The look I received plunged deep into my pride. It smashed my smile and dropped my heart into the church floor. I deserved it, but pride never accepts blame. It rooted into the crushed bits of my heart and sent weed-like bitterness through my entire being.
She whispered a question and smiled. I glared to express the hurt in me. I wanted so badly to break the quite and cry on her shoulder, to express in words what I cruelly expressed in looks. She knew I wasn't mad at her, but shouldn't I laugh with her instead of glare the anger into her?
But that look didn't spread any further. As soon as it hit her it died. Anger overshadowed by joy. The stress of her morning– planning meals for church– was no problem. The look I gave her was no knife into her, and maybe she didn't even notice, but hasn't that always been the way things are? Always, hurt and anger end with her.
As long as I can remember, it's to her we ran with scraped knees. She was the one who ended the arguments and spread peace as the standard. She, the one with more responsibilities than all of us combined, had the greatest joy. She endured the impact of our looks and words. And she threw back love and joy.
Dear Mom,
I want to be just like you someday.
You have a gift for communication. I love the way this post built to the climax at the end "Dear Mom..." You have a way of getting right to the heart of your reader, which I love.
ReplyDeleteThanks Ellen, for all your comments. You really encouraged me!
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