Last weekend I went to Sunday Assembly, a godless congregation who's motto is live better, help often, wonder more. It's a heart lifting, soul connecting, life affirming hour, belting out songs in the name of good, we celebrate being alive. If you get the chance go, just go.
Smiley faced volunteers greet everyone at the door of Conway Hall and I immediately feel part of something. The hall was filling up fast and I found a seat next to an older gentleman and got settled in. Jim was his name, originally from the north of Ireland but in London for many years. He was lean, poorly dressed for the cold weather with a genteel face and enviable bone structure. He reminded me of my father who had ancestors in the north of Ireland. I told Jim this, and though we struggled in hearing each other with the bustle of the filling hall, I saw he was pleased and he patted my back lightly.
At the end of the assembly we turned to each other to say goodbye. He shook my hand and said, 'You think I am like your father?', and after a short pause, 'I would have liked a daughter like you.' We clasped each others hands, I was deeply moved and my eyes filled. We pushed our chairs to the side of the room and became separated in the crowd. I joined the mass of people heading for a cup of tea, blinking back tears and wondered if I'd see him again, also feeling that that was our moment, what had to be said was said. Where on earth do you go from there?
My own father has been dead for almost 25 years and his alcoholism meant we never got to know each other. He was rarely kind to me and never expressed pleasure in having me for a daughter and that's why Jim's words touched a nerve. It was amazing to hear a father figure say these words. Something to hold onto.
I've done a lot of work and have forgiven my father, he did his best. I keep the brave child me close and she still feels ouchy, the fact she feels is a miracle in itself.
