"Forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forth to those things which are before,
I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus."
I don't really want a prize, only friends and loving.
Still, the past continues to shape today. That is
a writer's hope. That the thing lingering
will be a story or a help, not
simply a character-
altering
moment, alive
as us continuing while
occurring in the moment passed.
The moment I refer to is a day when Jay and I are outside on a Saturday for a yard sale. In that moment, remaining was the difficult work, appearing something better than what was, and appearing much less than that, too. While out, a single mom and her two sons came to purchase a toy that belonged to my daughter. My daughter was selling it. The mother could not afford my daughter's price. It was not my item to dicker with, and I felt manipulated with pity for this single mother, desiring joy and a new toy for her sons. I wanted to give it to her, but it was not mine to give. In that moment, I hardened my heart, realizing that what I was doing, remaining in my home and marriage was every bit as hard as what she was doing. I did, finally, let her have the toy for less than my daughter wanted for it, and gave my daughter the full price. But I cannot think or accept for long that broken homes are "more vulnerable or more valuable" than homes that are fractured yet remain intact.
If I could, we would heal immediately. If I could have had enough moral support earlier, I would have begun again earlier, like the brave, single mom who came to buy a toy for her sons.
I cannot change that day. What I do this moment is share with readers, making witnesses to this event, and I trust God to heal it and bless it. I trust that women are precious to Him, to God; trust that He is not cold to frailty, whatever actions taken to rebuild within or remove to build something whole.
The most difficult thing for me remembering that day is that I failed to encourage and love my fellow woman, fellow mother, openly. I felt as broken, and discouraged from ever healing, as she who stopped by with her two small boys. I felt completely locked. And I did not realize until a little later that day that I had tightened my lock in not opening quickly with love to share with her and her sons. I was being a mother, too, protecting the request of my daughter.
I hope that mother I met that Saturday, who has not come by again, and who may remember me as stingy and cold-hearted, will forgive me. I hope she can be warm as the Saturday she stopped by. I extend myself to her and her family here, and I hope her sons and she are established and doing well. I pray that she will be able to extend compassion to me for that day, seemingly well in my life, but broken like her. I hope she forgives me for being slow to love.
No matter how many words I write, unless action follows to integrity and Christ-giving love, my lock will continue to be too tight to open easily.