I should be able to handle things all by myself. Clearly, I
reached a point where I could not. If I didn’t change course,
my children would continue to suffer. I didn’t know how to
help them.
This was the beginning of taking baby steps to get the
assistance needed for such a complex season of parenting. My
husband took turns with night duty, we reached out to
professionals, and the seed was planted for the absolute
necessity of self-care if there was any hope for our family to
thrive. A way forward out of this dark place was elusive, but
light and grace began shining through the cracks of my
brokenness, making its way into my weary soul. The light
began showing up in the darkness. In this broken state, I was
in a posture that was ready to receive. Rather than identify
myself as a set apart “righteous” person, I was now free to join
in with all of humanity as someone in need of help.
As I wrote and re-wrote of this particular dark night,
the daughter who was the object of my brokenness came to me
and sat on my lap. “What are you writing about Mom?” I
responded that there was something I wanted her to read. She
read it. “What exactly did you say and do, Mom?” I told her
every detail of the night when I emotionally snapped and
shouted at her. She kind of giggled, though I assured her that
it was no laughing matter. And then the power of secret shame
and humiliation around this specific incident fell away. As I
brought my own shame out of the darkness and into the light,
it shattered into a thousand pieces.
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