I Find it Hard to Remember

I have these memories. Things that happened to me. Around me. To people I loved. To children.

Oh, how they burn. How they nauseate.

These memories are visiting me this week, and my heart weeps and aches and I don't know what I'm supposed to do with all this pain. All these memories.

Sometimes pain is good to share. Sometimes it helps. But I fear sometimes I may share too much. I fear sometimes I may cause pain with my words about pain.

So, I continue cautiously.

What do you do when the person who By Design should protect you, turns out to be your greatest source of pain? When you forgive a thousand times and they demand more forgiveness, your heart repeatedly wrenched from your chest? How do you handle the realization that this person just simply may never love you good and pure?

How do you shake the nightmares--the same person pinning you down over and over and stop never means stop? How do you reconcile the things your subconscious screams in those nights?

How do you handle the first-hand knowledge that predators are everywhere? That 20% of the children you know have been violated and will walk with that all their life?

What do you do with this sort of pain?

I reflect.

How many hours my husband has listened to my silence! How viscously I fought this man who fought to love me. We've had the same conversation over and over again, because every time I'm just a little bit braver--I trust him with a new piece of information. It's like my past is a photograph I have ripped to shreds. When I bring him a new piece he helps me find its place. Then I can decide if I want to keep it and glue it to our own collage, or if I want to burn it and be free of it. I have been freed from much!

After way too long, I finally reached out for help. And my new "professional friend", as I like to think of her, has helped me be objective. We sort through the things I am terrified to say out loud, and we talk about living right now. She's like a midwife for birthing the person I want to be, making the choices I want to make. She suggests new positions or movements to relieve the pressure. She reminds me to breathe and focus and trust myself. My body knows how to have a baby, and my heart knows how to heal. But we all need a support team lifting us up, reminding us that we can do this.

I protect.

Dusk falls everyday and I close our drapes. Something like a lioness looks at the darkness through the window pane and says, "You will not come in here." Nothing dark will be allowed into my home. Not as long as I can stop it.

I kiss soft, warm cheeks as they sleep. I stroke those three heads and pray thanks. Protect them, Lord. Please protect them! I sleep with my husband's love wrapped around me. I breathe his honesty, his goodness, in and out all night long. This is what I protect.

And I open it all up in the morning.

Windows, specifically. The views are not magnificent, but the light is. And though there's not much to look at, this is my present. I remember the past, but I don't live there. I plan for the future, but I don't live there. Here I live, in the present. It's the only time frame we have that is like eternity. I am here, and I will live open.

I push the drapes aside in the prayer nook. I will see His Love today. I will see it and accept it and give it.

I walk down to the kitchen to pour my coffee and tie the drapes. I will do the most menial tasks today, because I am loved and I will love through this simple goodness.

Coffee in hand, wet towel on my head, I retract the blinds in the school room. I will have fun with these kids today. We will learn together--more about each other than anything else.

My slippers shuffle on the squeaky boards in the living room. I tie up four drapes, and this room gets the most light all day long. I will read and snuggle and rest in this gift of a nest. I will not fret.

His light pours in and darkness hides.

In the dining room I tie more drapes. I will feed people I love and I will be nourished by them. This room shakes the most and I seem to walk the heaviest in the morning. I love these old knots and this old house.

I climb the stairs and come back to the nook. I sit with my hero, and we read and pray and keep ourselves awake as we relish in this quiet moment. Our kids gradually wake and join us; he prays for me today. That my Father will comfort me and hold me close; that my love will flow freely out, bursting through the dam that wants to hold. And I pray too. Thanks to my Father for loving me perfectly, that my joy will shine with the light of day, and my tears will wait for the quiet night and my husband's arms. Because despite the love, the joy, the light, the hope....the memories are burning a lot this week. And I'm just going to have to let myself hurt for a bit.

"Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning."