Sunday, March 24, 2013

Lines of a Story

I had the privilege of reading one of the best blog entries I've ever read this morning: These are the Lines of a Story by Mary Martin Wiens on The Actual Pastor blog. It made me cry. I mean the all-out boohooing of deep emotion, not the sniveling little tears-down-the-cheek kind. A real three tissue cry.

Because her story could be mine. I so identified with her tale of standing in front of the mirror and kneading the "squishy belly" that my daughter calls my apron. She can do that, because she's a mom, too, and her own belly shows the stretch-marks and looseness of a tummy that has housed and produced two beautiful, incredible kids.

I'm in the midst of yet another diet as I try to shed the pounds my medications won't let go of. See, I have fibromyalgia, and without my pain meds and anti-depressants (that somehow help the physical pain as well as the emotional kind), I can't function. So I dutifully take 10 pills in the morning and another 10 at night, and I face life with a smile on my face and a determination to find reasons to celebrate each day.

I can smile; I have ten grandchildren and one more on the way. You've seen the kids in my layouts that get posted here occasionally (there would be more layouts, but I'm a staffer at Scrapbook News and Review and I can't post them here and there both). I promise to post them soon, though, when SNR is through with them.

My two oldest grands were born on the same day, six hours and two states apart. Emmanuel (whom I call Eman) and Monica (Monkey) are lovely, gracious and compassionate almost-teens; Gabriel (Gabe), Erin (Gracie), and Dublin (Dub) followed about 2 years later, closely followed by Indie (Bean) and then Tommy, Hannah, Sarah (Say-say), and lastly Remy. Remy's little brother Liam will be born sometime in early June, and that makes eleven. They range in age from 12 to 2, daughters and sons of four of my own five kids.

Each of them has left their own story lines upon our bodies and hearts, and they're stories I love to read again and again. So what if my body isn't lithe and lean like it once was? It's more like a worn Bible, full of wisdom and the stories—both good and bad— of my life and my loves.

Now I feel better, since I explained to you why my face is streaked with tears and my body with stretch-marks. Thanks for listening.

No comments:

Post a Comment