One Hundred Percent

“A Pair of Shoes”

Author Unknown

 

I am wearing a pair of shoes.
They are ugly shoes.
Uncomfortable shoes.
I hate my shoes.
Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair.
Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step.
Yet, I continue to wear them.
I get funny looks wearing these shoes.
They are looks of sympathy.
I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs.
They never talk about my shoes.
To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable.
To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them.
But, once you put them on, you can never take them off.
I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes.
There are many pairs in this world.
Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them.
Some have learned how to walk in them so they don’t hurt quite as much.
Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt.
No woman deserves to wear these shoes.
Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman.
These shoes have given me the strength to face anything.
They have made me who I am.

Yesterday and today have been hard. We went to visit Aidan's grave yesterday on our way home from our friends wedding weekend in Ft. Worth. They are finally done with installing everything. The last thing they installed was a granite base around Aidan's flower urn. Everything just looks beautiful. It was chilly yesterday, but the sun was out. The weather here in Texas is that where it is cold in the shade but nice in the sun because you can still feel some warmth. Aidan's grave is under a tree and so he gets the morning sun and the afternoon shade.

As we walked up to his grave I started to cry, as I normally do, and then as we got closer I couldn't catch my breath and couldn't stop. It's been a little over 3 months since we had him, 3 months since we buried him. As I looked down on his headstone I couldn't help but think about his beautiful face and precious hands, his chubby little body and how all of this is in a box just below my feet. All that was Aidan is boxed up. Boxed up in a casket, in a photo album, in a shadow box, in an "Aidan" file on my computer and in my email box. I hate boxes.

We read him a story. We read the Dr. Seuss story of Horton Hatches the Egg. I had never read this before and I just loved it. I love how he promised to protect the egg and continued to sit on the egg through all kinds of trouble and torment and kept repeating "I meant what I said and I said what I meant, And an elephant's faithful, one hundred per cent!" It reminded me of me and Aidan. When I was blessed with Aidan I promised him and God that I would take care of him and love him and even through the storm we battled together I did what I said I would. I carried him and loved him and cared for him as long as God allowed me to. I did what I said and I said what I meant, And I was faithful one hundred per cent. After our story I laid myself on top of Aidan's grave and sobbed. I laid my cheek across the cold granite of his headstone and laid my body on top of the ground outstretched my arms and sobbed for my son. I wanted to reach down through the earth and bring him up and hold him again. I wanted my son back.

Each day it is a tiny bit easier, but there are still days like Sunday when the pain still feels fresh. As the holidays approach I am so afraid of the pain that lurks behind every corner. It hurts my heart to read about the family holiday parties planned in my neighborhood, to read about other people's plans with their children. I am dreading the Christmas cards of new babies. If there was a way to block seeing babies or pregnant women on the street, on T.V. or any other place I would. I just don't want to see it. I don't want to be reminded of what I have lost, but no matter what I do I can't escape it. Everywhere I go there they are, mothers pushing strollers, parents talking about their kids, there is no where to hide. I want to much to go up to them and say..."I'm a mother too! Can I tell you about my son? About how beautiful he was?" but no one wants to hear about that, no one wants to know that babies die. So I watch the other mothers push their strollers around the neighborhood, or run after their toddler darting into the street and I nod and smile and keep it all inside and hope that one day it won't hurt so much.

So, I continue to pray for better days, to pray for the health of my ailing family and to pray for healing for my aching heart.

Love, Me.