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I am six. Standing in the doorway of an old
farmhouse behind my mother, introductions commence.
This is my “new” family. There are seven of them!
The youngest boy is almost a year older than me. My
two younger brothers appear to be as horrified as I
am. What do they want from us? Whatever it is, can
we get this over with and go home?
Thirty-two years later, the memory is still
vivid. I can see the wood grain paneling of the
kitchen walls, enormous rooms with paisley wallpaper
and modern (for the 70’s) décor. There’s not even a
girl my age! What is my mother thinking? How could
she just change gears on us like that? How am I ever
going to fit in here? Even then I knew this was not
normal.
In the 70’s the concept of step-families was
still pretty new.
Even today, ten (later eleven) children in one
household is unheard of. My six-year old brain was
swimming in a sea of confusion. New school, new
house, new family … okay, where should I start?
I loved the country. I could go outside and
pretend it wasn’t 40?
on
a bright spring day. The little creek next to our
house would run out of sight, cutting a path through
the hard, crusted snow that had accumulated over the
past several (very long) months to some point beyond
the established boundaries set by my mother. How come
I have to live here? Am I ever going to have any say
in these matters? Why didn’t she ask me first? I
don’t like it here. My new siblings do not want me
here, my step-father doesn’t care about me and where
is my dad? I haven’t seen him in months! How was I
to know that that nagging, empty place inside was
begging for fulfillment? I hadn’t been alive long
enough to understand that God wanted “in”. In fact, I
didn’t even know God existed. My mother seemed so
preoccupied with her new husband and new family…I was
completely and utterly alone!
Those days, weeks, months and years were very
hard for me. By the time I became an adult, the word
“dysfunctional” was familiar, comfortable, and
well-worn…like a security blanket or a favorite pair
of shoes. It could be used interchangeably with my
name. Look up the word dysfunctional in the
dictionary; there you will see my picture.
Everyone’s life is a gradual progression, a
journey to normalcy, whatever that may be. It’s an
individual thing. The focus of my most carefully
guarded thought processes shifted recently. I dared
entertain the idea that the world doesn’t revolve
around me!
As it turns out, I love to work on my computer.
Guess it’s a manifestation of solitude, the longing to
be with others, by myself. I found my niche …
slideshows. I can live vicariously through the
memories and documentation of events of others’
lives. I built a website offering my services to the
whole world. My first customer? … mom. An innocent
attempt to be supportive of my new business venture
may have been the kindest act of parenting my mother
has ever performed, albeit unknowingly.
Pouring over old photographs of my childhood A.D
(after divorce) and that of my step-siblings BAD
(before and after death of their mom), I gained a new
perspective into the “Bridge” our parents had
created.
With benefit of some key information trickling in from
my mom, I began to feel a strange sensation, almost
foreign … could it be?
Compassion. At some point during the composition of
this “masterpiece”, the floodgates not only opened,
but began to disintegrate. I no longer felt
resentment or frustration when recounting the events
of my past experience. Like that hard-crusted
snow-pack melting away on a warm spring day, my
bitterness dissipated.
The
well-guarded intimate details of my step-father’s life
began to come into full view. No one ever told me
that when his wife passed away, he struggled to keep
his family together while fending off social
services. How he managed to run a farm, raise 7
children (the youngest being only 3 months old) and
keep his sanity is beyond me. I started to give him
credits for effort and perseverance and the seemingly
insurmountable task of staying intact. With my new
insight, I began to explore the possibilities that
maybe they (my step-siblings) too had hidden wounds
that needed healing, and that I held the key to their
recovery. With great anticipation and excitement, I
dove into this project with my newly discovered
clarity of purpose.
I wish I could have been there in each of their
homes as they viewed their Christmas gifts (from the
folks) on their DVD players in Texas, Wisconsin,
Kansas, New Jersey, New York and Missouri. As they
saw their lives virtually glide across the TV screen
set to the tune of “Love Can Build A Bridge”, I’d have
loved to hand them a tissue and say, “It’s all okay
now. See? You are loved, they do care.”
Without all of the “tough times” of growing up in
a huge, distant, very loose-knit step-family, my heart
may never have discovered the blessings God intended
for it. Every one of the kids in our family made a
phone call or penned a message to “the folks”
expressing gratitude for the obviously heart-felt
Christmas gift they received this year. Whether it
broke down barriers or planted a seed for thought …
its mission was accomplished; not only for each of us,
but for “the folks” too. “I love you” still doesn’t
flow freely at family gatherings, but it slowly,
steadily is making its way into telephone
conversations and emails between siblings that
previously didn’t stay in touch.
My brothers (both live in a different state) have
called recently to say that they too have done some
healing. They’re both at different stages of the
journey, but progress is apparent and for that I am
grateful.
Every task you perform as a parent leaves a
lasting impression on your children. Tread carefully,
purposefully and above all, look for opportunities to
express your love for them. Give them memories to
treasure and relish. They may need a reprieve at some
point in their lives, and the key to their
revitalization may very well come from their past
experience, which rests with you.
My grace is sufficient
for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.
1 Corinthians 12:9b, KJV
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