Big, old, Victorian brick handed down for generations.
Where loyalty and honor and obligation reside.
Where not much is ever sorted through or gotten rid of.
And where quiet and lonely and too much time in my room sparked the curiosity to crack open His Book.
The search began to know the One who my father wrote about in endless letters and on cards.
Where his words would appear more like a script for a cure or a recipe for a life.
And where I'd first begin the habit of "should's," always wondering just how to cook it up just right.
I am from . . .
Hay farm and tractors with red worn barns and far too many tools.
Like a museum, the place holds history and wonder, and a vast array of mystery.
Where gold-framed mirrors and ornate antiques felt stuffy and too much-ish.
And though beauty surrounds its walls, fancy felt foreign and the women always out of place.
Where peonies bloom full and pine trees have tumbled down in the storms.
And ivy on brick has stifled and masked.
Family would come and the bounty would be full.
While laughter would abound, hurt was hardly ever shared.
Appreciation was guilted and strong was defined by tight lips.
I am from . . .
Divorce -- an everyday dad and a far away father.
Of confusion and loneliness and an only-me life.
Small, quaint college-town village with bike riding days.
Declared grounded and soap in the mouth would find me for truth-telling failure.
An imagined life always seeming so much better than my own.
I became Heather and had sister's before reality ever birthed.
Fluffy compliments would fill me and I'd learn "hard work pays off".
Where I heard "children are to be seen and not heard".
And where adult conversation at the big family table would learn me a strong voice.
I am from . . .
"Keep on keepin' on," and powerfully emotive women with mouse-quiet passion.
Resentment and bitterness. Sheltered, though behaved.
My good-girl mistake would be folded neatly and tucked away.
Hidden and silenced, disappointment would shame me.
Like fancy desserts that needed to "look good and behave," so too would become my way of life.
"Be your own counsel" would silence a village and keep me alone.
An Army-baby birthed in the big state of Texas, the only Caucasian babe of them all.
Braces fixed my smile up pretty, all the while feeling ugly and dark.
In search of significance, I over-analyzed myself.
Exhausted and worn, weary and bruised.
Ashamed and performed out, I'd learn of the habit all those years created.
Of how perfection-seeking colored me and the courage it takes to Be.
I am from . . .
Encouragement and plenty of cheer.
A single mother's biggest fan.
A single mother's biggest fan.
A daughter. A mother. A bride.
A writer. A thinker. A lover of sky.
A friend. A truth-teller. An idea generator.
This is my life story. His Beloved.
I will thrive, though never fully arrive.
Share your heart . . . add a comment below.
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O, Amy ... what a BIG story you have.
ReplyDeleteI loved this, because I could associate with it: "And where quiet and lonely and too much time in my room sparked the curiosity to crack open His Book."
There is so much here and I am so grateful to read more of your heart ...
You are brave and gorgeous.
Much Love,
xoxo
I didn't think I had a "heritage" and I see that I do. This is my story. And I receive it. And you sweet friend, you encouraged me to do just that. I am grateful for YOU. {hugs}
Deleteso much sparked my inner thoughts of 'heritage'. You spur me on friend. Love you.
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