~circa 1968~ (I'm the smallest)

~circa 1968~
(I’m the smallest)

I vividly remember looking at my parents and thinking how screwed up adults were. At a young age I had some, not so pleasant, words to share with God. It was a soliloquy of sorts—God being the audience. I didn’t yet know how to hear Him. Nonetheless,  I continued to speak. More than once I felt convinced that if a God did, in fact, exist He was unaware of my presence and certainly unaware of my pain and confusion.

The point of this shared memory?

I saw (what I believe to be) the same expression in my daughter’s face this week. It was a knife driving through me. As it opened me up I was flooded with questions and answers and more questions on top of more inadequate answers. It was followed with a skipped breath and the firm closing of my eyes, as if to block out anymore stimuli. I had to force the silence. I walked away. I had to turn away and leave her with her pain. There was nothing more for me to do. I hated it. I wanted to fix this, fix her. I wanted to make it okay, explain it, explain me, explain life.

Silence.

Silence was the called upon protocol.

She is off to her room to cry and murmur her pain to her God. I was alone in the kitchen to wonder if I am fit to parent. I’ve felt, at far too many moments, my inadequacy as a mother.

My mind wants to race. I must allow the silence.

I am sweetly prompted by a God (I can now hear as the sweet voice of Love within) that I am worthy.  My ego remembers the drinking days. My ego reminds me of all the early getting sober days. My ego points out the flaws … every itsy, bitsy, minute detail. Love reminds me that I have made a choice: the choice to get sober, the choice to remain sober, and the choice to grow as a person here on earth—every day.

I am left to feel the pain and the joy … all in one mixed up moment.

My daughter arrives back in the kitchen. Teary eyed and quiet she tells me she is sorry. We hug. I still want to explain it. I’m the mom, why can’t I fix it?

God reminds me there is nothing to fix. These moments are not for me to fix, they are for me to (simply) be. She will find her way. My job is to teach through example. My job is to give her the opportunity to find the Love within her. It is for her to seek. It is for her to find. My job is to provide discipline. It is within the discipline that she will find her strength. She will not find her God if I do not allow her to be resilient.

As painful as it must have been for them to watch, could that be what my parents did for me? Note to self: Another gift of sobriety—seeing my parents in a new light. Maybe all those moments talking to God mattered.

I guess I was a little late on hearing Him.

I matter.