You can imagine the stress level in our home. It was sky high. Youngest son was barely talking to me. None of it more than surface level and of that, very little. His arm was healing but I had no clue what was going on inside him. He was waiting for a call back from a counselor he had seen in the past, whom he trusts.
I finally felt secure in my relationship with dearest one. I felt like I finally was in my rightful place. Our opening up to each other; me about my hostility, and he, about his part in it, healed something on a deep level for me. So deep that when I went to share with him a few days later how I felt changed by it I couldn't speak for the tears.
Then one of my other kids said something that felt like a slam against me. It wasn't, but I was too hyper aware of my failings to discern that. And I was angry all over again. I could feel myself curling inward, into that safe ball of flesh where there is less of me to be exposed. I am nothing but a fucking failure went round and round in my mind.
That happened on Holy Thursday. A time when dearest one and I had planned on going to the service together, planned on washing each other's feet, spending some time together in Adoration. When dearest one got home from work, a difficult and stress filled day, he was exhausted. He had forgotten all about church. He chose to stay home with youngest son. I was devastated. I drove out of the yard with tears running down my face, muttering that religion was women's work. Oh, poor me.
While I was driving out the yard youngest son cynically said to dearest one, "She sure spends a lot of time at church." And dearest one told him it was not only life giving for me but had saved my life and until he had walked in my shoes to stop knocking it.
I went to Holy Thursday services feeling like there must be a disconnect between my inner and outer life. That maybe I was deceiving myself that any transformation was taking place at all. Here is a journal excerpt I wrote about that night:
"During Adoration last night I saw Mr. K. sitting in front of me and I thought about how devout he is about his faith. How rigid he is in his ideas about it. Thought about how his kids are nominal at best, absent at worst in their own faith. I sat there questioning myself. If my inner and outer lives were also that disconnected. Mr. K. likely has no idea how his devout life does not translate into every day action. I had to sit there and wonder if mine was like that. There was a time last night when I thought that perhaps no one will ever really know how deep my desire has been to be transformed. Maybe it will never translate into my daily life. And as I sat there and reflected all that came to me was that I was to trust. And when I questioned Jesus as to what that looked like it was as if he put his finger to his lips and said, "shh..shh" and closed the door. Trust meant not being concerned with what came next."