Some years come and some years go, and life trods on, and it’s
almost monotonous. And then other years, everything shifts entirely. I am
closing in on a year where it seems like everything in its entirety was the top
layer of sand on a beach that gets completely skimmed off, stirred up, and
parts of it resettled, but the landscape itself shifted entirely. It’s a time
of reflection, in which I don’t really have a great epiphany to share
necessarily, but yet I find it’s a milestone that is of enough significance in
itself that it is worth stopping for and examining.
My life has changed. A very huge part of my soul wants to
sob and grieve and maybe even entirely stop, whilst another part is like a small child
discovering a magical land they never knew existed right in their own back
yard. Afraid to breath. Afraid to speak. Afraid to acknowledge.
I find I do not know what to say. I am afraid of the power
of my own words. I am cognizant of the fact that my words have the ability to
hurt others. I realize that while I feel I am just speaking my own truth, that
truth is sharp like a razor blade. I am afraid of my own voice.
I am a warrior. I am a warrior because I carry on – because when
defeat stares me in the eyes, I cry and I grieve – but yet I also battle. I am
not a warrior merely because I take others in my wake – that is not what makes
me a warrior. I have a heart that is full of compassion and understanding – but
I am also strong and refuse to be defeated. It’s a balance that wobbles
precariously.
A year ago I was a different person. I just was. I really think
if that Ami met this Ami, we’d be fast friends assuredly, but one could learn
from the other. Many of the relationships that were the most precious to me in
this life have faded, others became stronger like I layered them in epoxy on
both sides many times over maybe just to make sure they would stay, and still
others sprang from the dust at my feet and rooted like a magical bean stalk
that I could climb and even rest in.
The sense of loss is overwhelming sometimes. I grieve people
that are still very much alive. It shreds me many a day, many a moment within a
day; if I let my mind wander, deep tears of loss are ever below my surface. I
can touch it, I can dip my hand in those waters on demand at any moment, and
trail my fingers and my heart in it. I do not understand. Yes, I know I have a role in it, do not let
me say that I do not. But it is beyond my ability to resolve or to heal. I can
only give it over to the Great Physician.
I have to learn to set boundaries. That sounds like a great
therapy 101 session – but in reality it is a never ending struggle to a person
who never had them. One day I have the
most beautiful boundary you ever saw – made out of strong medieval timbers stained
a deep walnut color reinforced with 20 gauge nickel brackets and bolts – and then
the next day I convince myself I am indeed an asshole, and the boundaries are
being used for firewood and swing sets and whatever someone feigns they need on Single Mom
of New Braunfels.
I am learning to forgive. Forgiving is not an easy feat. I
am learning.
I have learned what victory is – I have learned what it
feels like to shout from what I thought was the ashes and realize it’s actually
developed into a mountain. I have looked down upon what I’m standing on, and wondered
if it is not imaginary. I expected it to vanish at any moment – or still yet expect
myself to make a gross mistake – like a life defeating move in the game of Pick
Up Sticks. I am learning to accept that mountain and to stand on it – and to
plant my territorial flag 4 feet deep into it. Even plant daffodils and
spaghetti squash in it.
The friendships I have cultivated defy my sense of reason. I
have hired a rank stranger and known that that person would lie down in front
of a tank army for me. The same for others, who a year ago were only mere
acquaintances, if that. It is humbling. I have personally experienced a friend
who was pretty much literally willing to lay down her life for me – and did;
I have seen Christ in a human who does not frequent church. I do not know if
you have ever had anyone do that – I think it must be extremely rare in this
world – but I learned way more from experiencing receiving that than any Bible
study I ever attended. I have learned that people are indeed God’s feet and
hands.
I have learned that mothers and fathers are the best marrow
of life, and also that being a mother means being a human. I have learned this
past year to show my child my hurts and my struggles and my victories. I have
learned to cry in front of her, and that that does not make me weak or wrong or treacherous.
I have learned that love means praying you don’t hurt the
other person – it means at communion asking Jesus to remove yourself from that
person if that’s His Will, before you hurt that person. Love means putting
another person before yourself. How precious that I am allowed to pray that
prayer and feel that feeling. I am learning to love selflessly. And it’s scary
as shit.
I have learned I am strong. I have learned I have integrity.
I have learned I am a good friend. I have always known these things about
myself, and then I doubted them because others questioned them; this season of
walking through fire shows me more so than ever that I am the person I am and who God made me to be all along. I
have learned my transparency is not a weakness and my pain is not something to
be ashamed of or hidden – and nor is my victory. I have learned that He provides
– He is My Provider.
I have my voice. And my voice was created with a purpose. It
is powerful. It commands respect, like any firearm. But like a firearm, it
should not be taken from me.
I have also learned how to cook green beans and kale. With butter
and bacon, of course. And it was actually pretty damn good.
