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On Sunday, I went to church and got sidetracked setting up the coffee bar with a group of school kids. Afterwards, I went over to where my youth hang before services. At least, those who ever show up. The ones who do usually work at some church task or another. I normally can count on about 75% of my kids busy helping out any given Sunday.
Kelly (not her real name) was there. She works some job or another at the church every week. I can't think of the last time that I saw her sitting in a pew. Well, folding chair. She even runs one of our "programs".
"Hey, manasclerk!" she said. "You were in a dream I had last night."
I told her that I hoped I hadn't been insane.
"Well, kind of," she said. "You were yelling at my dad."
Later that day, after we finished the group slideshow (very nice: I'll have to let you see it one day), she explained what me yelling at her dad was all about. "You weren't crazy or anything, you were just shouting at him," she said. "You were yelling that he was a bad dad."
Her father. I've worked with this kid for over a year now and this is the second time she has ever mentioned him. I thought he lived downstate, hours away: he lives in town. I've never heard her talk about being with him.
I probably would indeed rip him a new one if we ever met. I won't fight for me almost ever, but I'll fight for them without hesitation.
I've become the voice of her subconscious mind. Odd.