Heavy

My purse, like my heart, seems to get heavier by the minute. The note has been in my purse for 48 hours now and I cannot bear to look at it. I cannot bear to read the justifications, fabrications and accusations I am almost certain it contains.

I feel the need to protect myself---experience has been a bitter teacher. The first note--which I was sure brought me word of her desire for reconciliation--was only a letter from Joe and full of nonsense. The second note read like a bad novel and was full of accusations and bore little resemblance to reality. And the third note/email was nothing more than a demand for items she had left behind when she ran away.

I am not brave or curious. I am emotionally fragile after all the "fireworks" of the Fourth. I am heartsore, weary, wounded and too numb to be hopeful.

On the Fourth, I touched my daughter for the first time in 2 1/2 years. She initiated the hug so at least there's that. I held her, I wept on her shoulder, I said something about missing her (or something...I can't even remember what it was that I said) She pulled away and only said goodbye before she walked off.

And my purse and my heart are both still heavy.

Moving on...

Moving on doesn't mean you forget about things. It just means you have to accept what happened and continue living...

I Miss This Girl...

    I miss this girl...

                                                                         this girl...

                                                                        this girl...

this girl...

this girl...

                                                                      ......so much.

The Pink Shirt

A long long time ago, in what seems like a whole different galaxy and a whole lifetime ago, my daughter bought me, with her own money and not on my birthday or Mother's Day or Christmas, a cute pink shirt. Because she thought I would like it. and I did.

Then the whole world kinda fell aprt...and she left...and she hated us...and betrayed us...and I hid that shirt where I didn't think I would find it. Some time later, I came across it. And the pain was fierce. I came very close to throwing it away.

But I didn't. Now it is in the very back of my closet, reminding me of who she used to be, who she will be again someday. I have to trust.

Sometimes that shirt mocks me. Some times it gently chides me. But sometime I will wear it again.

The Girl Who...

                                         I Miss the girl:

                                        the girl who used to find happiness with her family...

the girl who lived life on the edge

                          the girl who had so many dreams and plans and so much to do 

                              that she didn't expect to get married for a long, long time....

                                                            the girl who liked to cook...

                                       the girl who was "peanut-butter" to Rachel's "jelly"...

                                                            (Rachel misses her, too)

                                                  the girl who liked to visit this place...

                                                      the girl who loved her siblings...

                                                      the girl who played the guitar...

                                      

the girl who loved her perfume bottles and pearls...

the girl who liked to write on her arm and shoot a gun...

 the girl who was so dramatic...in shows and real life

                                      the girl who had so much fun wearing these shoes...

                                                         the girl her siblings miss...

                                                     the girl who didn't say goodbye...

Ugly

It was ugly--raw, brutal, gut wrenching sobs--the words  "I miss her so much" burst out, unbidden and unexpected...

Yet beautiful. He held me--his tears joined mine. No words, just his arms around me.

No accusations tossed back and forth. No heated discussions about perceived failures.

Just two wounded souls who found each other...at least for this moment in time.

Two parents who are learning they are not responsible before God for the choices made by their child.


Two people trying to figure out alot of things:
--how to set boundaries, yet reach out to her
--how to protect younger siblings from bad influences, yet have a relationship with her
--how to love her, yet protect their own hearts

Two people who need to learn:
--how to talk to each other without rubbing salt into tender places
--how to discuss hard things without blame or sarcasm or hidden agendas
--how to be gentle with each other

Motherhood

Motherhood is a choice you make everyday,
to put someone else's happiness and well-being ahead of your own,
to teach the hard lessons,
to do the right thing even though you're not sure what the right thing is,
and to forgive yourself over and over again for doing everything wrong.

Donna Bell