Whooooo. This has been a year and a half, tucked into a few measly months.
Soaked in self-pity, I walked to church today and skulked into a pew, feeling every inch the sinner I am. I've walked there every Sunday since I moved to Greenwood Lake in February. My rearview mirror, as I made that walk every Sunday, replayed awful scenes:
Yes, Jim and I divorced.. Yes, as I led our unimaginably forgiving friends who helped me load up 30 years of married life into a U-Haul and assorted vehicles, I felt like I was leading a funeral procession to a rental house that by some grace I was able to score. Yes, a lot of these problems and angst was, and still is, my own fault.
Guilt follows me on a tattered leash every Sunday as I drag myself down the sunlit streets to the handhewn stone church. I tuck myself into a pew and pray like hell. Most times lately, tears fall and I imagine people are wondering who the heck is this old woman who cries every Sunday? But I don't care.
Today, though, instead of greeting the ushers and making my way down the center aisle to my seat, I slink through the front door and slide down a side aisle to a pew. I'm in the middle of a Hail Mary when I hear someone sit down behind me and heave a heavy sigh - apparently I'm in her seat. I slide wayyyy down the pew to give room for her praying hands. Pretty soon I'm "entertained" by the banter she exchanges with her equally ancient friend. Their chitchat continues through the opening prayer. This is fun.
As is my wont, my brain has a hard time shutting down and scolds me the entire Mass. I distract myself by noticing a family a couple pews ahead of me. It's a mom and dad, two boys, and a grandmother. The mom's wearing a sweatshirt that says on the back, "Life is Better at the Lake" - a sentiment I see a lot around here.
I'm torn between enjoying the scene of the sweet family and memories of how I fucking failed as a mom most times. This is not new for me. It just comes flying back in hot streams sometimes, and this is one of those moments. I think of how I moved my Marty to what I thought was a safe, comfortable home - and he fell down the stairs and wrecked his ankle the second day we were there. I moved there so I could walk our dog Freckles to the dog park - and I did, where two uncontrolled huge dogs attacked her. In breaking up that dog fight, I somehow injured my right arm, which aggravated an existing lymphedema and now I have a painful club of a swollen hand and arm like a Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon.
And now I fear we are losing Freckles. Our 14-year-old pup developed an ear infection a couple days ago, and her confusion and vertigo are beyond help at this point. Antibiotics and antifungals are fighting it, and I KNOW patience is what's really needed. And prayer.
Back to church this morning. I lined up for communion, still feeling defeated and unworthy. Then I caught sight of that mom's sweatshirt ahead of me: It was wrinkled and folded from sitting in the pew. All I could see was this:
"Life is Better"
A sign? I hope so.
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