July 20, 2008
As I opened one particularly musty box, I was thankful that the Texas heat necessitated crisp air-conditioning in every home. Each time I come back, I notice the difference just a little bit more.
This afternoon was dedicated to pouring through my old things--sorting boxes into new boxes--what I should save versus what to trash or give away. The final box was miniature linens--doll bedding, a little mattress, the little silk patchwork quilt my grandmother made. I lifted piece by piece, soaking in the smell of myself from well over fifteen years ago. Then I saw her--the baby doll I drug around from age one to whenever I was finally convinced I was too old for dolls. I held her close to my heart and breathed in. The old blanket she was wrapped in caught a few more tears as they fell through my closed eyes--a few more tears to add to all the ones she'd dried long ago. All of a sudden, the walls I'd built around my heart didn't feel so sturdy.
I carried Baby with me as I finished putting things away. Making my way to the other side of the bed, I knelt beside my doll chest and opened its fragile wooden doors. I was almost afraid to touch them, to thumb my way through the years represented by so many dresses and shoes. Instead, I collapsed, Baby in my arms, onto my bed. My mom watched it all silently, herself trying not to cry. I think she could feel it too--my heart actually breaking. I found my softness there in those worn cloth hands and chipped blue eyes. Baby still smiled.
"Do you want me to leave you alone for a little while?"
"No it's alright."
A pause. She walked around to sit beside me. Her small-town Tennessee accent melted through her words, "Well I'm afraid if I stay, I'm liable to cry too." And she did.
I looked up through my own tears and whispered a secret I've been so afraid to ask for so long: "Do you think that one day I'll have a little girl who will play with these dolls again?"
"Yes, honey, I know it. You will. God knows. He knows the desires of your heart..."
I'd forgotten them. Buried them, walled them out, or burned them away.
But God remembered. He helped me find myself once again.
This afternoon was dedicated to pouring through my old things--sorting boxes into new boxes--what I should save versus what to trash or give away. The final box was miniature linens--doll bedding, a little mattress, the little silk patchwork quilt my grandmother made. I lifted piece by piece, soaking in the smell of myself from well over fifteen years ago. Then I saw her--the baby doll I drug around from age one to whenever I was finally convinced I was too old for dolls. I held her close to my heart and breathed in. The old blanket she was wrapped in caught a few more tears as they fell through my closed eyes--a few more tears to add to all the ones she'd dried long ago. All of a sudden, the walls I'd built around my heart didn't feel so sturdy.
I carried Baby with me as I finished putting things away. Making my way to the other side of the bed, I knelt beside my doll chest and opened its fragile wooden doors. I was almost afraid to touch them, to thumb my way through the years represented by so many dresses and shoes. Instead, I collapsed, Baby in my arms, onto my bed. My mom watched it all silently, herself trying not to cry. I think she could feel it too--my heart actually breaking. I found my softness there in those worn cloth hands and chipped blue eyes. Baby still smiled.
"Do you want me to leave you alone for a little while?"
"No it's alright."
A pause. She walked around to sit beside me. Her small-town Tennessee accent melted through her words, "Well I'm afraid if I stay, I'm liable to cry too." And she did.
I looked up through my own tears and whispered a secret I've been so afraid to ask for so long: "Do you think that one day I'll have a little girl who will play with these dolls again?"
"Yes, honey, I know it. You will. God knows. He knows the desires of your heart..."
I'd forgotten them. Buried them, walled them out, or burned them away.
But God remembered. He helped me find myself once again.
No comments:
Post a Comment