Kirsten and I ran and ran until we were unable to run anymore. , I felt like we did when we watched those movies on television, where the chasers is chasing a person until the person collapses out of breath, but this wasnít a television movie.
We ran and ran for what felt like days, hoping we lost the person in the sedan following us. We only had hope and prayer because we were not about to go back with the man we had once thought was our father without a fight.
When our legs grew to tired to move another inch we collapsed in a large field, hidden by a few trees. Each noise we heard, each sound made us cringe, and we ended up jumpy and unable to think about anything but what we were do if we got captured again.
When our hearts finally stopped pounding and we were able to think of something other than being caught, we noticed the blinking shadows coming from the lights on the houses, a sure sign Christmas was near, it was sad, because we lost track of the time, and didnít even know what day it was, when you are locked in a dark basement your days and nights tend to blend together.
Kirsten and I quietly sang Christmas songs and recited the Christmas Story anything to keep us awake, we could not fall asleep out there in the cold. If the cold did not get us surely someone would find us and we could not and would not go back to the man we had once called "Daddy" would and we didnít want to be another victim of his.
When we ran out of other ideaís Kirsten read for her journal, passages that she had memorized. We didnít dare shine a light because who knew who might see us.
In the moments of silence, memories came to us in floods, we could see ourselves as little girls sitting on daddies kneeís, and now we were discovering he wasnít really our Daddy, it was like having our identity stolen from us twice. I didnít know what to do or what to say to make the painful memories hurt for Kirsten any more than I knew what to do or say, all I knew was that I wanted the memories to stop coming because remembering was to hard, something I didnít want to do.
Butterfly kisses at her bed time prayer sticking little white flowers all up in her hair...
I remembered a voice singing that song to me as a little bitty girl, not the voice of the Daddy I had grown up knowing, but this was a voice of someone different, someone more loving. He had a gently way with me. Could this have been our real Father?
The song plays over and over again in my head, a gentle male voice singing it, but I can not see the face of this man, I know that this is our real father though. Why were the memories back now and not before?
" Kirsten I think I am starting to remember some things from when we were really little, I remember a man singing Butterfly Kisses to us, his voice soft and gentle, I am pretty sure itís a memory of our real Father. "
" Have you ever seen his face Sarah? "
" No Kirsten, do you have any memories of his face? "
" No, but I do remember a man singing to us like you said. "
It was only a memory, a very vague one at that, but it was something, but how would we ever find the man who sang Butterfly Kisses to us? A song we had heard on the Christian radio station a million times in our lives, a man who must have liked Bob Carlisleís music.