I See The Good In You

God gave us power in the words we speak. Purify the heart to tame the tongue.

There were times my mother’s words broke my heart.

Her tongue was her greatest weapon. Rarely used to heal and quick to lash. Growing up, I felt I needed to hide myself from her. I felt that if I truly showed her all of my parts, that I would be dismembered. (Rejection can be so nuanced.)

And because of that stark and final conclusion, I developed the perception that I was unworthy of her love.

I hated the way she spoke to me. I hated her anger and her pain. I hated the way it lived in her. I hated the way it moved like a storm in her life.

I was a child.

And as I sit here, and as I grieve for a family I so deeply wanted that will never be, while holding a 7-week-old little baby, as I’m hungry, exhausted, mentally and emotionally depleted, hurting, in PAIN - my tongue becomes my greatest weapon, quick to lash.

My target becomes my child.

My rambunctious, innocent, moody, curious 7-year-old, River.

Sometimes, I speak to him as if his very existence is dreadful. Constantly irritated, snappy, unsatisfied. And I watch how my words move him.

I see how my words cause him pain. The tears welling up in his eyes, as he says, “Ok.”

As I look at River, I am looking into my own child-eyes. And I feel angry. I feel frustrated. I feel confused and tormented and lost and empty and swirling.

The things I’m battling, he can’t understand. All he understands is that, “Mommy can be really mean to me, and what does that say about me?”

He can’t protect himself from me and he shouldn’t have to.

As I sit on his bed at 1 AM, reflecting on the day, I look at his precious face, his mouth curled downwards like he might cry in his sleep. I hold him close to me and I press my face against his. His cheeks no longer squishy and round, his hands no longer small. Where did all of this time go? He’s becoming a man. He’s defining who he will be for the rest of his life. I’m defining who he will be for the rest of his life.

“God please give me patience. God please empty my heart. In the midst of my trials, please help me to be kind. Because I have been mean. I know I have. Please help me to be kind to him. Kind to myself. I have to do better. I have to speak to him with love. I have to. I can’t keep this pattern of, “my life is hard right now, so you have to suffer the consequences by my words.” He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve to feel unloved, unwanted or burdensome. He deserves deep deep love and respect and a happy mother.”

And it is so hard to give myself grace because of the guilt and shame that I feel inside. It weighs on my heart, pressing down on my chest and I feel like I’ve failed. Again.

Nobody ever talks about navigating years of grief with young children. In isolation. Nobody ever talks about how life will gut you with smiling babies in your arms. It is so hard to mentally overcome that. How can you be present for them when you’re filled with turmoil? With rage? With indifference? When you’re completely numb.

All I’ve ever wanted was to be a better than my mother. But as I grow, and I experience life, and heartache and endings, and deep pain, I see her. More and more clearly. I love her. More and more fiercely. I honor her.

I look in the mirror and I see her. I see parts of her that made my heart break. But the compassion, forgiveness and grace I give her for who she was then, extends to my fragile heart now. And I thank her for being such a relentlessly beautiful mirror.

My broken parts deserve love. My babies deserve to feel deserving of love - worthy of all the good things.

So as I pray, I pray for my heart.

I pray for River’s heart.

I ask that God use my tongue to heal and to build, rather than destroy. I ask that God be with me, in my day-to-day grief, that he watch over me and remind my spirit to love, love, love.