My Story to Write
“Do you really want your children to read what you’re writing in five, say ten, fifteen years?”
That was the question before me.
Yes, no, maybe, of course, Hale no, Hale yeah, I don’t know.
What I want is for this—this story I’m writing—what I want, is for this to not be their story. For there to be nothing to read because there’s nothing to write.
But there is a story and it’s our story and whether or not I write about it, we will go through it. Not writing about it doesn’t make it not happen.
And I get that I’m not the only one. You have your own story. And your story is different and it is harder and it is sadder and you are angrier and it is the story of chemo that’s no longer working and transplants that fail and babies that don’t wake up, and babies, longed for and prayed for, that do not show up and you have your own story.
I get that.
But mine is the only one I know how to write. And I write not to be angry or resentful; I write to be hopeful; to be a witness of His grace and His mercy; the God of all comforts, comforting me. Comforting us. I write to be a witness of walking through the fire and not getting burned.
Walking through and not even smelling like smoke.
Life was much easier when I was pretending; when we were pretending. It wasn’t joyful or real or fair or honest, but it was easier. It was easier when the blessing of bath, bed and books was all mine; not something I had to share; it was easier when I didn’t know that our friends were really just his friends and it was easier when I didn’t have to read lies, lies, lying lies. About me. About my family.
Yes, pretending was easier. But I’m done pretending.
But the question was fair and so I re-read. this time I read through the eyes of a child and there are two. Two that I will erase. I’m not erasing them, dear attorney, because you frighten me. I know that you’ve already read them and printed them and highlighted them and I have nothing to hide which is the blessing of being a truth-teller, but as a Mom, I regret my Letter to Emma Claire. It was written in anger and haste and raw, un-filtered emotion. It was a “morning after” blog, one that I now regret. He didn’t turn out to be “the one”, but he did turn out to be the father of my children.
Also not making the cut is my essay on the beach trip because I promised to only tell my story and in the process of celebrating my sister’s gift, I started to tell his story and his is not mine to tell.
Do I want them to read this in 5, 10, 15 years? Yes, I hope they do and I hope they see an example of courage and faithfullness and steadfastness; all lessons I long to teach; long to learn. I hope they see that I loved my husband. I still do. He’s their father (although currently not a very good one). I hope they see, not just when they read, but every day until then, that I’m grateful and thankful and I would walk through this fire and a thousand beyond because they are the gift.
Coulter and Emma Claire are the beauty from ashes.
This is my story and they are my happily every after.