There are a lot of different kinds of losses, and to tender hearts they don't have to be a passing to be devistating.. So, if you don't mind.. and for those that don't know that I am a proud father of some pretty special children as is everyone on this forum.. but since this is my thread..LOL...I'd like to share with you my youngest boy Matthew (12 at the time when he wrote this)... and the way he discribed his most dreadful day.. like everything of his that I post.. if he found out he would ... GULP?
This is what happens to good kids when parents, like me and his mom screw up there lives because we can't seem to get it right.... :(
My son's teacher asked for her new class to share a personal moment with the class in the form of an essay.. she was not expecting this, I am sure....
English 1 Period 4
TURN HERE
She pulled the car over and simply stated, “Matthew, I’m going to file for divorce.” On that day, Monday, the ninth of August of the year two thousand one, my life changed direction completely. Everything, including school, home life, social life, routine, and familiarity stopped in the heat of the moment.The walls had been suggesting this for the past 2 months before the breaking point. It wasn’t possible that this could have happened. I was proved wrong when my mother spoke those 7 words to me. I was wearing a plaid over shirt covering a white T-shirt with khaki shorts and Nike shoes. My over shirt was a bit faded, but I claimed it as my “good luck” shirt…up until that moment. I had just left the Presbyterian Church where I studied piano and was in a rather cheerful mood when I climbed into the Cadillac. She waited to spring the attack on me. We drove around the block to the opposite side of the sanctuary…next to the funeral parlor she pulled over and read me the verdict.
I grew up 23 years in about 23 seconds.
It was overcast and windy, unnaturally cool and brisk for an August day. She expected an answer, which I gave, to my own surprise, without slight hesitation. I had been dwelling on “What if” in my mind for about 2 months. Although I cannot recall the exact words exchanged, I do remember that the overall message I sent in my arguments was that I informed her that I was not going to live with her, that I would live with my father. Shockingly she understood. She silently put the car back into drive and we crept down the empty streets of downtown Denison, Texas.I had grown up next to this town. I had lived in this area for 13 years, or for as long as I could remember. A chilling silence stood between us as I looked at the passing buildings and cars. I came to realize that minutes ago I made a decision that jeopardized my presence in my home. It was nearing 7 o’clock now, and the North Texas sun was blurring the clouds and painting the sky a sharp hot pink. Nothing was said in that car, the car that had seen road trips, and holidays. In times like these, when you have nothing but your thoughts, time seems to crawl. The bumps of the road made us bounce slightly, causing sudden minor jerks, which yesterday would have been overlooked.
*After what seemed like 4 years we arrived home. She pulled into the garage and shut off the engine. I could hear the clicks and clanks of the car after it was cut off, a testimony to my effort of silence. I took a walk around my familiar territory. After finding a place of solitude I slouched on a rock. The trees and braches moved slightly with the breeze. They arched above me, bearing striking resemblance to a cathedral with twin steeples, framing the crimson sun. I felt the pressure to cry, which I tried to fight, but it was too powerful an enemy. I broke out in silent tears for a brief moment. I did not know if my brother knew, or my father for that matter. Surely they found out as I sat there in a state of total isolation. After about 15 minutes I regrouped sufficiently enough to re-enter the theatre of battle.
With more than little trepidation, I approached the house, already hearing muffled shouts through the door. As was to be expected, my 15 -year old brother was screaming at the top of his lungs. Michael had always been temper driven. His voice boomed and shook the walls. His shouting tone went from courage to fury, and fury to tears. Now sitting alone in the kitchen, listening to my brother storm out of the adjacent room and into his own, I could easily identify his weeping. The slam of his door would have startled me on an ordinary day, but this was far from ordinary. I couldn’t fathom what my father was thinking when that evening took place. His life was taking an even more permanent and dramatic change. He came into the kitchen doorway and leaned on the flowered-Victorian wallpapered wall, staring into nothing. He looked stoic and worn. Worn from years of troubled marriage. He casually put his hands in his pockets.
My dad was dressed plainly, as was usual for Monday evenings’ cookout night. The only sound in the room was the occasional loud sob from my brother’s bedroom door, and the staccato clicking of the kitchen clock. I knew not where my mother was, and I was simply too nervous and afraid to find out. After about 10 minutes of silence, my mother, still dressed head-to-toe in purple medical scrubs, strode in with a frown and glassy eyes to grab her keys and purse. She slipped on her sunglasses with a trembled, spasmodic sigh and flung open the door to the garage, slamming it behind her. I listened and heard her start the Cadillac and pull out if the driveway, going rather fast.
Now that she was gone, a door opened in the back of the house, and my brother sauntered into the kitchen. We exchanged the same glances, and heard the tapping of the pendulum, and then 8 audible gongs. Without speaking, we all followed my dad into the garage and we too, climbed into the other car and pulled out of the driveway, only we were going noticeably slower than my mother. We passed under blinking yellow traffic lights.
Beads of rain gently sprayed the car windows. It had begun to drizzle. We reached an intersection where a choice was to be made of where to turn. “Where do we go from here, boys?” my father said. It was futile to try to make sense of it all. Our lives were completely different in every aspect of being. I lightly gestured to a certain direction with my hand and uttered, “Turn here.”
I can only read every other word of your mournful post because I am too scared right now. My six-year-old has a spot on his spine (X ray) and we will have to wait FOUR LONG WEEKS for an MRI to make sure that it's nothing. We will be the walking wounded until then. If anyone wants to send up a little prayer for the best redheaded boy in the world, please do. Thanks.
Oh Jeeeshh! AND THEN WHAT?
WoW! What a talent this young man has. I was so wrapped up in the story that the abrupt ending slightly confused me for a moment.
It is a wonderful and healthy gift to be able to relese your feelings and emotions in written words. Bless you for your touching post.
The rare magnificence of a male sufficiently secure in his manhood to be free to weep or mourn or grieve openly is not only refreshing but stunningly exemplary. That the example has borne fruit is readily evidenced here.
May the Comforter do his work in each of you even as one knows He will comfort others with that which your wounds have produced.
(2Cr 1:4 “Who comforteth us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort them which are in any trouble, by the comfort wherewith we ourselves are comforted of God.”)