water into wine

One of my favorite members of the Peterson family was Aunt Ileen. She was Mom Peteson's older sister and lived with her and Dad for the last few years of her life until she passed away in 2009. Aunt Ileen had to be over 90. She was a tiny woman, her back hunched from osteoporosis, and thin as could be. Her glasses were almost as big as her whole face. But her hair was just barely changing from brown to gray. She was still active, always dressed nicely, and loved to wash the dishes and bake and quilt. And she always had a smile on her face.

When she wasn't much younger than me, Ileen's husband left her and her two children and ran off with another woman. She got very sick. She had to move into a house that wasn't much more than a shack.. She struggled to make a living for her family, and had to put up with being perpetually hit on by her bosses in a time before sexual discrimination laws existed. Her only daughter, at 17, was killed in a car accident. Finally, she met her second husband, John. John had seven children that Ileen raised like her own. They were married for nearly 50 years. They served together and traveled together. She took care of him after he went blind. They loved each other dearly and they lived a good life together. And yet, Ileen still had something else to tell me about her life:

 During the early constant-sorrow days of my separation, Illeen shuffled over to me, placed her hand--shrouded in paper-thin skin--on top of mine and said, "You just never quite get over when something like that is done to you. You won't ever be able to get rid of the pain, but you can learn to live with it."

I have thought a lot about that this icky, awful, terrible week.

I had really hoped that there would be a roadside I could dump this pain off on eventually. Maybe donate it to Goodwill. Or hire the mafia to cement its legs and throw it in the East River. But, I think Aunt Ileen was right. As long as I continue to hold onto a semblance of love for Brad and the life we had together, which I really don't ever want to get rid of because it made me who I am, then there will always be the pain that's generated from losing that man and that life. It's going to be a process of learning to live with it from here on out. Knowing that sometimes it's going to be big and nasty and right in my face, blocking my way. Other times it might stay at my side, chattering all its nasty words, trying to get me to give up. Hopefully though, I will learn to train it to stay behind me. I will be aware of its presence because it will step on my heels on occasion, but I will be able to forget about it most days.

Brad is a divorced man, attempting to fashion some type of new life for himself. As much as I disagree with the way he's doing it, and the sadness it is causing his children, he is free to do it. He doesn't belong to me or our family anymore. God could have healed our marriage if He'd been given a fair shot. Of that I am certain. But my deep faith in that knowledge that he COULD have means as much to me as any actual healing. Because it means I know and trust He can do anything.

I think it's significant that the first miracle Jesus performed was changing the water to wine. In doing that, he was showing a powerful truth of who He is--He can CHANGE things. He can CHANGE outlooks. He can CHANGE situations. He can CHANGE me. Even I, wracked with fear and sadness and uncertainty, can be changed if I ask to be.

It's time for me to climb out, once again, from beneath this elephant-heavy pile of pain. It's time for me to get excited about all that could be again. It's time for me to start turning cartwheels in the front yard again, just because I feel like it.It's time to retake my happiness, and act instead of being acted upon. It's time for me to start making some big decisions, no regrets style. It's time for me to be changed.