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Friday, April 10, 2015

Finding Hope Among Flying Eggs




Eggs flew across the kitchen this morning. “Thank God they are hard boiled,” I thought as I saw pink and orange striped creations, leftover from a difficult Easter day, flying over countertops, across the wood floor. Little pieces of shells skittered their way into cracks preparing to rot and stink under my toes for a few months. Each egg landed with a more disgusting sound than the last. Crunch, crunch, the peace of the morning splattered everywhere.

“That must feel so good,” I thought as I watched my 9-year-old’s furious blue eyes aim the last Kelly green and violet oval toward the fridge. I imagined myself joining him, furiously chucking a hot pink one at the window, a sunshine yellow one at the ceiling, and I bet the bathroom mirror would have made a good target too. A nervous giggle erupted from my dry mouth.

“Why do you have to ruin everything!” his chapped lips burst blasts of stress through the air, through the eggs.

“Stop! Stop!” hollered my husband who has been home looking for a new job, trying to navigate us towards our next destination, maybe even a new town, while helping me help our son through one of the hardest times of his life so far.

Of course the nanny texted me her resignation last week.

Everything was undone.

I stood quietly, watching. My body was calm on this particular morning, possibly appearing ghostly. Silly eggs could not upset me, no, my body was too sad. Too sad to say the right word, to catch the next egg, to do anything at all. My body was sad enough to absorb reality like the floor that accepted the new mess. I could lie still and stiff and stay attached to the gunky yolk for a while.

I had watched the stress of life attack the body of my boy. I had seen how a 9-year-old's heart appears when it melts, and I had held what was left of his strength in my arms. The stress of doors slamming, balls flying, teachers talking, pencils waiting, tests handed-out, kids doing and saying uncontrollable things (that all children will do and say.) The stress of an aide following him, asking him to do SOMETHING with himself. To fit SOMEWHERE. All this had been too much for my boy this past month. Little-by-little his ability to function alongside others had withered, and he had crept into corners, finding tiny dark places to disappear. And so we had decided to bring him home, again, to start the learning process over. To find the peace.

“Oh come on!" you might say. "Life isn’t SO hard. Everyone needs to learn how to deal. Stop being so sensitive. Stop letting him act this way. Look at the bright side!”

Maybe you don’t want to hear about this. It is sad. It is messy. You might prefer to "make the best of it," and keep the mess inside the closet. You might prefer me to put on my makeup and smile.

But this is my truth, and it isn't meant to hide. The truth helps me, it helps others, and in doing so, it binds us together before it sets us free.

This morning, after the eggs flew, I felt more grateful for the calm birds soaring over flower buds that pushed up eagerly. They promised a new season of life. I thought that though it is rainy and cold outside, I believe, without a doubt, that the daffodils and tulips are still coming.

I thought about how true hope is about a boy who is alive, in my life, and sharing his sorrows while he helps me clean up the eggs. Hope sees the floor sparkle afterwards and knows that the child I love will walk alongside me always knowing he has love—a love that helps clean up eggs, that holds him through the most confusing times, that refuses to give up believing that the flowers will bloom tomorrow.

I am still sad, but I'm not worried.

So don't feel sorry for me, don't blame me, don't fix me, don't try to clean up my mess, but just be true along with me. That is what my boy wants, and that is what I want, too.

Now can you see how I am blessed? Where there is feeling, there is love, where there is sadness, there is hope. And so I know that the sunshine will come again and I will surely be there to embrace it's warmth with gladness.


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1 comment :

Just me friend said...

Amy I wrote you a long comment my computer must have thought it was too wordy and ate the whole thing before I could post. My heart is with you and your family Maybe T is mad and unhappy because we the other people try to make him fit into our world and thoughts. Look at all of the brilliant people in the world who were loaners and did not fit the everyday They were the inventors, medical experts and artists No one understood them and thank goodness or they could not have don what they did. Tell t and your other children that I would like to be invited to the next egg throwing as it sounds like fun. My friend also had three children and when things got hetic she would line them up behind her and march and sing, scream and stomp all through the house. Pretty soon they all were laughing. They did not have to fit. Because what other mother would do such a silly thing She is 87 and still has fun and a great outlook on life. Good Luck to Lynn Scott is in NY Peggy

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