I’d just fallen asleep the other night when a little voice whispered, “Auntie Rachael, Auntie Rachael, are you still awake?”
It took me a moment, but I flutter-kicked my way back to the surface of consciousness, remembering that I was nestled into the soft mattress of my brother’s guest room and that just across the loft two little boys (my nephews) lay sleeping – or at least supposed to be sleeping. I rolled over as I sat up, and there stood Auz at the side of the bed. He’s 11 but appears more to be a smallish 9. I’m really, really praying that at some point he’ll hit that same growth spurt that transformed his father, my brother, into the imposing man that he is. On the plus side, Auz’s mom is quite tall; so, it could happen. Unfortunately, however, our genetic family tree stubbornly refuses to shed those leaves that left me just a smidge under 5’0” and my sister at 5’2” (when she’s wearing heels), and believe me, that chickie is always in heels. And I’ll just go ahead and admit that I love the heels, too, especially ones with a hint of sparkle.
Back to Auz – his little earnest face peered down at me, and he whispered, “Auntie Rachael, I forgot to tell you something.”
“What, Honey? What did you forget to tell me?” My sleep-fogged brain could barely string the words together.
“I forgot to say I love you.” That sentence immediately cleared the fog, and I reached out to hug him then sent him back across the loft to his own bedroom.
I laid awake for a while staring at the ceiling and pondering the workings of the adolescent mind that drove Auz out of bed and across the loft to tell me he loved me. I wondered how much easier my life would’ve been had I made the trek across my own “lofts” in the middle of the night (or whenever) to whisper those words or any others that demanded to be said rather than remaining safely tucked into my own, hospital-cornered bed, sheets pulled tightly to my chin, hiding from the fears (read that as “pride”) that blocked my way.
And as long conversations with myself are wont to do, this one twisted in on itself, and became a semi-coherent pretzel about fear in and of itself and its consequences – consequences that cracked into the bedrock of both my own life and those of the people I have cared about on that huge spectrum of care to love. Speculations, pointless of course, of actions I’d have scripted differently, lines I wish I could rewrite. But we never get those options. Instead, we are left with the reverberations of our regrets which we must decide –yes, we get to choose –whether to let go of or white-knuckle them to our chests.
You probably know this about me, but I tend to be a white-knuckler. Then, when I can manage to be kind to myself, I remember, that where there is grace, there is no room for regret. If I have been forgiven by the Father, then it becomes sheer hubris to hang on to what has been cast as far as the East is from the West. And yet, I struggle with this not occasionally but daily. It’s pride manifest in the extreme. I, plain, little, old me, know better than God, what is appropriate to forgive and release and what must be clung to and replayed – torture in extreme measure – for years upon years. (I hope you’re reading the sarcasm in that last sentence.) And, yet, it’s what I do. Don’t ask me why, because I absolutely do not know the answer.
One thing about which I am sure: I grew up believing the world was at my feet, mine to grab and spin in the palm of my hand. (The word “princess” might be appropriate here.) I was told that I could do and be anything I wanted, and to some degree I believed it. High school wasn’t so great, but, then, whose time there really is?
Conversely, college was fabulous. That’s where I hit my stride; everything came easy: classes and grades, leadership positions, honors. Not to mention , I got THE guy. And then came the crash of afterward: infertility, TBI, divorce, etc. My world was thrown off its orbit, and I forgot who I was, who I could be, who I was intended to be. Truth be told, I’m still not sure that I know all or any of that yet. But I’m getting there, one difficult step at a time – sometimes forward, sometimes sliding back. And when I look down at my feet as I move up mountains or down into valleys or desert washes, I have to laugh, because finding yourself again, trusting yourself again, apparently requires that you kick off those sparkly, gorgeous princess-y heels and shove your feet into the closest pair of combat boots.
Yes, sometimes the princess has to wear combat boots, because nothing that is worth anything comes (and stays) easily. In fact, we are promised that this life will be hard. I believe it; I know it because I’ve lived it (Very unprincess-y, if I must say so myself.). But I also know that the pain the difficulties and traumas are worth it because sometimes at 2:00 in the morning a little voice whispers you awake to remind you that you are loved. (And under your bed you have a sturdy pair of combat boots at the ready. You can even Bedazzle them if you want to.)
The Unexpected Life 