Hemingway once said, “There is nothing to writing; all you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
In all my years of writing, I’ve avoided writing about the most vulnerable parts of my story. But maybe, just maybe, it’s my most broken parts that God will not only heal, but use to set others free in the process.
You who carried me in your womb, and delivered me into this world. You who nursed me, and taught me how to laugh. You who introduced me to music like The Eagles, Paula Abdul, Heart, Wilson Philips, Michael Jackson, and so many others. I cherish my memories of riding shotgun with you listening to music, singing every word while we drove down 85 through downtown Atlanta drinking Cokes.
We have walked such a broken road together. My heart has been shattered into a million pieces more times than I can count. Words said that you don’t remember, but I do. Late nights in places neither one of us should have been. Another fall down the stairs. Another call from the police. Another bottle poured down the sink and a tongue lashing that came after because you had spent your last few dollars on it and I wasted it.
I’ve poured out my soul on my knees begging for you to experience the shame-breaking, transforming, life-saving power of Jesus. I’ve told you over and over again that He loves you, that while we can’t change the past, as long as there is breath in your lungs there is hope for a brighter future. That He’s with you, He sees you, He loves you.
I know it sounds unbelievable; you’ve been disillusioned so many times, what would make this great love true?
What is the pain and shame you run from? It isn’t too far, too deep that He isn’t deeper still.
You are not too far, too broken, too lost for Him.
I understand that you loved me enough to let me go. I love you, and I see who God made you to be even if you don’t…yet. I believe that redemption is coming, and you will dance in beautiful peace and freedom.
I see you, Mom. I see who you were made to be: a free-spirit, a woman full of joy and laughter, a blonde beauty who loves horses and traveling and stupid movies. A woman who is loved and secure and free.
I see a woman cherished by the God who made her.
And so, Mom. I will write for you. I will write openly in the hopes that through these scars, through these battle-weary tears, perhaps someone else’s mom can be liberated from their own prison. Perhaps another daughter can be set free and experience the healing that comes when we let the river of God pour through our busted-up souls, forging tributaries of rich healing and resurrection in what was once sick and dead.
Your name is Hope. Hope is the anthem. It is for this hope that I pray, for this hope that I write. For this hope that I know I am responsible–a steward of the ministry of reconciliation; that you, that all of us, would be reconciled to our great God who has loved us, who delights in us, who sees us for who we really are and not for the shame we have carried.
I love you, Mom.
I’m not giving up, Mom.
I see you, Mom.MomMothers DayStory