Dear Heavenly Father, it's me. I'm trying to talk to you again.

I'm just a little girl, but since they said you heard my voice amongst the others lined up to head back to sermon, maybe you can listen once again?

I just have a question. Do you think there's a chance I could see my dad again?

I haven't heard from him in months, and my teachers say that it's his job to be there, that they love you and raise you.

I haven't heard from him for a while, and I heard the other people in my Sunday school class say they get kisses every night, and get their booboos brushed off every time they go to them.

Do you think that, maybe even for an hour, I could see him this month or the next?

Amen.

Dear God, I know you're there. It's me again. You probably know who it is from all the shooting stars I've made wishes on and the times angels in pictures made me cry.

The man behind the alter said you do things that are great for those who deserve it, those who don’t do any wrong.

I don't think I've done anything wrong, but dad didn't come. He hasn't come in half a year or so.

So, if you can talk to him, could you tell him to come see the streaked eyes and puddles of icy blue that wait every Monday on the front porch when he isn't in parent pickup line?

Do you think you could do that? Could you make that happen for someone who sings in the choir and goes to the pews like you said I was supposed to?

Goodnight God, Amen.

God, Shepard to the lost, can you even really hear me or am I talking to myself?

I have been praying every night and every day for you to bring him to the door so I can just get a glimpse of his face. Where could he be all this time?

Is there something I should do? Is there something I'm doing wrong?

I know I lie to my sister when she asked if I thought he would come, and I know I dishonor my mother when I tell her I'm okay with another lonely Monday. I'm sorry about that, but I still sometimes believe it.

I've been good. I don't raise my voice when others shout around me. I just stand there like the statue of Jesus does, letting it hit my face like water and turning the other cheek.

That lady who sings every Sunday says God doesn't like us to fight or yell at people who have authority over us. I don't move, God. I don't fight them back.

I do everything you tell us to do in that great big book by the stairs where people fall to their knees. I'm on my knees now if that helps.

I just want to see him for a little while, I promise I'll make sure my sister is alright, I promise I will do everything I'm told, if I can just see his face.

Can you do that please?

It's okay if you can't, people say no all of the time these days.

It won't hurt me if you can't do it, it's nothing worse than words of anger tattooed on my skin.

Amen.

God, you know who it is. Earlier someone at school said absentee, is that what this is?

I heard the word dead beat escape my their lips, I don't know what that means. What did I miss?

I know he's alive. I've heard the word beat a thousand times, but it was over floors streaked with what used to reside in me. I broke the word down. It doesn't mean him, it wasn't meant for little girls' ears.

Is he gone now, is he floating beside you? Could you tell him two little girls miss him? I hope he is happy up there if he is.

If he isn't passing on, could you pass it along to him that we want to see him, want even a letter to know he's there?

I haven't heard from him since he came to my birthday wobbling on his feet and with a face as red as the tail lights on the car he left in.

I don't want you to fix what's done and has been, but can you fix the scrapes on a little girl's heart from all the sticks and stones meant to break spirits and bones?

Could you, even briefly, remind him of what he is meant to be?

He forgot it last year, and the year before. He forgot about bedtime kisses and stories about princesses and retelling the history of our bloods ancestors. He forgot a few things that I guess don't mean much to you.

Can I see him, just once, without the blurry eyes and locked bedroom door he hid behind last time?

I won't ask again, I know it's nothing for you compared to miracles and mysteries.

Can you think about it? Get back to me in a day or two? Don’t forget this time please.

Amen.

God, I know I said I wouldn't ask again, I guess I lied to you.

It's just that I don't think I'm even asking for me this time.

There's two little girls here, just a door apart, and she misses him more than I do. If he isn't coming because I've done something bad to you, could he come for her?

She is younger, she doesn't know why he didn't show up at the door on any of the hundreds on Monday nights in the past. His absences are something she can't grasp.

Even if you can't do that because of me, could you tell her it isn't her fault? She committed no heinous deed, but that's what I heard through the whispering on the other side of the hall.

I don't want to ask anymore God. Please don't make me do this on four leaf clovers and wishbones amongst thanksgiving leftovers he should have been there to eat.

He called last week. It was her birthday but he said it to me. Does he even know who we are; can you make him see?

I don't think you're here. You probably don't listen to the cries of little girls ungrateful for what you give, what they have. I'll give it all up to see him like we used to.

Can you let me know you're listening? Can you let me know you really are here? Can you let him know who we are, let him know what he should mean?

Could you try that for her, for me?

Amen.

Hello? I've been trying to reach you, but I keep getting some spiritual answering machine while others talk to you endlessly.

I just want to let you know dad seems to have left for good, gone off on some solo quest without giving a kiss goodbye or a door number to send visit requests.

It isn't like last time. I won't be calling for you again, I promise you won't hear my voice on the answering machine.

Since you couldn't get around to bring our father to us, I became a lost spirit and all this became a hidden mess.

If there's some reason for it in your grand design, that's fine. Let me know next time please before you take out a piece of my childhood pictures and projects.

I feel fine, I guess. I feel nothing, so there is nothing that can digress any further. Thanks for half as many happy memories, and I hope you enjoyed watching the pain and lack of progress. It's been swell for us too.

You aren't even listening so why bother, holy father? You won't see my shadow darken any stained glass, polished wood place. You won't find my name on the side of a dedicated pew.

Don't listen too hard for my voice in the choir, and I won't hope too hard you'll hear the hymn. Don't wait for hallowed words roll of bloody lips after the last steeple bell tolled today. I won't expect the verses to feel the same.

Don't look for me like I looked for you.

Amen.

God, I hope you're recording this.

Well, it's been a few years, and now a father permanently ignoring turned to a string of mysterious phone calls.

His regretful apologies finally came, along with him noting that he'd be leaving again soon. History is doomed to repeat itself after all. I won't repeat what I did back then, though. I just wanted to let you know it doesn't hurt like it did. You numbed me to the pain of abandonment years ago.

I didn't call on you to beg for some mystical saving grace, I didn't call for time to turn back. I just called to let you know, little girls who cry out on bended knee at night can learn to fight, we learn without others how to survive.

Little girls that grow up half loved end up being alright.

I don't need a miracle. I don't need a better circumstance. I got used to it, got over it, long before any other man had a chance.

Don't worry omniscient God, you don't need to ignore me any longer with some angelic tape you delete.

I'll be fine to be on my own. Though, I hope you'll learn there are little girls out there, little girls you should listen to when they look for you so the don't end up sharing in my daddy issues defeat.

Amen.