We sat in our bi monthly counseling session last night as my seven year old scribbled out a nightmare with blue and red crayolas, that had awakened her repetively from her sleep and triggered inexplicable crying.  “ I don’t want to talk about it, she explained, again.”  She eventually agreed, at our nagging requests, to draw out her nightmare on a white board “ So it doesn’t stay trapped inside,” the counselor promised.  In sum, her picture told the story of the fear of losing all that her tiny hands have attempted to hold onto…

 

My five year old then took her turn to share, that she no longer carries her blankie around, which she always needed and clung to for comfort.  “ I don’t even remember it,” she glowed as she told us.  “People used to call me a baby.  But I am not a baby anymore, or a half –child, either.”  We all laughed out loud. 

 

I stood in the doorway tonight talking to my ex husband about our upcoming move, my tentative plans.  I fought back tears, as I tried to explain the fuzzy details.  “ I cry a lot these days,” I said to him.  “ Trying to figure it all out, you know” “ I just don’t know what to do…” 

 

The battle has ended now, and on the field is strewn remnants of tattered things that tell the stories of “once beautiful”…

 

And as the inferno swells to engulf all that was left standing, if only on feeble limbs…I exhale once again.

 

 My heart adopts again the position of silence.   As I am listening… desperately, resolute to move only at the sound of His voice, His guiding; as I have no wisdom, or truth on my own…

 

The beautiful things that once covered, if only in slight, my defects …have all; finally been stripped away.   I am now entirely unclothed, exposed for what I am…imperfect.

 

Slowly, like my little one’s…I am learning to let go; no longer clinging like a half-child for something to cover me. Truba.  Lord… here am I.