Let every heartbreak and every scar
Be a picture to remind you, who has carried you this far
'Cause love sees farther than you ever could
This moment He is working everything out for your good
~ Danny Gokey from Tell Your Heart to Beat Again
The human psyche is a funny, fractured thing. This morning, I couldn't remember where I put my car keys when I was holding them in my hand . . . but I can remember with scary accuracy the exact place I left my red hippity hop ball in the park in 1971 (I was four) and that it was gone when when I came back to get it. A boulder could come crashing through my living room window, shattering it into a thousand pieces and changing the course of my day without shaking my confidence . . . but an ill-timed, but well meaning comment can reduce me to a weepy, frumpy mess for three days.
Actually, a boulder did come crashing through my double paned, plate glass window a week ago last Saturday. And my feelings were hurt in a strangely inordinate way, right around that same time . . . strange because I'm generally pretty emotionally resilient. But still, I walked around in a fog for days, tears coming unbidden and wrestling with the images . . . and the angst . . . of the boulder and the words and the shattered window . . . the red brick of shadowy apartment building, a paint can, a big red ball . . . a haunting, aching disapproval.
And when the convoluted images came together, falling into place like pieces of a dusty puzzle, they began to make more sense. And so did the words.
That Saturday morning was normal . . . for about 30 seconds . . . isn't that how a life begins?;)
I woke up late around 8:00am, turned off my sound machine, and wandered in that Saturday morning languorous way down the hall with my sweet Boxer dogs nipping playfully at my heels. I removed the safety gate that keeps them in the back of the house at night, let them outside, poured food in their bowls, and moved towards the coffee pot in the kitchen. And that's when something felt wrong out of the corner of my eye. I was drawn through the doorway of the kitchen into the living room where a boulder had been thrown through the window with such force that it pushed the heavy window blind up over the back of a LazyBoy arm chair. The rock lay cradled within the blind, resting on the back of the chair. A serene morning breeze ruffled the surrounding curtains and a thousand shards of glass reflected sunlight on the floor and over the chair. Spidery lines surrounded a gaping, threatening hole in my window.
I stood immobile for thirty seconds, maybe a minute, in a quiet bubble of hows and whys . . . so quiet I could hear myself breathing and feel my own heartbeat. I wondered what I had done. And then I called the police.
A single officer arrived while I was still making coffee, hustling the dogs outside for breakfast so they wouldn't cut their feet. He said we were among a dozen random acts of vandalism from the evening before, most likely kids. He was friendly . . . empathetic, took his report, and left me to my coffee and clean up. My husband began the work of replacing the window and I moved on to other random and routine Saturday tasks.
I worked out on my elliptical. I caught up with my daughters through texts, We talked about the window, our recent family vacation, and the effect of some callous words I had imparted breezily at some point in the trip. Typically, I had moved on and was clueless their lasting effects. In genuine grace, one of my beautiful daughters offered that as a parent I "did well for what I was given" in reference to my own dysfunctional childhood. I felt the weight of the words . . . the sting of not good enough . . . I had wanted to do better. I tried to shake off the fog. I kept a hair appointment, stopped by the grocery store for a few items and spent a hundred dollars, asked people to repeat questions, forgot to get cash for a tip.
That night . . . the clock read 2:38am . . . I woke from a familiar dream, one that I hadn't had in a while. I'm in a childhood home, feeling along the surface of a wall, looking for a crack, a crevice, a nook or cranny that I can fit myself into. I'm trying to hide, to disappear into the wall.
I wake from the dream and am suddenly so close to a memory I had forgotten that I could reach out and touch it. With perfect clarity I see myself as a toddler in pajamas. I'm waking, wandering down the morning misted hallway, looking for my mother. Just as I turn the corner into the living room, there is a thundering, shattering crash as a paint can comes bursting through the window, glass flying, mother screaming hysterically at a man, familiar looking, looming above the shattered window walking away. "Why?!" she is screaming, WHY?! would you do that?! I have children!" And he's not backing down. "You tell him," he says angrily, "You TELL him . . . " And I don't remember what she is supposed to tell him, who isn't there, but suddenly she sees me, as if I've just arrived and hadn't seen the whole thing, and she's screaming at me to get out get out get out because I'm about to step into the glass.
My husband stirs and I tap him, asking if he's awake. He is now. And I ask him, "Did I ever tell you about somebody throwing a paint can through my living room window when I was a kid?" I ask. "No," he says, sounding groggy, but pretty emphatic. I marvel because it wasn't a dream, and that in thirty years I never remembered it to tell him.
It's Wednesday morning and the fog hasn't lifted yet. I feel a strange disconnect as I'm working in a classroom. I'm dabbing at my eyes with Kleenex, feigning a cold and fighting a sudden onslaught of weepiness. With a few keening wail exceptions for the really big stuff, this is how I've suffered all my life -- with a slow leak. But I can rarely articulate why.
It's noon and I'm done working for the day. I leave the school, and as I'm walking to my car, my gaze is drawn to an apartment complex across the road and I think I used to live there. I've worked at this school for five months and I'm just now recognizing this?
This week just keeps getting stranger and stranger.
The pull of my hunch is so strong that I drive across the street and drive through the aging, apartment complex confirming landmarks as the memories begin to cement. There are the sunken, ground floor balconies with the metal bars that my cousin got his head caught in. My uncle, his father, had looked at me hard, accusing, I thought, as he tried to extract him. I was four. There is the stretch of sidewalk in front of a row of units where my brother and I used to ride our Big Wheels. I can still see the comical look of surprise on his face as during a race with me, his "big wheel" had come flying off and he went skidding down the sidewalk without it. It's the first time I can remember laughing so hard my belly hurt. There is the park just behind the row of carports parallel to the row of apartment units. There is a break in the carport structure that allows access to the park, and I can picture my father coming through the break holding a red and a blue hippity hop ball, one in each hand, for my brother and me. I can still feel the excitement at such a rare gift from him and the disappointment when we had to go home for lunch. I had been uncertain . . . do I just leave the ball until we come back after lunch? I had asked. "Uh-huh," my mother had murmured, distracted, talking with him. And it was gone when we returned, replaced by devastation overshadowed by my mother's anger at me and his disappointment.
There is no playground equipment at that "park" anymore. Just a barren, pocked field with a faded sign by the road that reads Kennedy Park, entrance prohibited at night. And as I'm driving away from the familiar red brick I think, we had to move . . . this is where we had to move because of the paint can and the shattered window and the angry man and something my father did . . .
And I know that it's all true. The rock through my window that left a gaping hole opened a door in my brain and I wonder how many more doors will open to bridge the gap between yesterday and today. I wonder when I won't have to worry about an onslaught of weepiness that takes me by surprise on a random Saturday in March or a Wednesday afternoon working in a classroom full of children. I wonder when the emotional energy that holds back my past will wash over the wall and take off the edge of today so that I can direct that energy to the people who deserve it most. I have a resilience - a hard edge resilience - that serves me well . . . effective in warding off images and residual pain from a former life . . . but that may not be equally healthy for my current relationships . . . it drives me fast forward and keeps me from living in the moment . . . always just a misstep away from the next tragedy . . . the next catastrophe . . . determined to outsmart, outwit . . . out FEEL.
And I remember my daughter's words -- all of them -- telling me that I'm "worth pursuing healing" encouraging me to seek avenues that will expedite those open doors. That seems ever so much scarier than any rock that has ever been thrown at me . . . but then, these people that love me today are so worth it.
I wanted to do better? I still can. Maybe that rock carried a message for me.
I woke up late around 8:00am, turned off my sound machine, and wandered in that Saturday morning languorous way down the hall with my sweet Boxer dogs nipping playfully at my heels. I removed the safety gate that keeps them in the back of the house at night, let them outside, poured food in their bowls, and moved towards the coffee pot in the kitchen. And that's when something felt wrong out of the corner of my eye. I was drawn through the doorway of the kitchen into the living room where a boulder had been thrown through the window with such force that it pushed the heavy window blind up over the back of a LazyBoy arm chair. The rock lay cradled within the blind, resting on the back of the chair. A serene morning breeze ruffled the surrounding curtains and a thousand shards of glass reflected sunlight on the floor and over the chair. Spidery lines surrounded a gaping, threatening hole in my window.
I stood immobile for thirty seconds, maybe a minute, in a quiet bubble of hows and whys . . . so quiet I could hear myself breathing and feel my own heartbeat. I wondered what I had done. And then I called the police.
A single officer arrived while I was still making coffee, hustling the dogs outside for breakfast so they wouldn't cut their feet. He said we were among a dozen random acts of vandalism from the evening before, most likely kids. He was friendly . . . empathetic, took his report, and left me to my coffee and clean up. My husband began the work of replacing the window and I moved on to other random and routine Saturday tasks.
I worked out on my elliptical. I caught up with my daughters through texts, We talked about the window, our recent family vacation, and the effect of some callous words I had imparted breezily at some point in the trip. Typically, I had moved on and was clueless their lasting effects. In genuine grace, one of my beautiful daughters offered that as a parent I "did well for what I was given" in reference to my own dysfunctional childhood. I felt the weight of the words . . . the sting of not good enough . . . I had wanted to do better. I tried to shake off the fog. I kept a hair appointment, stopped by the grocery store for a few items and spent a hundred dollars, asked people to repeat questions, forgot to get cash for a tip.
That night . . . the clock read 2:38am . . . I woke from a familiar dream, one that I hadn't had in a while. I'm in a childhood home, feeling along the surface of a wall, looking for a crack, a crevice, a nook or cranny that I can fit myself into. I'm trying to hide, to disappear into the wall.
I wake from the dream and am suddenly so close to a memory I had forgotten that I could reach out and touch it. With perfect clarity I see myself as a toddler in pajamas. I'm waking, wandering down the morning misted hallway, looking for my mother. Just as I turn the corner into the living room, there is a thundering, shattering crash as a paint can comes bursting through the window, glass flying, mother screaming hysterically at a man, familiar looking, looming above the shattered window walking away. "Why?!" she is screaming, WHY?! would you do that?! I have children!" And he's not backing down. "You tell him," he says angrily, "You TELL him . . . " And I don't remember what she is supposed to tell him, who isn't there, but suddenly she sees me, as if I've just arrived and hadn't seen the whole thing, and she's screaming at me to get out get out get out because I'm about to step into the glass.
My husband stirs and I tap him, asking if he's awake. He is now. And I ask him, "Did I ever tell you about somebody throwing a paint can through my living room window when I was a kid?" I ask. "No," he says, sounding groggy, but pretty emphatic. I marvel because it wasn't a dream, and that in thirty years I never remembered it to tell him.
It's Wednesday morning and the fog hasn't lifted yet. I feel a strange disconnect as I'm working in a classroom. I'm dabbing at my eyes with Kleenex, feigning a cold and fighting a sudden onslaught of weepiness. With a few keening wail exceptions for the really big stuff, this is how I've suffered all my life -- with a slow leak. But I can rarely articulate why.
It's noon and I'm done working for the day. I leave the school, and as I'm walking to my car, my gaze is drawn to an apartment complex across the road and I think I used to live there. I've worked at this school for five months and I'm just now recognizing this?
This week just keeps getting stranger and stranger.
The pull of my hunch is so strong that I drive across the street and drive through the aging, apartment complex confirming landmarks as the memories begin to cement. There are the sunken, ground floor balconies with the metal bars that my cousin got his head caught in. My uncle, his father, had looked at me hard, accusing, I thought, as he tried to extract him. I was four. There is the stretch of sidewalk in front of a row of units where my brother and I used to ride our Big Wheels. I can still see the comical look of surprise on his face as during a race with me, his "big wheel" had come flying off and he went skidding down the sidewalk without it. It's the first time I can remember laughing so hard my belly hurt. There is the park just behind the row of carports parallel to the row of apartment units. There is a break in the carport structure that allows access to the park, and I can picture my father coming through the break holding a red and a blue hippity hop ball, one in each hand, for my brother and me. I can still feel the excitement at such a rare gift from him and the disappointment when we had to go home for lunch. I had been uncertain . . . do I just leave the ball until we come back after lunch? I had asked. "Uh-huh," my mother had murmured, distracted, talking with him. And it was gone when we returned, replaced by devastation overshadowed by my mother's anger at me and his disappointment.
There is no playground equipment at that "park" anymore. Just a barren, pocked field with a faded sign by the road that reads Kennedy Park, entrance prohibited at night. And as I'm driving away from the familiar red brick I think, we had to move . . . this is where we had to move because of the paint can and the shattered window and the angry man and something my father did . . .
And I know that it's all true. The rock through my window that left a gaping hole opened a door in my brain and I wonder how many more doors will open to bridge the gap between yesterday and today. I wonder when I won't have to worry about an onslaught of weepiness that takes me by surprise on a random Saturday in March or a Wednesday afternoon working in a classroom full of children. I wonder when the emotional energy that holds back my past will wash over the wall and take off the edge of today so that I can direct that energy to the people who deserve it most. I have a resilience - a hard edge resilience - that serves me well . . . effective in warding off images and residual pain from a former life . . . but that may not be equally healthy for my current relationships . . . it drives me fast forward and keeps me from living in the moment . . . always just a misstep away from the next tragedy . . . the next catastrophe . . . determined to outsmart, outwit . . . out FEEL.
And I remember my daughter's words -- all of them -- telling me that I'm "worth pursuing healing" encouraging me to seek avenues that will expedite those open doors. That seems ever so much scarier than any rock that has ever been thrown at me . . . but then, these people that love me today are so worth it.
I wanted to do better? I still can. Maybe that rock carried a message for me.
Broken like you've never been before
The life you knew in a thousand pieces on the floor
Words fall short in times like these
When this world drives you to your knees
You think you're never going to get back to the you you used to be.
Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away, step into the light of grace
Yesterdays a closing door you don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
Tell your heart to beat again
Beginning - just let that word wash over you
It's alright now, love's healing hands will pull you through
So take one step, look back up
close your eyes and feel the sun
Because your story's far from over and your journey's just begun
Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away, step into the light of grace
Yesterdays a closing door you don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
Tell your heart to beat again
Let every heartbreak and every scar
Be a picture to remind you, who has carried you this far
'Cause love sees farther than you ever could
This moment He is working everything out for your good
Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away, step into the light of grace
Yesterdays a closing door you don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
Tell your heart to beat again
Your heart to beat again
The life you knew in a thousand pieces on the floor
Words fall short in times like these
When this world drives you to your knees
You think you're never going to get back to the you you used to be.
Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away, step into the light of grace
Yesterdays a closing door you don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
Tell your heart to beat again
Beginning - just let that word wash over you
It's alright now, love's healing hands will pull you through
So take one step, look back up
close your eyes and feel the sun
Because your story's far from over and your journey's just begun
Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away, step into the light of grace
Yesterdays a closing door you don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
Tell your heart to beat again
Let every heartbreak and every scar
Be a picture to remind you, who has carried you this far
'Cause love sees farther than you ever could
This moment He is working everything out for your good
Tell your heart to beat again
Close your eyes and breathe it in
Let the shadows fall away, step into the light of grace
Yesterdays a closing door you don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
Tell your heart to beat again
Your heart to beat again
