The Gray Area

As I sat in the waiting room for Georgia’s therapy, anticipating to be called back, another mother & her daughter sat next to us.  Her daughter was adorable, chunky, and full of smiles.  I watched as she held her mother’s phone, smiling at the screen.  I wondered what that was like… to have your child hold something you handed her.
A little boy came in and sat with his grandmother.  As Georgia’s toy lit up and made sound, he came running over, and grabbed it before I could stop him.  I felt rude as I ripped it away and said loudly, “Please don’t touch her!”  His grandmother picked him up, and he cried as I rubbed everything down in hand sanitizer. “Sorry,” she said, “We didn’t realize how sensitive she is.”
I could taste the disdain in her voice.  I told her it was okay, and I was sorry, but I wasn’t. You’re right, lady, she is sensitive.  I wanted to ramble the list of things that make her so damn “sensitive” but instead I apologized to her.  Why?
I caught myself venting to our therapist about the moment, but I could tell she didn’t quite get it.  It’s hard to understand that a simple touch from a well-meaning kid could land us in the emergency room again.
And as I watch another little boy getting his assessment, I can hear his mother recount the details of the accident.  Is it worse for her than it is for me?  She had a healthy child who spoke and played and ate real food, but she lost that.  I never even had it at all.  Does she look at me and my daughter in pity because I can’t even get her to push a button?  Do we make her feel grateful for what she does have?
Ever since Karson passed, I can feel myself wallowing in this dark place.  A place where, I see my daughter, my life, only as I assume others see me.  I remember one time watching this video of women describing their own looks.  They spoke of wrinkles and pores and dark spots.  They could only see the negative.  Then the video showed how others described them… how their eyes lit up or the way their smiles curved.  Maybe I am constantly assuming others are judging me as harshly as I judge myself.
I don’t know where this whole post was going.  Whether it was the rantings of an annoyed mom or just a deep look into my soul lately, but I can feel Satan tugging and pulling on the strings of my soul.  The negativity, the darkness, the heaviness… it’s been winning and I need to get back to God so I can see the light again.  I think God is trying to point me somewhere, but I have been too blinded by my own selfish sadness to see it.  These small moments, my reactions, my frustrations, perhaps they are God speaking to me.  I just haven’t been quiet enough to listen.1280x1280.jpg

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