There’s a type of healing that begins in the shadows. In the dark night of the soul. In the hidden corners and lonely rooms. When inexplicable light carves out a home in those places, they become a sort of comforting that doesn’t make sense.
But at some point, we have to face that thing which threatened to overtake us.
In short, we can’t stay hidden forever. The healing that has only just begun, kind of demands it.
In January of 2019, after a very, very difficult fall semester, we finally gained some clarity and discovered that our oldest had been bullied at school basically since the year began. This had triggered his anxiety / trauma to put his body into hyper drive. A home which was formally peaceful became chaotic. Tears and anger ruled and threatened to overtake each of us in different ways.
Some days felt like a sort of hell had entered and refused to leave.
We retreated, because sometimes that’s the only option. We brought our sweet boy home and homeschooled till the year was over. In an effort to take care of the four of us, we withdrew from everything around us. Isolation took over. Loneliness set in.
But, then, so did healing. When there was nothing else around us, we began to watch kindness seep back in. We watched hearts and minds begin to heal. We saw new and healthier patterns be formed in each of us. In short, we saw hope.
Don’t get me wrong, many days these things were only glimmers, easily missed in the chaos of parenting through trauma. But they were there. In the long snuggles, the forts, the early morning park days.
Last month, we started a new school for both kids. J’s third school in as many years, E’s first year of kindergarten. We walked into school that day weary and worn out. We felt confident it was the right place, but I couldn’t have predicted how it would go.
Healing that had only just begun in isolation started to flourish in the light. We watched our children face a new school with bravery we didn’t know they had. There were tears, yes. There was overwhelming exhaustion at the end of the day. But there was also goodness. Pride. Kindness. A kind of rest. Hell was being pushed back, hope was coming to reign.
But, then. Then I held my sweet 5 year old as she kicked and screamed because kindergarten is hard and exhausting.
Then I counseled my 7 year old as he shared mean words from other kids at school directed at him.
And for a moment I wanted to run and to retreat and to go back to the quietness and privacy of our home.
But, then. Then, I saw all that we had been striving for begin to come to fruition. I watched a 5 year old cry but then choose snuggling and joy. I watched her blossom with incredible new found knowledge. I watched my brave boy speak boldly to those classmates and to his teachers.
I watched as brave children walked into school, tears and all, and chose to connect. Chose to express. Chose to advocate for themselves and for each other. I watched as they greeted each other with joy at the end of each day.
I mean, sure, they had literally moved furniture to barricade themselves inside their room to keep from going one morning (at least they used teamwork), because isolation can sometimes seem very appealing. Partial light in the comforts of home, can pull us back so easily. Healing is work. Sometimes fighting for it can seem just. too. hard.
But they also walked out of that room. They got dressed and brushed their teeth. They walked to school and used their words.
But, then.
There’s a type of healing that begins in the quiet, in the dark, in the ordinary, yes. But that beginning is nothing compared to the solidified healing that happens when we re-emerge.
Part of me wanted to cut and run when I heard of more mean comments on only the 4th day of school. It triggered all the trauma in us from the previous year. But then I watched as I saw what the Father had begun to weave through my children: A kind of strength that isn’t free of tears, but also isn’t bound by them; A kind of strength that fights for good and for hope, even when a loud voice is telling you to retreat; A kind of strength that is uniquely forged in pain. A kind of strength that is teaching me, daily.
Friends, this is a new season for the O’Brien 4. We’re still adjusting. Somedays, if I’m honest, can seem impossibly hard. Our oldest is gripped by a pain that he didn’t choose and anxieties he didn’t create. These things don’t get better so much as he gains tools that help him manage them more effectively. We are all a special kind of tired.
But, then. Then I see goodness emerge amidst impossible odds. Through my tears I watch mercy and grace come crashing in. And even while completely and utterly exhausted, I can’t help but be thankful.
By 6:15 a.m. we found ourselves here. Two kids playing with Legos, wide awake. I clung to my coffee and read my Bible and they played kindly. E had already gotten herself dressed for the day. At 6:15 in the morning.
I love a good laugh.
And just like the usually-not-so-nice cat that God used to comfort me in the midst of our infertility, this stroller, this tool, this inanimate object, became sacred. After having looked at the stroller for more than a year, when I put Jamie in the bassinet that first night (and checked on him roughly 135 times), it felt as though it was more than a bed. I was wrapping my baby in the longings of my heart. I was placing him to rest, in the prayers of our family and friends, in the generosity of his grandparents. I was, ultimately, laying him on the altar that I had met and worshipped God at for more than a year.
People have asked us what it’s like for J and E in our new home. Yesterday on our way home from picking J up from school, E brought them each a matchbox car. And they rolled those cars on every building and fence that we passed. A three block walk to the subway which normally takes 10 minutes took us 25. Because they were moving at their own pace. And as they passed each person they received sweet smiles and more than a few chuckles. A few people played along with their game. They made it onto the subway where people went out of their way to make sure they could sit together with me. And they continued to talk and laugh.
Earlier that day Eliza played in a sandbox with a friend (while I had some much needed adult conversation that friend’s mom) and she negotiated sand toys with a few other kids in the box, too. (There are sandboxes everywhere in NYC and everybody comes with the expectation that toys will be shared). Parents sat on the side and taught our little people how to ask politely and share what they had with those around them. We laughed as they snatched toys away. Kids are kids everywhere. But in a large city they have to learn to be citizens from a young age.
Now, for our beautiful, spunky, brave daughter we have pictures and stories and actual real people who made a brave decision for her good. We have evidence of love in the midst of the brokenness. We have people she will meet and talk to and hear from one day. And her story begins with pain but it gets to redemption a whole lot quicker. But the pain. The pain is still there. Don’t think for a moment that it’s gone away. She and her birth family feel this pain.
And on more than one occasion I have rocked my baby boy to sleep while he wept. And this is not my J. Except that it is. My beautiful boy has pain so deep that even his own mother forgets that it’s there. Until it comes in and wrecks us all.
(Simply)Laugh 