Valentine's Day

A Valentines day full of love.  

It fell on Family Dinner night.  

And all of my “Valentine’s” were present.  

Some days I have to pinch myself to see if it’s real.  

That ALL of my immediate family is present and accounted for. 

We celebrated as we had for many years  

Before  

Before the season of the Prodigal  

Chicken Parmesan and pasta (Red of course)...

a fully set table decked in red and pink...

beautiful flowers from my husband...

 scattered candies...

and lots and lots of love.  

It was the BEST Valentine’s day I can remember.  

My family was all here.

The normal craziness ensued.  

With a two year old…

newly potty-trained…

it can’t help be full of noise and laughter.

  

Funny…

I think we all look at her...

and to her...

as the comic relief and burden relief 

in our family saga.  

Our evening ended with our daughter and son-in-law returning home and our son helping with dishes.  

He even stayed for the first half of the Laker game.  

He is a joy.  

When he is sober. 

I move forward in cautious optimism.  

With cautious hope.  

For my peace of mind…

for my serenity…

I have no other choice.

I thank God for the here and now.  

For today.  

It was good.

A day last week....

I don’t normally write at mid-day.  

My brain has already raced ahead and is fully engaged in my “to-do” list.  

It’s my responsibility gene hard at work.  

Trying its darndest to propel me into the realm of busyness and striving.  

Of catching up from these past few years of constant crisis.  

Starting something only to be caught mid-stream and brought down by the latest Prodigal pandemonium. 

I love to write in the early morning.  

Before the household is up…

before the onslaught of texts and phone calls... 

and the remembering of what needs to be accomplished before days end.  

It’s then that my thoughts seem clear…

my soul empty to the Spirit’s nudging and pouring in. 

But today, I have only the now.  

The noon-time hour to gather my thoughts and pen my reflections.

I had lunch with my Prodigal yesterday.  

A pre-set appointment we made at last week’s family dinner.

His request for a new pair of Top-sider’s was met with my reply of, 

“sure…when do you want to go shopping.”  

And concluded with a relished 90 minutes with my son.

Let me back up lest there be a misunderstanding.  

We are in the process of baby-steps with our Prodigal.  

We have not offered nor given any financial support since he moved out last August.  

The holidays were kept to a conservative level and my desire to allow him the dignity to grow up…

and grow through this season…

without parental meddling or aide is at the top of my priority list. 

There have been a number of bills and monthly responsibilities that have mounted an assault on his measly means.  

The accident last October added insult to injury and has put him in the poor house with creditors knocking on his door.

  He has held down a job for 90 days…

and has made it past the trial period.  

But…

he is broke.  

So…I made an executive decision to say “yes” to new shoes…

especially if it bought me 90 minutes of connecting. 

It was not an “easy” 90 minutes.  

Reconnecting with my Prodigal is really like starting anew.  

I’m looking at him….

observing him…

with fresh eyes.  

Careful not to disturb the infant ground in which we tread.

  Trying to get to know him as if we never knew one another well before.  

Which clearly is the case. 

I watched him try on shoes…

his temperament leaning toward perfectionistic.  

Matching up different pairs with a keen eye for detail.

  Somewhat compulsive at times but knowing exactly what he’s looking for.  

Keeping his thoughts to himself as he deliberates through the process.  

I watch silently and do as I’m asked…

to find another pair…

same color…

different size.  

Again.  And again.

We find two pairs that he’s happy with.  

Asks if it’s too much to get both.  

I confirm that it’s fine…happy to do it.  

We check out and go to lunch.  

His lunch hour from work is nearly over but he assures me he’ll stay late and make it up.  

Grateful for a few minutes more of face to face time we go to a little Mexican restaurant a few doors down and converse in small talk.  

Very small.  

Both of us looking for common, untarnished ground.  

We make it through…

both feeling success...

at this new beginning.

I wonder at how many new beginnings we've had.

How many more there will be.

But for today..

It is...

a new beginning

I wonder at the difference in children I’ve bore.  

My daughter so full of laughter and ease...

and my son…

my Prodigal…

so closed and internal.  

Slowly emerging from his shell.  

I think.  

This shell that has held him captive these last 5 years.  

Or maybe many more.  

Baby steps…baby steps

  

A New Year

Nearly three months have passed since my last post.  Two major holidays, a trip south of the border, an accident that put me out of commission for a few weeks, a sad family event in January and here we are into February.  

A new year.  

A New Year.  

New questions.  

New possibilities.

Amazingly…life with my Prodigal has been good.  

Yes, good.  

I am praising God for this reprieve.  

A time-out from the drama and chaos.  

A time of rest for my weary soul.  

It was on the advice of a mentor that I took this time-out.  

To sleep, to rest, to be  

I don’t do that well.  

It’s just not in my DNA.  

So I had to learn.  

A new skill.  

One that I’ve attempted to practice nearly every day since I last wrote.  

Some days it’s worked.  

Others…not so much.  

But I listened to her words…

"be gentle with yourself" 

“cease striving”  

“You are burned out and broken”  

“You need down time…from routine and responsibility.”  

So I adapted as best I could and listened.

I’ve missed the writing.  

But it was right to take a break.  

To step back and evaluate.  

Were my words

reaching out? 

or 

reaching in?  

Both? 

I guess that’s the beauty of a blog.

  

I can write and help heal my hurts as I journal through my circumstances.  

You can read and feel community in your pain.  

Or the words that I write can float aimlessly in the blogosphere and land where they need to at some future place in time.   

Does it matter? 

My goal is still the same as when I first started writing.  

To first and foremost tap into my feelings and emotions as they pertain to this journey with my Prodigal. 

Secondly…to connect with others facing similar adversity and to bring connectedness and hope.  

Like a passenger on an airplane, I’ve learned that I have to put the oxygen mask over my own face before I can help another.

One of the things that weighed heavily on me during this time of reflection was the negativity of the blog.  The Blog’s perpetual sadness lingering like a storm cloud always on the verge of burst.  

My daughter had conveyed last Fall how terribly sad it was and how she couldn’t read it anymore.  When she read it she felt as if she was reliving her own horror story.  

And she was.  

In my self-centeredness, I lumped that comment along with other remarks and concluded that because my blog was not “happy” and “optimistic” I was somehow denying my faith walk with God and hurting those I love.  And maybe others.  And in my jumbled brain I concocted this view that my words were

at the least…not worthy 

and 

at worst…detrimental.

I talked with my daughter yesterday.  She was sad that I had misinterpreted her words.  I’ve talked with myself endlessly over my focus and desire to help others.  So, for now, I will write again.  If for no other reason then to bring the baby-steps of joy that deserve to be said and heard into a journey that has been full of calamity and pain.

My hope is that my words of sadness will give way to gladness.  That the thawing of Winter will give way to Spring.  That my posts will mature and grow full of the “old me”…optimistic and fun-loving.  

But I won’t know until the next chapter is written.  

I am only a co-author in my story to be told.