There were words.
Sharp, painful words that came far too naturally.
There was the deliberate placing of plates on the table.
There was rushing around, loud sighs that took my breathe away. May have possibly been the throwing of hands in the air, the refusal of any offer of help, and all of this for what?
to remind him of how important my role is in this house, this home.
There was pride, pride in the control I believed I was displaying, when my insides wanted to shriek, to somehow get his attention, to make him see how wronged I was, how right I was.
I was aware, aware of little eyes watching me. Pride reared again, pride that I was together, there it was again, that I was controlled in front of my little ones.
My little ones, who do what I do, not what I say, who learn how to respond to others, how to control their feelings, from me?
From me?!
I sent them outside to play. As if this made my demands, my relentless pushing of self to the top, as if this was all ok.
Later, much later, as the dark clouds in my mind were being dispersed by truth, by love, my daughter called me outside. I gasped as I saw what was laying on the table. She had taken pieces of her daddy's scrap wood. She had placed them together in the shape of a cross. My eyes flooded, as she explained to me what my heart already knew.
"It is a cross, Mommy"
"I made it so when we forget, we can look at it and remember Jesus. We all forget, and sometimes we just need to be reminded of Jesus!"
