We had a really long hard weekend.  Things that included seeing my parents’ old house for the last time as they are moving into separate places this week.  Their divorce is not final by any means, but selling your house and moving (officially) into separate places, well, I’d say that’s one step closer.  I went through their stuff to see if there was anything I wanted before they trashed it or sold it to strangers.  Do you know how surreal that is?  Things I have grown up with deemed not important enough to treasure, Christmas ornaments that the children and I have made for years now not worthy of anyone’s tree, childhood keepsakes relegated to a cardboard box that will be set on the road beside the banana peels and coffee grinds.

One of my sisters was there.  We moved through the remnants right there in front of my parents.  I felt like vultures circling, waiting for the prey to die.  The limping marriage that will shrivel up and be no more.

Most houses look larger without all of its furniture snugly in place.  This one felt small.  Much smaller than it’s previous boasting size at it’s over decorated beauty of the holidays.  Even my 11 year old noticed it.  While I was still unloading BabyGirl he came back outside after his first run in and told me how small it looked without all the couches and tables.  Small.  And shriveled like the hope inside it.

I was torn between taking everything I could fit into our van and forsaking it all.  It is after all just stuff.  And I don’t really have room for more stuff in this matchbox home that we have full of children and our own growing keepsakes.  I would alternately want to pack it all in and snatch away the memories, hold in my clutches the last of the marriage, the wholeness, the oneness and run away from it all certainly not wanting to bring home reminders of something that went so sour that was so ugly.  Torn.  My desires, like my heart, like the facade that some of us still held to, even though it was far from perfect.  It at least …. was … it at least … existed.

My children, especially the smaller ones, ran to and fro gathering little trinkets that they liked.  It was a free garage sale to them and they thoroughly enjoyed it, “Can I keep this watermelon ice bucket, Mama?!”  “Can I have this scarecrow box, Mama, keep it for always, take it home?!”  And I couldn’t find my usual voice to tell them no.  Yes.  Yes, you may.  Yes, you can keep yet another insulated cup.  I didn’t have the heart or stamina or will to say no.  Not on that day.

I finally broke after several hours there.  I cried.  Right there in front of my dad, my husband, and my children.  I tried to hide at the bottom of the stairs in front of that garage.  It was awkward.  Who was I, after all, to be sad.  This wasn’t happening to me and my marriage and my stuff.  But my dad and my husband smiled gently, set themselves aside for the weepy girl and said, “It’s okay, it’s understandable, it’s normal to feel this.”  My dad, comforting me, in his discomfort.  I explained to my children that my parents were divorcing.  And not in my usual P.C. way of smoothing over others’ decisions, and how we don’t know their reasons or motives, I blurted out that divorce is evil.  That ruins everything.  And it is.  And it does.  My sister called it a “nightmare” at one point.  Just this morning I overheard my children talking about bad dreams and nightmares and my 7 year old girl was explaining to 3 year old LittleBuddy what a nightmare was.  She said, ” it was like when you have bad thoughts and you go to sleep with them and see you things you never want to see and you try and try to wake up but if you don’t try hard enough you feel like you can’t for a long time.”  And that’s it.  Except no matter how hard I try there’s no waking up.  Because this isn’t my nightmare.  I’m just a bit player, a live studio audience that has no control over the script, the actors on the stage.

I kept looking at all the stuff that was being discarded.  And it was amazing to me how much there was.  So much stuff.  I know now it was an attempt at filling a need, an emptiness that just couldn’t be filled with garland and knicknacks.  I kept thinking how all the stuff in the world can’t bring happiness if the Giver of all good things is not the focus.

I watched my mom snuggle my 2 month old baby for only the second time ever.  And every time I had to take her from my mom I was heartbroken.  I wanted her to be able to sit there and cuddle her forever.  Because I know, this snuggle season is so very short.  And it’s being wasted on all this crap.  All this self-centered crap.  I want to yell to her that this season passes!  It passes in the blink of an eye and you’re missing it for all this crap!!!  Again, torn inside.  I want to yell and blame and be angry and in the same moment I want her to be able to sit there forever holding my baby because she deserves the soft unconditional love of a baby.  Of new life.  Of second chances.

We drove off that day with some wooden pumpkins, a sewing machine, a teapot, some antique stamps, and a broken heart.  We stopped on the way out at my dad’s new place, a little rented house, because as he says,”I’m 70.  I’m too old to be buying a house now and paying all those taxes on it.”  It has a big fenced back yard and even an inherited swingset that the kids fell in love with.  It has a porch that I can see sitting on swinging and having talks with dad.  It has his tv and recliners in it, but no bed yet.  He’s still sleeping in the old house for the last week.  This week of Thanksgiving and the irony isn’t lost on me.  And now I know why dad still sleeps at the old place.  For all the promise of that little house, it’s cold.  It has a gas floor heater that dad’s scared to use and he hasn’t bought alternate heat yet.  It was cold.  I wanted to make it warm for him.  I wanted to make it cozy.  But strength doesn’t want to be coddled.  And so I smiled.  And promised nonetheless to hang him some pictures on his wall.  Family name histories and pictures that he wasn’t sure about keeping.  But I convinced him I could make it pretty.  I could fix it.  I could arrange it so that he could be proud of his name again.

I was glad we had stopped by that cute cold house that he’ll make home.  I have a place to picture him now.  And I know he’s got a garden spot out back.  I know where he’ll watch politics and the game.

As we drove home in the falling dark I told Matt that I was one breath away from losing it.  That I could barely hold it in much longer.  He told me to let it go.  And I did.  The tears flowed and I exhaled.  The kids were confused and worried and Matt told them to imagine if “mom and daddy were to get a divorce” how they would feel.  There was quiet in the van except for my sniffles.  They got it.  And so did I.  It was an end.  Even when the story hasn’t been a great one, it was at least one.  Because even when it isn’t the best, it’s something.  It’s something that more than 2 lives are built on.  When a marriage breaks it doesn’t just shatter the husband and wife, it ripples and rips through all the relationships.  It will visit down to my children and theirs as they retell this story to their children someday.  I pray the legacy they have is that divorce is evil.  That promises are forever.  And when you break them; you break.  I hope they take from this that our actions are not just our own.  That the story we’re living out affects those around us in ways we may not can imagine.  And that you put yourself aside and do what’s right.  Even when you don’t feel like it.

Last night I sat with my girl going through pictures, sorting through memories because she wanted a new profile picture for her blog.  I sorted my own pictures in my own heart since Matt had to work all weekend and I was left alone with thoughts and children.  My girl chose this picture of herself.  It’s black and white.  All contrasts and no bright colors.  It reminds me of winter.  The winter that’s just around the corner.  It looks cold and it makes me think of the days to come for my dad as he sits in a house that isn’t his on holidays that aren’t decorated.  But there’s a smile in there.  A girl with a smile.  And I know, as does my dad more than me after all the seasons he’s seen come and go, though winter may be his least favorite with all the death and cold and pushed insideness, we know that there is a springtime around the corner.  Where we’ll emerge from our houses, our shells, and we’ll plant again, in the sunshine.  And there will be smiles.