My Sweet Child,
We are finding ourselves once again in a familiar dance. The catalyst being the bruising of your tender places and the grand finale undoubtedly containing quite the bang. When you were young, I would sit in the middle of your room as you spiraled and raged around me. Silent and still, just sitting…waiting. Eventually you’d deplete every last bit of energy and come crawling into my lap. I’d press your sweaty, tear-streaked, head against my chest and tell you to match my breathing. You would; sometimes even falling asleep, leaving me in awe of the way that fury can so suddenly give way to peace.
We’ve always had a connection, you and I. We recognize the tender places in each other, both longing for the same thing, though under much different circumstance. We talk about how it is from our broken places that we find our strength and it is our scars that the world needs to see, but we still both wish to hide them away. Sometimes we draw power from our bond of survivorship…and sometimes our sensitivities crash into each other and we struggle to find common ground.
As I’ve told you many times, anger is simply a mask that fear wears. I say this as much for you as I do for myself. Those times I’ve approached you with anger have come from a place of deep fear. Fear for my inability to ease your pain. Fear that I find myself growing weary. Fear of exactly where this dance may take us.
What is harder to see now that you are older is that I’m still sitting here.
Never forget that you are my child. As you are hers. As you are His.
And I’m still sitting here, cross-legged in the center of the floor, ready to welcome you back home.