Oct 23, 2016

Picked For Me

My sister called her that dreadful night to give her the news that something was very wrong, but she didn’t know yet what it was.  All she could say is that she had received a frantic and urgent phone call, one in which she heard me crying in the background, telling her to come as fast as she could.  She said she was on her way, and would notify her as soon as she knew of any details.

As I sat on the couch, rocking back and forth with my face buried in my hands, the headlights turned into the driveway and the door opened without so much as a knock.  Expecting it to be my sister, I turned away out of anguish, knowing full-well with a pit in my stomach what she was walking in on.  But instead, it was her.  I suppose a mother’s frantic and anxious heart couldn’t sit back and wait at a time like this, so she was the first to arrive.  She dropped her purse and her car keys, knelt down directly in front of me on the living room floor, and did all she could to pry my hands from in front of my face.  My husband sat beside me, urging me to explain what had happened; what it was that I had done and where it was about to take me.  But the disgrace and humiliation that poured out of me was like delivering a crushing blow; I can’t look into her eyes, I thought.  What will she think, if she knows the real me?  It would be over.  The glass bubble of deceit would shatter all around me.

When I finally got out the words, through sobs and moans, there was no shame, no guilt, just sadness and pleading.  Lindsay, she cried, why didn’t you come to me and dad? We would have helped you…

Even now, almost 7 years later, I shudder as those words echo in my mind and pierce my wounded heart.

As one of my favorite authors defines it, this type of love can only be described as Beautiful and Brutal, or more precisely…Brutiful.  Beautiful because it is offered so freely and without hesitation, and Brutal because it says, This will be painful, yes, but I will be with you every step of the way.

Brutiful love.

When my dad arrived at the hospital that evening, he sat next to me at a table while a psychiatrist asked me a series of questions, and like a toddler who’s just fallen off of a swing set, I dug my weeping face into his shoulder as he gently held my hand.  I’m so sorry, dad, just didn’t seem sufficient.

I’m reminded almost every year on my birthday by my mom that I was born in the midst of a thunderstorm, which might explain why, for the first twenty or so years of my life, I was terrified of them.  But who could have guessed the severity of storms they, as parents, would have to endure, or the wreckage we would muddle through as a family to put the pieces back where they belong?

In my mind and in the deepest part of my soul, I believe it can only be the work of the Lord’s Merciful and Divine hands that could have chosen this woman and this man to be my parents.  I don’t know of any other way to explain it other than to give Him the praise and glory He deserves.    

He picked them for me.

The following song is a beautiful depiction of this type of love.  Even though it’s called “Father’s Eyes”, it fully captures my most heartfelt sentiments for my earthly parents ~ my mom and dad ~ as well as my Heavenly Father. 

Father's Eyes

Because of both, I am blessed beyond measure.