the way and crossed over the other side of the street. I could not manage the walk to school with my mum and cousin. I was angry. I yelled a few things, then I found my way to the nearest train station.
Wandering aimlessly I came out of Hurstville station. Hurstville station has many exits to choose from, it reminds me of the Delta Nile in Egypt. There are multiple directions you can branch out from. Three if you do not count the car park exits. School uniform blazing; I had a perplexed look on my face. One if read correctly, lost!
Dodging unfamiliar exits I tried to remember which path to take. I knew the street my grandmother lived on very well, the name, that is!
My feet had taken me to strange places, strange places indeed! I ended up in a street with grass, houses and twin footpaths.
"EXCUSE ME, Can I please borrow your phone to call my dad?" was along the lines of what I said all those years ago. The man in a working vest allowed me to borrow his phone. My thumbs reached for the buttons as I tapped my dad's number in.
"I'm in Hurstville and don't know where I am."
I gave the spiel of being lost and the man's phone I borrowed because I had no credit. Dad said that he was going to call me back on my phone. I playfully jogged away slowly, pretending to steal the man’s phone. His colleagues watched on. I walked the short distance back to where the man was standing, and returned his phone. I don’t remember if I thanked you or not. If I did, thank you yet again, for allowing me to borrow your phone! If I did not, than thank you for the first time, man-person in a working vest!
As I waved goodbye I went down a different road from whence I came okay, to be honest I continued down the same road with the rhythm of a slight hill then took a left.
My phone rang. I dug into my pocket. Answering I described my surroundings.
“Don’t worry… I’ll find you mate,” Dad stated with confidence.
We ended the conversation. With his street smarts knowledge of the local area he drove around. It was only a short while until he found me. Squinting, I recognised him almost immediately while briefly quizzing my memory. Not much had changed in four years, paused in my subconsciousness was the semblance of my father. He looked the same now, as he did all those years ago. Yet, somehow different. Older.
Overwhelmed with four years of heightened emotions. Words could not even begin to explain what I was feeling. Joy almost came close, yet failed by a long shot; my words, empty through interpretation. Everything that needed to be said was said in the sound of silence. Intense emotions welled up as tears strolled down the side of my face. With tears, came spiritual healing and the cleansing of my soul.
We awkwardly hugged in the small, white, two-seater Daihatsu Handi car. In almost unison both of us wept.
During this experience, this epoch, I was walking in the spirit, the fruit of the spirit. The accent of colour: Agape.
The moment contained no traces of fear; not an ounce was found.
I had seen my father face to face for the first time in four years. I knew in an instant that my mother had lied to me; she had manipulated me. “Your father doesn’t love you, you know”
‘You know’, I can still hear that sarcastic tone in my mind. I feel disgust at the very thought, my facial expression shifts to match my emotion.