And all those roles have changed so drastically in the last year, that I think I lost my bearings. While- to some degree it could be said- I initiated those changes, it still was disorientating. When I stopped being a wife, for instance, I also felt like I lost some of my stock as a person. As I write this, I am at the ready with words and even Bible verses as to why that is ridiculous and patently false. But I'm not talking about what I *know* or even what is *right

Role Reversal

As my life roles shifted this past year, I kind of stumbled. I agree with the premise that we are children of God and our value lies in the Creator of the Universe seeing fit to make me (and you). But I don’t know that I live it. I think I get caught up in my value according to my roles: wife, mother, daughter, sister, employee…

Sometimes I just feel like all that stuff about being God’s precious child and “I is kind, I is smart, I is important” is just too much work.

And all those roles have changed so drastically in the last year, that I think I lost my bearings.

While- to some degree it could be said- I initiated those changes, it still was disorientating. When I stopped being a wife, for instance, I also felt like I lost some of my stock as a person.

As I write this, I am at the ready with words and even Bible verses as to why that is ridiculous and patently false. But I’m not talking about what I *know* or even what is *right* or *true*.

I’m talking about what I felt. Not what made sense.

I’m talking about the nagging grating voice.  I’m talking about the acid in my stomach roiling around splashing around FAILURE! LOSER! FOOL! ! all over my insides like graffiti on a freeway overpass.

It wasn’t all sack clothe and ashes (I have great friends, cute kids, and adorable dogs), but I needed this more than I knew.

photo 1photo 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of  The Grandmas has moved and as all the various items she accumulated were sifted and sorted, this was among them. Now here’s the thing, she has moved several times so this item made the cut several times along the way (almost 40 years).

And here’s why it’s important to me: She kept it. My childish- and not especially good- artwork was precious enough to keep. To date. To do the math. To file away.

I was precious enough to keep this tattered (kind of weird and ugly) drawing for forty years.

It reminded me that my other Grandma loved me so much that she put together her own baby book for me.

It reminded me of what I know, what is right, what is true.

It reminded me of who I am.

Every time I look at it, I remind myself that I had no role at 7 years, 3 months.

I was only a child. Precious in my Grandmother’s eyes.

And that was enough.