My heart is breaking. Again. I don't know how much more I can take. I watch my husband flinch at the slightest mention of his family. I see the words form on his lips, hear them drop into the air with such weight and motion, falling and bouncing back to slap him in the face. I see his heart- the wounds still open and raw, still being formed, still bleeding with intensity. And he smiles at me, tries to cover it up, tries to take back the words he just said. Doesn't want to admit he hurts more than I do.
I recently did a post about family and how important unconditional love is, even if there is only one side offering it. I have been thinking about the matter that makes up such a statement; the importance it carries, what living it really entails. As I stated, I know that sometimes the only way to love someone is by praying for them.... and how often I failed at that. And I still do. When disappointment after disappointment and hurt after hurt flowed through our lives and shattered our spirit, praying was often the last thing on our minds. Especially for my husband.
It's hard to do the right thing. It's hard not to let the hurt build walls, harden your heart, make you want to turn away. Especially when someone you love is hurting and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. I ache at the thought that things will never be any different. That we will be on this terrible ride for the rest of our lives, making stops to show our smiles glazed on our faces like porcelain dolls, nods and stiff hugs just as a formality. Never knowing how anyone really feels. Then jolting back into our seats, flying through the winding roads, waiting for the next stop that does not bring rest but only more pain.
Time does not always heal. And to be honest, I'm not sure I am okay with that. God gives us families for a reason. I fail to see much more than a glimmer of what I think is the reason my husband was given the one he was. I know free will plays a huge role in their failure. And I am trying to hold on to that glimmer, the one that says he was given this family and I became a part of it so that we could love them. We have to love them because they don't know what love is. We have to pray for them because they don't know the fullness of God. They don't even have an inkling of their calling as His children. They are broken, just like the rest of us. But just like the rest of us, they have a purpose and a worth.
So I dig. Very deep. I dig deep and I try to pull out the one speck of strength I have to muscle through this with my husband, offering my love and support and encouragement. I have tried many times to convince him to try to make amends; that maybe this time around things will be different. But I have to admit that sometimes, self-preservation is the only thing left to mix in the pot with loving them from afar and praying for them.
He hides in armadillo's armor, building his walls, burying his pain. I pray for the perfect breath of Christ to consume him; heal him. I pray that one day this ride will end and either there will be real smiles and hearty hugs, or even through the formality, a warm peace that can only come with handing over pain and disappointment to the only One who can relinquish it.
I love you, Joe. I always will.