Cabin fever had settled in. We were home for a bunch of days in a row. And now big sister is gone. Emerson and I hit up McDonalds for a treat and play time with some stranger’s kids. We’d been there a while and she was having a blast. Coordinating games. Leading charges against bad guys. Playing a rousing game of “The Floor is Lava.” I loved visiting with other moms. Watching my kid giggling and playing with other kids. Diagnosing kids with various communication or social disorders. It’s was fun for both of us.
And then they came in. A family of five. A husband and wife with three darling little girls. The girls ran to the play structure and started playing with my kid. The couple sat at the table next to me on the same side together and started eating when their food came.
Around the time they called their girls down to come and eat Emerson ran over to me for another quick sip of her drink and a nibble of chicken nugget before running off again to play. The little girls next to me ran off to play too and they all were fast friends. They exchanged introductions, hugged each other, asked how old they all were. The older of the three girls pointed down to her smiling parents and said “There’s my mommy and daddy.” They waved back and smiled. Emerson pointed to me sitting in the corner and said “That’s my mom.” I smiled and waved back. The couple turned and smiled at me. Then one of the other girls asked, “Where’s your daddy?” My heart skipped a beat and I held my breath. I never know how to respond myself so when my girls are confronted with this question my heart hurts for them.
But Emerson handles it always with grace and her eight-year-old flair. She shrugged, declared “Oh, he died,” and announced her next plan at getting away from the boys in the play structure. I sighed with relief and picked up my soda for a sip. The man next to me scowled at me, leaned over, and sternly said “How dare you!” Wide-eyed I looked back at him and said, “Excuse me?” He slid closer to me and said, “How dare you teach your daughter to be so non-chalant about something like that. I don’t want MY daughters exposed to people like you. You need to teach your daughter to keep that sort of thing to herself. We don’t need our daughters exposed to that.” Then he packed up their food, called for his girls, and stormed out of McDonald’s as he cast a dirty look my direction.
I choked back tears and sat in disbelief at what had just happened. What HAD just happened? Was I really just chastised for losing my husband? My daughter was judged for being honest about her father’s death. As the door closed behind them, I thought of five hundred things I could have said back to him. They’re lucky she didn’t tell them he killed himself. You’re judging a widow and a kid who lost her father? Emerson bounced back and forth between new-found friends and her food on the table, blissfully unaware of what had just transpired. Thank goodness! While I worked hard to just breathe and process what had happened and not burst into tears in the middle of McDoanlds.
Psalm 147:3 says “He heals the broken-hearted, and bandages their wounds.” I am so thankful to Father for giving me this verse immediately after this happened. He heals the broken-hearted and bandages their wounds. He knows that I have cracks in my heart. He knows the grief that I carry. He knows how I struggle some days to hold those pieces together. He knows that some days those pieces feel like they are going to crumble and I’ll never find how to arrange the pieces back. Tonight some pieces fell out.
Grief combined mental illness takes a toll. Anxiety. PTSD. Depression. These things all eat away at you over time. Sometimes things are going great and you feel fine. Normal even. But in the background is always ick. Voices that tell you you aren’t enough. Feelings that twist and turn your insides. Tears that just won’t fall. Nightmares that jerk you awake at night. Paranoid thoughts that make you think all of your friends will leave you just like everyone else has before you. And when things like tonight happen, it’s just one more thing that pushes you closer to a breaking point. Closer to the edge.
Being a widow isn’t something I chose. Raising my children alone wasn’t my plan. And blaming me for those things is ridiculous. My brain knows that. But my already fragile heart starts to wonder. Being a survivor of suicide already brings thoughts and feelings of blame and shame. Plant a seed and my mind runs away with the idea. And then that pathway leads to other thoughts. I should have saved my husband. I should teach Emerson to answer differently. We shouldn’t be so open about our story. We should just shove it down and hide it.
But let’s back up for one moment to the Psalm. He heals the broken-hearted and bandages their wounds. God never promised life would be without trials. But He did promise to heal our broken hearts through the bad times. He did promise He would bandage our wounds. Tonight was a wound. Emerson has no idea anything happened even. And I thank God that He protected her from the truth. Her momma, however, was wounded.
It is always shocking to me how cruel people can be sometimes. I try so hard to be kind to others always. To try and think about what their situation might be. Tonight caught me off guard. I found myself angry. Angry they would judge us. Angry that he blamed my daughter for sharing a piece of herself. Angry that he stormed out, making me feel like I was to blame for my husband’s death. Angry for cracking a piece of my lately-fragile heart.
But I pause tonight and think about Psalm 147:3. I will give this broken heart to God again to mend. He will fix it. He will make it better. And then I pray. I pray for Emerson to always be brave enough to share her story. I pray that God protects that family from ever enduring what my girls and I have gone through. I pray that God heals the wounds on that man’s heart that caused him to lash out at me in the middle of a McDonald’s play place. And I pray that, no matter how many times my heart is broken, no matter how close to the edge I get, that Father God will cradle my heart in His hands, and paste the pieces of my heart together, to seal the cracks in my soul.
God heals the broken hearted. My weary feet and my weary soul will continue to carry me through this life. One step at a time. One act of faith at a time. I often get closer to the edge, feeling like I’m about to break. But I just have faith that God will reel me back in and gently guide me onto the path towards healing again. Faith and hope and peace and love get us through. And even on the days that I feel like my heart doesn’t have any more pieces to crumble away, I will be bolstered up and know that He will set me on the path He plans for me. And my girls will be made stronger everyday, and I will too. He will bandage this wound from tonight, and all the other wounds too.
