“Now is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is perhaps, the end of the beginning” ~ Winston Churchill
The words “it is finished” can easily become something of an impossibility to me. My natural tendency is to think, ” If I just try harder–if I just love more– I can make things right. I know I can.” I desperately need to shift my heart and mind from this paradigm where everything depends upon me and how hard I try. The end, as well as the beginning, are God’s alone. Not mine. I cannot change anything. To believe it’s all up to me and my efforts is actually a lack of trust and faith in God and His complete sovereignty. It takes great faith to rest in God enough to accept and believe He makes no mistakes. He determines when any task – poem, a painting…or even the life of my son, is finished. And that does not make me a loser, a coward, or a quitter. I need to have the faith and the courage to hold on. While at the same time, to release.
Knowing when to stop is as important as knowing when to begin.
For me, the stopping is by far the hardest part of anything I try to do. At first I flattered myself by calling my tenacity “courage”. Or perhaps I would concede that I was a “creative perfectionist”. But as time has passed, I have finally had to admit to my myself that at times these qualities were actually just plain stubborn willfulness. Yes, I do mean that endearing quality we have all seen in a naughty 3 year old having a tantrum at the grocery store. I have to admit, I don’t like being told “no”. I have a bad habit of setting up unrealistically high standards for myself. Saying,“This is a good effort. It’s good enough” are words I have had to force myself to learn to say. I am my own worst enemy. Worse yet, my Great Expectations often spill over into expecting the nearly impossible from other people in my life.
Conversely, I am a natural people lover. I very much enjoy the uniqueness I see in every individual I meet. Each person is one of a kind. There are no two people exactly alike. Not even identical twins.
Each of us wears unmistakable delightful differences. Though created by the same Author, we are like the snowflakes; even down to our fingertips, where we each bear the mark of our only-ness. Our fingerprints.
The following writing is not filled with fictional, entertaining stories. This is a a true story. Or rather true stories strung together like the pearls of a necklace. It is my desire that this small, good enough effort might bring some comfort to those who have lost a loved one way too soon. That it may help to put to rest the unanswered questions we all live with. The why? of circumstances beyond our comprehension. I believe there are many times within our lives we must accept the unanswered and leave those questions in our Father God’s open hands.
And most of all, my reason for writing is to help bring suffering people the precious gift…of peace.
.
Mother’s Love …Deepest Love
Every dream I’ve ever dreamt
lies smashed and broken.
For I am the wilted flower,
crushed underfoot and spent.
All the hopes I hoped for
have become a howling empty wind.
And yet again,
my Great Expectations
remain unspoken,
as if they were a sin.
To bury your teenage child
leaves a wound so painful,
something within the
breast of a mother’s heart
can never heal.
It becomes a cry of despair.
The damage is done,
and has become forever~~
beyond repair.
Her anguish never ceases.
For what could possibly
erase her pain,
restoring her completeness?
Nothing. Until at last her
broken heart welcomes
its final beat.
As her earthly life
slowly comes to
its long awaited end.
All that she desires
is to see her son again.
That will be
her sweet reward.
Not even death itself
could ever sever.
For between Mother and Son,
there remains an indestructible cord.
A cord that lasts forever.
~~tricia woodworth February 10, 2011
