The revisiting of old wounds

can make room for unexpected extra special blessings, Part 1

Me at 23 greeting friends Joe and Lydia at my wedding.

Kelton Wright

closes her recent post speaking about change,

That is, after all, the sign a person isn’t ready: that they think not being ready matters; that they think shedding their skin for a new one isn’t something they can do again and again and again; that those skins aren’t the most beautiful sign of life there is.

Moved to tears, I resonate with Kelton's words about the gift of shedding skin, especially when what we leave behind is pain. I had a major shed a few years ago, and it seems I’m once again in the process. But I'm here to tell you, the journey of personal growth is worth it, and my new skin is oh so soft.

I’ve always maintained that life balances over time. By that, I mean we all have our hardships, tragedies, and secrets. But I've come to realize that these experiences, as painful as they may be, are life's greatest teachers. If we remain positive and open, at some point, we will reap the reward, learn the lesson, and understand that without the contrast, we might never appreciate the immense blessings we will undoubtedly also receive along the way.

This is a two- or three-part story about arriving at a few of those healing passages, moments that have shaped me and my family in profound ways. Stay tuned for the full narrative.

For those of you who haven’t heard, I’m currently visiting Amy, my 36-year-old daughter, to host the baby shower for her first child and my first grandchild. The joy of this moment is beyond words, and we were fortunate to schedule the shower a week after Mother’s Day, making it a double celebration of two special events in one week.

Nearly fifty years ago…

I ask my mother for only one thing on my wedding day, that she attend sober. It’s my only ask. She hasn’t been involved in any of the planning. She has not attended either of my bridal showers. I no longer remember the excuses she gave for not coming. Nor has she visited the venue or seen my wedding dress. She suggests we elope. She does, perhaps at my father’s urging, agree to donate toward the wedding. It’s a modest amount, but we are thankful for the help.

My mother does not oblige me. She does not come falling-down drunk, but she is far from sober. I ignore her to the best of my ability throughout the ceremony and reception. She smiles for the cameras hanging onto my father’s arm, seemingly needing his help to stand up straight. There are dark circles beneath her eyes that I’ve never seen before. I can only imagine the binge she’s been on in anticipation of my special day.

I am 23 years old. My mother is an alcoholic— a drunk-on-Christmas-morning alcoholic. Some might define her actions as a slow suicide. I would agree. Three years after my wedding she becomes deathly ill. It is only then that she quits drinking, cold turkey, to her credit. But after 27 years and more disappointment than I care to remember, it’s sadly too little too late to become close.

October of 2023 my daughter married her beloved Michael. She asked me as well as her father to walk her down the aisle, an honor that put old wounds to bed. Gloriously, there was very little of the wedding planning that I wasn’t involved with or at least aware of. I left behind some skin that glorious day. I thought it would be fun to reminisce before we head into this week of continued healing. Join me?

Wedding day dreams

Next week Part 2, a glorious Mother’s Day gift.