Perspective

I held my grandchildren last evening. Each one of them, some for a long while, others for only moments. I looked at my son...and I knew he would never be the same again. His wife, too. And though I have not seen my daughter, I know it already. Nothing will ever be the same again. 

I've spent a lot of time trying to put band-aids on my bad choices. I had three amazing conversations yesterday, about dreams and day dreams.  About suffering. I have to be careful with how I write about it just now. But later, if I'm still alive, I'll write it better...if I can remember. But even now, as I have wondered why I bothered so long with trying to fit into the Catholic Church, I began to even question the existence of God. I mean, perhaps I really did make God up, so that I wouldn't have to feel so lonely...

But for me, nothing about yesterday supported such a premise. First the woman with the dream, how very descriptively she spoke of an open wound...and in a matter of a few minutes, she told me all about herself...it was a resurrection, it was poetry and it was a priceless gift. Then an accidental shooting. I was so angry with my friend this week, when she said to me, as I was remembering the shooting that occurred when I was 8 years old. She asked, "You didn't shoot her on purpose, did you?" And I just stared at her. I said nothing. Then I said, "How could you think that?" And I explained to her again, that through counseling, I finally found the moments I blocked out...and what really happened that day...but I was outraged. How could she think that of me, after knowing me for years? 

No one really knows anybody.

I didn't go visit the little child.

But instead, God had something else in his back pocket. A family in tears turned out to be a marriage breaking up. I mean, they'd given it four whole years and they were nearly 25 years old now...it's just not going to work. He won't do what I want or need. She won't do what I want or need.  And the children, well, what good is all of this for them? I listened for an hour. For someone who is not a marriage counselor, I feel pretty good about how I handled it, but I kept feeling God's hand, slapping me in the back of the head, "Are you listening yet? Do you get it? Do you see what you need to do? Or am I going to have to slap you again?" 

No one really sees anyone.
We only see what we want to see.
And nobody really wants to grow-up. 

The open wound needs healing.  It has to stay open for a time. And maybe it will heal in an open position...the crack in the beautiful, priceless vase might just need to keep it's wound, it's scar...we cannot forget what that crack taught us...because we will...we are human. We need reminding. 

I was tired and I feel into a deep sleep, in the middle of the afternoon. I woke feeling refreshed. Seriously. I remember, because I usually wake up tired.

The next call was a lonely single mother. I sat, or rather stood, an hour with her. A lot of anniversaries about her.  And she spoke with such truth and beauty about all the things happening in her life and the life of her child. She told me about it: what she wanted and what she had. No one really gets this poverty thing. No one really bothers to listen to the poor, to see how amazingly smart they are...this woman was not playing the part of victim. She got it. She was able to accept all the help she needed and still maintained her identity, and her dignity. And she told me about some important things...and I could hear God again, "Are you listening yet? Do you see now how your life matters? Do you understand how only you could have handled this moment the way it needed to be handled? Are you listening?"

As I held my granddaughter, she asked again, "Can't you come to the funeral tomorrow, Nana?" I rocked her. "No, honey, I can't. I have to work." and she was so sad. There is just no way I can make this hell better. There are people who blame me for the divorce, and probably blame me for his death.  Then there are those who will feel sorry for me, which is just as annoying. I am a victim. There is the "clan" who will live and die to protect the "clan."  Their will be the politicians, jockeying for their seat at the table of honor. My daughter needs a punching bag...I get it...she needs it to get through this...but I will not be the target today. She needs to focus on her father, not on me. And the grieving widow, who for me, in my anger, I wonder what exactly she is grieving.  I am still not convinced that she loved him.

Perspective. It blinds me from the truth. It's shade darkens the things I do not want to see and plays into my hands, where I am the victor.  It is a game and for now...with my gift a tongue that can slice through steel, it is best I let them judge me without my presence...and beg for forgiveness later. I do not like to lose...and I am incapable of being grace-filled today.

My anger, my perspective...goes deep...and has been growing for years. 

My son needs to know, to understand, none of this is his fault. Perhaps he knows. He seems so much like me, though. When we take the blame for someone else's feelings, we fall to the second commandment. We play God. I do that too often. It is hard, in real suffering, to not want to make it go away...but suffering, like anger, is a gift. Just as joy, and happiness, and gratitude...but our humanness, our near to godliness, sometimes takes us down a road best untraveled...but still we go...when we think we can fix it. There are a thousand lessons to learn on this road. And I think every one of them will hurt. And every one of them, if we let them, will heal us.

O what a tangled web we weave...

Wounds opening and closing. An accident. Unreasonable expectations in marriage. An unwillingness to try. A desperate need to forgive. An acceptance of truth. A choice to feel a little pain to avoid great and useless pain.  A rest. And the holding of life in our arms. Little feet. Big feet. The feel of a hand in mine, a gentle kiss, a look, a giggle, a head resting on my chest...and the intense awareness that we are all here for such a short time. 

It's about perspective. And knowing that mine is not the only one.

Love, Cindy