Um, yes. Yup, 100% truth. I absolutely raved like a lunatic in my driveway and beat this poor unsuspecting ironing board to death with the completely indestructible aluminum bat that Charley got for her birthday a few years ago...
I think it's fair to say that I've plowed through the June "suckfest" (as Cassie seethingly refers to this month of crapaverseries,) with my feelings stuffed DEEP into any corner I could find. Determined NOT to acknowledge the date my kids ran ahead to Jesus, I booked them into camps and sent myself on a trip to visit one of my closest friends. I spent the accident date aimlessly shopping and ignoring almost every single message/phone call/email.
I tried to pretend that stupid day didn't exist or matter or affect me at all.
Guess what?
Epic. freaking. failure.
Because it did happen, it does matter and my entire life shattered on that day. My family shattered, my husband, my kids and everything that made us who we were. into teeny tiny little fragments.
So, news flash. Ignoring the stupid date doesn't work.
And because I'm just such a glutton for punishment, I decided that the week in between my crapaversary and Cassie's was a GREAT time to go into the attic of the old house and clean out a bunch of furniture. I mean, it's been FOUR years, right? We're selling the house and for the love of pete, I can't keep all that stuff, right?
Thus, Charles, Brian and I carted the following items down the stairs and to the consignment store.
The table from my school room-the one where I taught every one of my children, some to write letters, some to write papers, some to do math and all to love the Lord with all their heart, soul and strength.
The chairs that surrounded that tables until they broke. The ones my little people sat on with their knees when they were too small to sit up and reach the table. The ones my bigs occupied while they learned all the things my mama heart thought would make them love to learn and want to grow in the wisdom and admonition of the Lord.
The schoolroom storage tower. The one that had a label on every cubby, every shelf, and every bin. Their hands were all over that tower every. single. day.
There was that one summer that I may have left them alone for a bit too long- Oh, they invaded that tower and decided that covering the schoolroom floor with salt and glue was the project of the day. Needless to say, I
That tower was filled with all the little things this mama heart thought her people needed so they could create and learn and grow-and discover their different gifts, according to the grace given to each of them.
My living room wing chairs. The ones where they snuggled each other, opened numerous gifts, read stories and played games.
I held my son in one of those chairs for the last time on the last birthday he celebrated with us.
The red toile curtain from my laundry room. I adored that laundry room. With it's black and white floor, sweet yellow walls, industrial light and the labeled laundry sorter-this OCD mama was one happy laundry lady. (That's sort of true...I hated the laundry, but at least the torture chamber where I had to serve was pretty...)
That curtain was a bright spot that framed the window into the room where I washed every one of their clothes, that cast light onto the hooks where their jackets hung and their shoes rested.
Every day of their lives, they wandered in and out of that room with the red toile curtain.
And finally-the bar stools from my counter. Sweet seats where my little squad ate countless meals, dyed Easter eggs, did science projects, read God's Word, snuck M-n-M's, and just lived life.
The bar stools.
Where they sat.
For. The. Last. Time.
And when we were all done sorting and carting and sweating, I caught a glimpse of the bins where I stored their baby bedding and keepsake blankets.
Wet.
Moldy.
And since I was in full on plow ahead mode, I just asked Charles and Brian to take the ones that were wet and moldy and said it was time to go.
I pretended I wasn't going to fall apart when I opened those bins.
We dropped off all the precious things that I convinced myself were just things and I headed home.
With bins full of moldy baby keepsakes in the now too quiet van that I used to drive the many minis in.
It took me 4 days to finally open the bins.
To find all the things covered in black, disgusting, flaky mold. It was like the devil himself shit all over the most precious keepsakes for each one of my children.
So I had a completely nuclear meltdown, the likes of which I haven't had in a very long time. Then I went to Walmart and bought so much stain remover and vinegar I probably looked like a lunatic. And then I came home and got even madder.
So I took the stupid ironing board into the driveway and beat it to death.
I figured it was better than beating to death actual people. or breaking things that required clean up.
Truthfully, I wanted to take a bazooka and blow out every window in my house.
Anger level-NUCLEAR.
I might still be in the nuclear zone, but at least the desire to blow shit up is tamped down for a while.
So yesterday, my precious friend Kellie did what she always does. She came alongside me and scrubbed, soaked and gently helped me salvage at least a little bit of the past. Enough to maybe make a patchwork quilt of all the broken pieces.
Kind of like my heart....
...little broken pieces everywhere, gently and carefully being stitched back together by a God who never leaves, never forsakes and never gives up.
I will bless the Lord,
Who has given me counsel;
Yes, my heart instructs me in the night seasons.
I have set the Lord continually before me;
because He is at my right hand,
I shall not be moved.
Psalm 16:7-8
Stitch me, weave me, Sweet Jesus.
Bless you, Lord, for those you lead into my life.
Gird me and guide me,
Hold me close and keep me aright.
And-
bind my wandering heart to thee...
all my love,
clan mac mama
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