“The day is coming a lot sooner than you think, and you will shed of excess weight.”
I lied awake in bed listening to the sounds of my children playing, disagreeing about sharing toys, water running in the bathroom paired with the the sound of brushing teeth. I noticed that
I’d been taking mental note of sound in these four walls lately as if it was a souvenir. I rolled over and grabbed my bible on the window sill nearest my side of the bed along with some notes I’d been taking on a sermon from T.D. Jakes, earlier that morning. For more than a few nights, I’d been waking up and pacing through these four walls, sitting on the couch and praying, and crying, and reading, and studying, and praying some more. Earlier that morning, I’d realized I was in a fight. Every pace through those four walls felt like a fight--not a physical fight, but a spiritual one--and this was going to be the fight of my life.
I allowed my feet to touch the ground. I stretched and I decided to look at the closet mirrors and smile back at me. I was then greeted in the hallway, “ Good morning Mommy, and Mommy, and Mommy, and Mommy, Christian said I couldn’t have his toy and that hurt my feelings.” I touched the top of his head, sat on the ground and hugged my littlest, tight. My oldest began walking over and said, “Mommy, Isaiah isn’t telling the truth and he really doesn’t deserve the toy anyway.” I grabbed him by the waist and pulled him down to the ground with us to join in the hug-fest and both silenced. As I hugged both of our sons, he walked over and said, “Good Morning Simone, did you sleep well?” I responded with a, “yes,” knowing sleep had been a thing of the past this week. The more I seemed to be saying, yes Lord throughout this week, I was consistently met with the challenge of discomfort--knowing a change was surfacing. This thought no longer served as an alarm, only confirmation of the spiritual shedding that would take form in the natural and it was beginning mentally.
The morning progressed and the smell of chocolate chip pancakes filled the common areas. We all sat down together and ate. We laughed with the boys. We laughed with each other. I cleared the table and he was right behind me following suit. I began washing the dishes and he right beside me cleaning the counter and stove top. We conversed. I thought to myself, “Whit, you are trippin’, you guys make sense.” I was later reminded, as I quickly paced and shuffled through the house to prepare myself and sons for church, that I was the only one moving, quickly. I turned to him and said, “you’re coming to church, right?” He turned to me and said, “you know what, you and the boys can just go.” I remember being infuriated--not with him, but with myself. I thought, “how did you allow yourself to revisit this same familiar destination again?” I sat on the edge of the couch, looked at the time and began talking myself out of attending church that day. In my anger I began rationalizing, “praise and worship is about to be over. Ugh you're so late anyway, you’re always late.” I almost began undressing myself then I remembered, old cycles, old behaviors and I got back up and I kept going.
That day was the first day I was greeted with a snapshot of myself and our sons filling the pews without Daddy. That day was the first day that every step down those stairs I took with our sons represented a testimony that God has positioned me to find words to share with myself and other women alike. That day was the first day I held both of their hands and mentally said, goodbye.