We interrupt our regularly scheduled drivel to bring you a post from a mother’s heart. Having simmered for weeks, it is now seasoned and ready to serve.
She lounges cozily in her comfy chair, computer on her lap and coffee at her side, listening to the wind howl, watching the rain beat on the deck, writing up a blog post as if all is right with her world. Rain outside, coffee inside. Normally one of life’s little pleasures, especially on a Sunday afternoon when there is little to do but sit and savor it. But today there is no savoring; today it brings only an empty sort of pleasure.
From the big room below, she hears son and his friend playing the piano together. Piano duet is followed by clash of plastic light sabers, tink and clunk of foosball table, newly-deepened voices laughing their way through “Bohemian Rhapsody”. She ought to be enjoying it. She isn’t. Nearby, little daughter sprawls on the floor behind the sofa, feet in the air, thoroughly immersed in her third Nancy Drew book in as many days. She ought to be delighting in the sight. She can’t.
Conviction nags at her. Her heart echoes with harsh words, judgmentally spoken. Her words. Reactive words. Words spoken in haste. Words spoken not of Spirit but of flesh. Words that spoiled a dinner and drove away a daughter.
On the chair-side table beside her sits a book. Subtitle, An Arrow Pointing to Heaven. On the dining room table beyond her line of vision sits a plate, a napkin, a fork, a knife. A glass of water, untouched. A bowl of salad, uneaten. Reminders of words that had not pointed to grace.
Fingers fly across the keyboard and words stream across the screen. Irrelevant words, lighthearted words that belie an inward heaviness. She writes about other days and other words, about retreats and books and plays and friends. She tries to set aside the events of this day, to ignore the troublesome thoughts that boil relentlessly within her.
He had gone after the daughter. She stayed behind, uncaring or pretending to be. Poured some coffee, sat in her chair, opened her computer. There she sits- thinking, writing. Creating another world where all is good and well.
Calm outside, rain inside.
Let him go after her, she tells herself. He is always rescuing, always indulging. That’s why I have to be hard on her. But she knows that is not really the problem.
Expectations. Expectations of how her children ought to look, speak, act, think, be. Resentment when expectations are not met. Indignation that boils over into anger and overtakes the love that lies beneath.
Concern. Concern over choices, habits, traits. Concern that her children will not grow up to be the best people they can be. Disquiet that morphs into anxiety that gives way to alarm that yields an irrational response.
Those things are the problem. Not the daughter’s problem. Her problem.
How often has she taken things to the cross, only to leave still carrying them? How often has she vowed not to play the role of the Holy Spirit, only to turn around and play it? How often has she determined to keep silent, only to have words spill out?
Words. Such power to heal and to hurt.
Sorrow keeps trying to edge its way past her façade. Pride competes and tries to nudge it away. Wisdom whispers words of warning: Wrong has been done. To ignore it is a greater wrong. She shushes them all and writes away, preferring her other world.
Little daughter comes, needs attention, wants time. Reluctantly she closes her computer. Little daughter is still so easy. Good choices, like bad ones, will go a long way. Perhaps things will be different with little daughter.
Little daughter spreads the game out on the table. Empty plate and full water glass still sit. Salad remains but tomatoes are gone. She knows that things will not be any different with little daughter unless things become different within herself.
Game ends and little daughter ambles off, satisfied. Back to the computer, still wrestling. She writes more but cannot focus. She turns it off and paces. Two sets of headlights come blaring through the windows.
Sorry was easy when children were young. Pride was easily set aside when little faces shone with expectation and mommy-love and willingness to forgive. Sorry is not so easy now.
And every time sorry is avoided, it becomes harder the next time. Every time sorry is avoided, pride wins.
Door opens, daughter enters. They glance at each other and look away. Daughter heads downstairs. She hesitates, tussles again with pride and flesh, then follows.
Words are spoken: I handled that poorly. I reacted wrongly. I’m sorry. Words that cannot undo but are needed nonetheless. More words are spoken: I forgive you. Still more: I love you. There isn’t anything you can do, any choice you can make, that will make me love you less. I know I don’t show it very well. I’m sorry.
The harsh words, the unloving words, have not been erased. But they no longer hang in the air, taunting and ugly.
Sorry doesn’t make everything all better. It doesn’t close the chasm that exists between them. But perhaps it has narrowed it just a tiny bit. Perhaps it has wrought even a slight change in both hearts.
Oh, God. When will I stop hurting those I love with my words? How long, oh Lord, til my words reflect Your grace? And He said, what you fill yourself up with is what comes out. When You let yourself be filled up with Me, that is when I can come pouring out of you. | 
Posted by Anonymous
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I know exactly how you feel. (I hope that's not too presumptuous of me.)
I needed to read this today.
So, thank you.