Back track to Christie A.’s couch. Okay, back track to my whole world changing before my eyes. Okay, okay, back track to the me where I spent almost every breathing moment with my little buddy QK. Okay, back, back track even further to the day I dreamt about myself. That dream was about a picture of a home and a place and a family. It looked like a Victorian cottage in a place like Delray Beach or Coconut Grove. With billowing cotton drapes. Three or Four Kids. Daily outings to the library, grandma’s and children’s theatre. And Me. It wasn’t really a materialistic dream. Just a dream about values and what was perfect to me.
Now you can fast forward to Christie A.’s couch. Splatter of tears. Broken heart for what was supposed to be. I asked her a question. I think it sort of sounded like . . . Is there something wrong with me? Did God make me this way? I really can’t remember the specifics. Christie A. splattered back something about lack of confidence. (This was probably the day Christie A. started torturing me with Joyce Meyers). The splatter back including the word confidence stayed with me for a really long time. Confidence? Did I lack that? Feels sort of insulting. But, God, confidence? Is Christie A right?
My dream was very true early on – – at least for the most important parts. I spent the first three years of my little buddy QK’s life going on outings to the library, grandma’s and children’s theatre. I then had a simply amazing pregnancy with my baby girl. Brought that little sucker into the world with one push. And then . . .
The real estate market crash of ’06. Going back to work. Putting my darlins into pre-school. Very little money . . . which at the heart of the loss was the least of my problems. It was my dream – – to be with my babies for as long as long could be. Asking God not to take it away. In the way that you ask for things almost as essential as life and death. And then watching the dream swirl down the sink drain.
I think I have brought us to Christie A’s couch. Asking a question about myself. To her, to me, to God. Being me felt painful, burdensome on my heart. I really mean that. I am not talking about my pain or the change. Because that is just what it was. Pain and change. I am talking about my seriousness of thought, in my somber, self-reflective way. Being me felt painful and burdensome.
God planned that. And planned for that. It is my heart’s heavy burden to live out my values under uncooperative circumstances. To love my family with a passion for God, with creativity. While bearing heavy financial responsibility, while working very hard. While passing on the knowledge, to my babies, that I would give up or trade anything for their well-being. While bearing heavy financial responsibility, while working very hard. Passing on the understanding that their God has given up His life for them and would trade anything for them anytime.
My burden. I could not have known how far I would go to live for Him if He did not make that option – – living for Him – – the harder, more difficult choice. Being me sometimes feels heavy. Again, not in the way of circumstances, in the way of His design.
In the quietness of a moment with Him. Remembering my question. Is there something wrong with me? Did God make me this way? He said, Yes, I made you this way. I made you in such a way that even your good fruit would feel heavy to you. Not in the way of back-breaking. Not in the way of harm. Heavy in the way of bearing good burden.
In the complex way of God, that juxtaposes heavy and light, first and last, life and death. He cracks away at my ultimate freedom. He whispers in quiet moments when I am alone with Him. He whispers words that make no sense outside of the freedom He has constructed for anyone who desires to follow after Him.
By the way, Happy Birthday, QK. The sweetest gift God has ever made to a mother such as me. Love, Mommy