After reading a series of posts on honesty, not whitewashing and the disease of perfectionism, I am writing this in the interest of being real. This is just in case you somehow thought I was perfect or had the perfect life. I'm not sure how that could come across in my writing, but just in case it did, here's this:
Late into the night, my body shook. There were no tears, just aching, wracking sobs. My body twitched with pent-up tension and my heart ached. It was hard last night. I don't know why exactly. Just one of those moments when the pain builds to a crescendo and has to be released, I guess. I hate those moments.
It's been a tough year following three years that left us tired and hurting. Sometimes I wonder when and if daylight will ever come. The stress and pain has taken its toll on all of us, especially Steve. He hates to see me hurt. Some days the pain is at a distance, while on others my heart threatens to break in two. Last night, I hurt until I went to sleep and woke up still raw and wounded. Stuffy nose, sore head, sore heart, empty coffee pot. Not a good start for a school day.
The screen called me to log on and read, to waste my time and soothe my heart. But my journal lay open on the table, reminding me of a God who cares. So I wrote. Poured out my pain. Read His Word and then prayed some more. Strangely I wrote words longing for reconciliation, restoration and repentance, not for my sake but for theirs. Words speaking of God's desire that all will come to repentance, of His slowness to wrath not because He doesn't care, but because He cares too much soothed a heart that chafed at how slow this process has been and will be. So I prayed and got up, still with a sore heart, but a calmer heart. Chores were done, soup was made, the day went on.
But the pain is with me always, just under the surface. The kids were grumpy and Daddy went out with a friend. Whiny, bickering, disobedient children that complained about everything and would not stop crept under my skin and up my spine like nails on a chalkboard. Up the stairs I went, into my closet. It houses too many boxes and suitcases for me to fully fit in, but I scrunched in with my knees poking out. My phone still sits on the closet floor where I left it after calling my parents to pray. Then I sat and cried until calmness came and I could go be a good mommy again.
Back down the stairs I went, this time to be met with apologies. My toddler leaned over to his brother speaking in a gravelly voice " I am the bad guy machine!" We laughed at this silly boy with his silly voices. I made up poetry in my head while watching the popcorn pop. My parents came by with hugs, wings, ribs and fries. They wanted to make sure they brought all my favourites. Eventually, peace came again both to my heart and my home. Now my wee ones are in bed, hopefully all sleeping. For them at least, today is done. And for me, well...God was here today. Hopefully tomorrow won't hurt as much, won't be as hard, but if it is, God will still be here. I'll make it through, even if I have to cry in my closet again. And one day, it will all be okay.