Sometimes life is about getting hurt and learning to get up again…
I remember when I was in grade 4 or so… seeing my aunt out on the playground during recess and running to her… I stumbled on the gravel and hit my forehead really hard… hard enough to go the ER and have them check me out. I was fine but I had the worst scrape on my forehead.
I remember being in grade school and hearing one of the snotty girl in my class making fun of my brother’s clothes… right in front of me.
I remember not being asked to a banquet (the SDA version of a dance)… and pretending it was ok.
Hurts… then there are the big ones.
My first broken heart.
The first time my parents let me down.
Then it all changed.
Suddenly, when I became a mom, my hurts seems bareable compared to when one of my babes got hurt… physically or emotionally.
Sammy’s first shots. (I think those hurt me more than him).
Leaving Tyler at school for those couple of hours… JK… as he cried… every day for 6 weeks… and going to my car and crying my own tears.
Watching Zach having his appendix removed.
Here’s the thing… I never realized how much my heart would break as I tried to kiss their hurts away.
Last week, I watched Zach, as I was walking towards him during Track and Field, as he had just finished his big race. 800m? His face was in pain. The tears were just streaming down his face. I thought he was hurt.
He was hurt… he came in last after running his hardest. He gave it all he had. My heart hurt so much… I actually thought maybe I was having a heart attack. It sucks to not be good at something.
Now I am watching one of my boys struggle… really struggle. He has always been a big boy. Yet that is not what he would chose. He hates his bigness. Words… all those things that you can say don’t matter… He does not want to be big. Now in high school it matters. Who wouldn’t want to be one of those boys ( you know the obnoxious ones that walk around with the shirts off because they can…)?
Yesterday it was close to 100 Degrees Fahrenheit and my son had a sweat shirt on.. to hide in. We fought about it. I drove him to school and couldn’t help notice other kids doing the same thing.
I came home and wept.
My heart is breaking. I have a boy who is hurting so much and I can’t fix it.
(Pls… I know and we are working on diet, exercise and all that… but this is not the issue. This is how he is built.)
He has so diligently been working on “diet” while all around him folks eat the pizzas, ice creams, pop, etc. And he deprived himself of it all… Just to see the numbers go down on the scale.
I HATE that he can’t be a kid… and eat that treat without worrying or feeling guilty.
I hate that society is so focused on ones’ size. The comment is ALWAYS there… “Wow, he is a big boy!”
When your own grandparent comments on your size, in an ugly manner… how am I to convince him that my words matter not those mean ugly words?
I know the stats. I know that this is so serious. I know that along with this comes self esteem issues, comes depression and so much more scary stuff.
I thought I knew what pain was… but I didn’t… not until I am forced to watch this child that came from me… hurting … really hurting and I can’t put a bandaid on it.
I find myself begging God…
I find myself angry when I step on the scale and lose that pound (as much as I want this…) because really, I’d give that to him… if I could. I would take him unwanted weight and carry it if I could.
So… as we continue down this road together… I feel that pain, that sharp pain that seems to just spread… trying so hard to pass on that salve if only to dull the ache for him until…
Until what God?
Please… Help Me… Help Him.