Catching Idle Butterflies

My point?

So what was the point of this little exercise? Why bring up things that happened so long ago? The answer is two fold.

I’ve come to the conclusion in the last five years I am exactly like my mother. One is our tendency to hide things. I’ve been on the receiving end of that secrecy along with my sister and step dad, and it frustrates us to no end. For instance, ten years ago she had a kidney biopsy. Luckily it came back as nothing wrong, but instead of letting me know that, she lied and explained her pain away by saying she had a cold. I found out only because Margaret told me, and the only reason Margaret knew is because Mom needed a ride to the hospital.

Mom just purchased a tract of land up here to spend the summers; the modular home she bought should be set on the lot before the end of May. I called her to verify a few things, and since Tom answered, I told him what was going on. To my utmost shock, Tom had no idea what I was talking about. When Mom finally came on the phone, she expressed her disappointment that I told him. Since then he has called me more than once asking more questions and expressing his frustrations about how silent Mom is with everything.

I’ve come to realize I’ve been doing the same with Dave, and the rest of my family. While I haven’t bought property and a house without informing Dave first, I have made other purchases without saying a word. He doesn’t much care because it’s my money and I can spend it however I chose. But that’s not the point. The point is as husband and wife, we’re supposed to share our lives, and lately it’s been a one-way effort.

That goes with emotionally as well. I desperately don’t want Dave to end up as frustrated with me as Tom is with my Mom, yet that’s the direction I have been going. When I’m upset, frustrated, in the mood to simply cry for no reason at all, I stay mum, holding it in until I’m alone. Even when he perceives my mood and asks what’s wrong, I say I’m fine. He knows I’m lying, but doesn’t push me. I know he wonders if I’m mad at him. Sometimes I am, but not always. Regardless, he deserves to know how I feel. I want him to know how I feel. Not only will that strengthen our marriage, but my emotional and physical health will improve.

I have had many opportunities to share how God has been with me through my most terrible times in my Disciple class, but every time someone has asked me how, I’ve clammed up, unwilling to share. Everyone else has given a tender piece of themselves, but I can’t. I’m tired of that. Constantly hiding what I feel and think takes more work and energy than I’m willing to expend any more.

But I realized I couldn’t do that until I delved into my past and discover the reasons for this fear of exposing myself.

I found a prison. The first four lessons I wrote about were the cornerstones of this prison. Lesson five described the bricks and mortar I used to complete it, hiding myself inside. Before writing these down and placing them in my blog, I thought tearing down that prison would be near impossible. While difficult, enough so I wanted to quit more than once, I finally saw these experiences as being, if not inconsequential, surmountable. None of these incidences were so terrible, but merely things we all experience in one form or another growing up.

For instance, in Lesson 1, learning Lassie was just a television show and Timmy was never in any danger is a good thing.

Lesson 2 taught me people will take advantage of me if I let them. If someone asks me to do something against my better judgment, I can always say no.

In Lesson 3, I learned children can be cruel. It didn’t get any better as I grew up, but knowing that at nine helped me to survive junior high and high school.

Lesson 4 probably saved my life more than once. Through this experience, I learned to be wary, especially from those whose kindness seems out of place. Without that wariness I could have trusted the wrong person and ended up kidnapped or worse.

I held a grudge against both my sister and my mother for the longest time for treating me the way they did. My mom I forgave first when I discovered she said those things, like many of you have surmised, not to be cruel, but to strengthen me. She saw how tender and trusting I was, and that must have scared her to death.

Margaret I didn’t forgive until our twenties. On a drive to Denver to see our grandparents, with just the two of us in her car, she apologized. “I was so cruel to you,” she said, “and you didn’t deserve it.”

Although I agreed she was cruel, I did forgive her.

She then went on to say, “I was so jealous of you.”

Jealous of me? Was she kidding? I thought.

“You got away with murder. You were the baby of the family, people were always bending over backwards to help you, and me they left alone as if I could take care of myself.”

I had to laugh at this point. “Margaret,” I said, “I was jealous of you. I agree everyone treated me like a baby, and I hated that. I felt as though everyone thought I was stupid and couldn’t take care of myself. I wanted to be treated like you, to be left alone and not catered to all the time.”

Amazing the irony of our jealousies. I hated her because of how she was treated, and she hated me for the same reason.


Ever since that day, Margaret and I have been good friends. Speaking of which, I owe her an email . . .

I chose the new title and subtitle of my blog along with the Scripture from Luke with careful thought. I hoped more than I knew revealing these parts of my past would be like a child turning on the bedroom light and discovering the monster in the corner is only her teddy bear.

Through these last entries, I find I’m not surrounded by monsters after all. In all the comments you’ve added, that scared little girl inside me now knows people won’t hate or judge me for being who I am, for feeling how I feel. This also means I can shine light into other dark corners of my past with more courage, and know more than hope I won’t find monsters but teddy bears in disguise.

But those can wait. I’d rather talk about other things.