This was my “to do” list on Tuesday. You can see by the lack of a check mark next to it that I didn’t complete the task. I have a few pairs of footie pajamas for Little Man that his toes poke through that I need to fix, a few buttons to replace, the drawstring on a pair of running capris to re-string. I put it off because I spent Monday and Tuesday canning (or “putting up”) a bushel of peaches, and I was tired after standing in my hot kitchen for two days amidst the other things that make up life.
Mending is tedious, boring, and require focus and attention to detail. If I try to do it while focusing on something else, I either stick myself with my needle and bleed, or I don’t focus enough on the other thing and then get lost.
But as I sat down today to blog, with a million thoughts running through my head, I looked at my calendar and thought “mending” is where I am in my life right now.
My mom moved back to her own home in mid-May. It was…unpleasant, unfortunately. Keith and I are fairly certain she pushed my buttons on purpose until we relented and moved her back home. Deep down, I know for a fact she is not my mom in the way she was before March 22.
That takes a significant amount of mending – of my heart, my soul, my intellect.
It takes mending of our plans, our goals, and, in fact, my schedule. We’re not sure she’s ready to babysit again, or drive our son around.
Don’t get me wrong – it’s a miracle and a blessing that she is alive and healing and declared healthy.
But it’s not what it was, and that takes mending.
Last night LM spent the evening with my father and stepmother, and he realized for the very first time that his grandfather isn’t always a nice man (he’s an alcoholic and can be…mean). He came home and literally crawled into my lap (no small feat at over 4′ and 65 pounds) and sobbed for 45 minutes because his grandfather called him names.
I don’t know if it was the first time, sadly, but it was the first time my son was cognizant of it.
That situation will take tremendous mending: my son’s little heart, the potential damage my husband and I are about to do with the conversations we must have with my parents, my absolutely broken heart. I’m not sure how much help I was to my son as I was crying, too, you know. But since I have been the victim of the name calling from the very person, well, at least I understand.
And my son aches for his birth mother. He desperately wants to see her, touch her, speak to her, tell her about all the things he loves and knows and achieves.
We desperately need it.
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.” – Psalm 34:18