I let myself break … And it felt good. It wasn’t pretty. In fact, it was ugly. I stormed out of the house with my keys in hand, my purse and no shoes. I was suffocating and Doug was on my case.
I only got as far as the garage. I started the car, planning to back out around Doug’s car. Then I let it all go. I was safe for a second. It was quiet for a second. I cried and I screamed. I listened to the radio. I prayed.
Suddenly I felt better. I was like a tea pot letting off all the hot steam. Screaming out loud because it’s what a tea pot is supposed to do. I was screaming and crying because that’s what a grieving mom is supposed to do.
I’m not alone in this. My God is with me. Maybe closer now than he has been this last year. I often thought about how close I felt to my maker while in the hospital. I could feel his warmth. I could hear the Holy Spirit loud and clear. Then I went back to “regular” life and it was different. My faith was still strong but I didn’t see my purpose as clearly. I found it hard to find time to pray at times. In the hospital I felt held together by the Lord. His very arms holding me up. Then I was on my own. Trying to stand on my “own”. He loosened his grip ever so slightly. He knew I could stand. I just wasn’t so sure of it.
So I broken down. I did exactly what I was supposed to do. The crying and wailing and running away was healing. I walked back into the house, barefoot, and able to be mom and wife again. Broken still … But at least not bursting at the seams.