For two years, I did what I thought I was supposed to do. I posted “authentically” in various online spaces. I hosted a podcast. I wrote for other blogs. I did all of those things, and it was just … not me. Bits and pieces of it were. But the stuff that drained me was not balancing the stuff that invigorated me.
I am Democrat. You are Republican. Peace depends on me.
I am a woman, you are not; peace depends on me.
I am a Christian, you are not; peace depends on me.
In a recent Blue Bloods episode, Danny reveals a family pact the adults all made the day their children were born: We made the choice to bring you into the world. You didn't make the choice, we did. So a bargain was struck that day that you owe us nothing and we owe you everything.
He's right. We owe our children everything. …
Our Life Story is made up in fractions. However, since we forgot everything we learned in third grade math I think sometimes we get stuck and think that PART of our story is going to end up being our WHOLE story. But that's not the case. Basic math tells us that PARTS and WHOLES are very different, and that one piece does not define the whole pie.
But what I do know is this: it’s okay that her faith looks different from mine. She is she and I am me. Sounds a little Seuss-y, but it’s true. I teach her when and how to pray, but the fact of the matter is, the girl prefers the close-ended Catholic/Episcopalian dinner prayer over the open-ended Protestant one every day of the week. And I won’t correct her on her prayer because I won’t correct her on her relationship with God. It’s hers, not mine.
So, I’ve seen the “growing back lovelier than ever”, and it was nice to be reminded of it as I continue praying for miracles in the lives of those I love. It was nice to be reminded of how weak I was, and how strong I now am. I waited and hoped. I was very well cared for. I was prayed for. I tended to myself with an impressive collection of teas, soups, meds, and naps. And here I am, living a life that’s lovelier than ever.
I can feel HOPE around the corner, looking out for me. Almost like she’s guarding the space where I can’t see. She’s fending off hopelessness and despair. She’s telling fear to take a hike. She’s telling anxiety and bitterness and pessimism they’re not welcome where she is.
For two years, I did what I thought I was supposed to do. I posted “authentically” in various online spaces. I hosted a podcast. I wrote for other blogs. I did all of those things, and it was just … not me. Bits and pieces of it were. But the stuff that drained me was not balancing the stuff that invigorated me.
