Linking up with Storytellers at A Picture Book Life.
My computer tells me that it is 18 degrees outside. The chickens are refusing to come out of their coop and the dogs won't leave the house. I have my favorite tea cup in hand. The one from Starbucks with the wide mouth that makes it comfortable to curl two hands around. I have my favorite bumblebee yellow sweatshirt on and I'm thinking about being a mom.
A couple of night ago, my boy said something that hurt his sister's heart and left her crying in my lap. He sat there, slightly defensive and defiant, unwilling to bend to make things right. But behind the posture was a hurt that expressed itself in anger. Firm but gentle probing led to a collapse in the wall and the reason for the pain: it's hard to be different. It's hard to try to live life in a way that is counter culture. To be kind when you want to be mean. To turn away when everyone else is involved in something that makes you uncomfortable. When culture says to act one way, but your conscience tells you to act another. It's hard. When the tears started dripping, the girl in my lap climbed down to crawl into her brother's and comfort him with her hug.
I wish I could make the paths smooth and easy for my kids. I wish I could promise only good things for their life. But I can't. But I can promise that I will be there. That they won't be alone. They won't have to figure out how to do it on their own. And more than that, I can point them to a Friend that sticks closer than a brother.
Burdens get lighter when they are shared. And it ended with two littles snuggled on one bed under a fleecy red blanket and a mommy and daddy sharing stories from lives lived longer. It ended with giggles, and whispers, and peace. And the strength to try again tomorrow.