Residence in the Heart
Orlando, that is.
Tomorrow, I fly out . . . alone for the first time ever . . . to meet not only the women I’ve grown to love, but others who will take up residence in my heart as well.
I’m excited, I’m terrified. I feel inadequate and giddy. In the scary places of my heart, I expect no one to like me.
And yet, I hunger to be there because these women ‘get’ it. They’ve had their love rejected, time and again. They’ve pressed that love into their children when they wanted to do nothing more than run away and hide. They’ve been to dark places, terrifying places, in their journeys with their kids, and yet their hearts still hunger for love to be reciprocated, for their children to be whole.
My wish is that each and every one of you builds a network around yourselves. We so desperately need relationships with people we can not only be transparent to, but people who ‘get’ it. Who can offer age-old advice. Encouragement, because they’ve come out the other side of this very struggle you are going through. Understanding, because they’ve been there before. And survived.
This morning, I turned to see Mr. Boy pocketing his meds. The last time he was this anxious, and Momma forgot his meds, he was suspended from school for his behavior. I noticed and appreciated the fact that he was not trying to overtly sabotage me, but instead was going with the ‘what will be, will be’ method. Small steps for some kids, huge ones for attachment-challenged kiddos.
We talked earlier in the week, and I asked him where his anger level was. He stated that it was about a 5 – 6. I replied, “Okay, you are a 7 – 8. That’s pretty high.”
He whipped around in anger, “You always raise it! You always say it is more than it is!!”
Looking in his eyes, I reply, “Because you always underestimate where your anger level is. Maybe you don’t know it is that high. Maybe you don’t want me to know. Either way, you always lowball the anger level.”
He turns away and butters his toast. I walk to the other side of the kitchen counter so I can turn and face him. “It’s okay to be scared, George.”
Whipping around and cutting his eyes at me, “I’m not afraid!”
“Yes you are, Son. You are afraid I will get in a plane crash. You are afraid I won’t come back. You are afraid you will lose this Momma too. It’s okay to be afraid. Let’s put words to the fears so they won’t be so big.”
His shoulders slump as I speak, and he walks around the utility cart. He looks up at me with sadness in his eyes, and says, “I don’t know most of the things I’m afraid of!”
“Son, I will help you put words to your fears. I promise. Okay? I love you, Stinky Boy.”
He looks into my eyes, searching out that truth. I can see he wants to believe. But it’s going to take my going away and returning for him to take the next step toward believing I will be here for him.
And I’m good with that. I just wish I could heal some of his fear. Take some of his pain away.
I wish my boy didn’t have such deep, dark places in his heart. Like his Momma does.
I wish our kids could have had healthy, whole lives before coming to us. Lives filled from day one with comfort and laughter, safety and joy, love and stability.
And since they didn’t, I’m thankful they now have you. And me.
Love you all. Will think of you often while I’m gone. Praying you can go next year
- Brab G (who blogs at The Porcupine Dance) written 3-2012