Acceptance Letter

Wednesday Feb 17 2021  |  10:04 am

Rain drops landed on my cheeks and the tops of my feet as I walked to the mailbox, letters in hand. I lifted the little red flag, lowered the door, and stood the letters up, leaning against the left side, waiting with ease to be lifted and carried on the next leg of their journey. I walked back inside, tidying as I went, always tidying as I go. I closed my eyes and imagined the kind of smile that I smile when I get surprise mail, stretching across the faces of my beloved ones who will receive letters soon. 

“I am a good friend,” I thought to myself. I imagined writing those words down. And those words blanketed me, and then instantly the paper I imagined was up in flames. Somewhere, some time, I have not been a good friend. I can’t say I am a good friend, because I have not always been a good friend. The standard of everything for me, is only perfection. Anything less is utter failure.  

Someone we love died on Monday. I marked the date and time that the text message arrived. I sat with my tears, a pen and a page, and I let my heart ache as I prepared to tell my children. I steadied myself to catch their tears and hold them stable, and as I did, I saw a glimpse of it, so clearly: this is the time that I am a good mom. I wiped my eyes and cheeks and neck and I took deep breaths. I joined them at the dinner table and made sure they had full bellies before upending their world with words of loss. I held them as they trembled, as their ache came out of their eyes and mouths, as they lamented, as they held silent, as death came closer to their lives, I made sure they were held. My touch was constant in hopes they would never have to wonder if they are alone with their grief. I held until the waves calmed just enough, and I told them how water cleanses not just dirt from our skin but ache from our hearts. I ran water warm from the tap for their pains. I boiled water and poured honey, preparing sacred tea time to soothe their souls. I snuggled them close in my bed, our wet heads huddled together, and I read them stories. I tucked them in and kissed them extra.
When I was alone again, I said: I am a good mom. 

But the next day, I yelled. And I served microwaved lunch on a paper plate. And I put a movie on when I needed a break. And the toddler got out and down the street before I could catch up with him and bring him back. I scrolled my phone instead of listening to a story my daughter was telling. I cursed at a kid who broke a promise. I threatened instead of engaging. I emptied my rage into the air of the kitchen when I couldn’t just nourish us with ease. I ended the day with regrets.

How could I be a good mom with all those failings? Don’t they just wash away the momentary good from before?

I can look at anyone else — everyone else — and see their overwhelming good through any and all shortcomings… but why do I withhold this freedom from myself? Why don’t I step outside of my grind and see how beautiful I am? How tender my heart, how earnest and persistent my smile. How precious, even, are my worries. How big my heart for people, how holy my value of truth. How radiant my moments of joy that cannot be contained. How delightful my attempts at holiness, how sacred my perseverance to exist. How honest my striving toward wholeness. How heavy and holy my vigilant doing, how fragile and perfect my morsels of being. 

Lee Anne, you have oft felt like your name doesn’t fit you; the syllables don’t feel quite right. The long E sound leaves you feeling hard when all you want to be is soft. But the meaning is there, and it is true to the beauty of who you are: you are a whole meadow of grace. A wide open field of love and understanding where people can come and be their whole selves, take a deep breath, see beauty, and be cared for.

You are a glorious human being who will thrive and love being alive as you learn to honor the limitations of your humanity, as you learn to speak the language of self care and mark the boundaries that will give you space to call your own: your identity, your home.

3 thoughts on “Acceptance Letter”

  1. It’s so good to hear your truths and see where they match mine and challenge me. I can feel your heartbeat in these words. You ARE a good mom. You ARE a good friend. You are also a human. Thank you for sharing friend!!!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Thanks!

    I started with this post and read all the way back to “Revolutionary Love.” If your copy of The Book of Longings is available to borrow, I’d like to read it. If not, no problem – I’ll get a copy from Bozos.

    Your writing workshop clearly is bearing fruit – luscious, juicy, and nourishing to the soul … your own as writer and the reader as your beloved muse. I’m quite proud of you, as always. I only wish I could be more comfort to you in the darknesses when they descend, or when they rise up from below like a blackwater flood. I trust you know I’m here anytime you need.

    Love, actually, really, truly, dad

    Liked by 2 people

  3. I love this piece, Lee Anne. I also love your name. And I think you’re an incredible mom all the time. So if you keep talking crap about my bestie I’m gonna have to set you straight. Lol

    No, but really. I loved this. I love that you confronted those negative thoughts in you vulnerably and boldly. The truth is that those REALLY GOOD moments weigh more than the REALLY BAD ones. No matter how many regrets you have at the end of the day, your kids will never forget that you have given them the gift of your presence day in and day out. You forgive them each morning, and sometimes three times by breakfast. You hug and love on them every night. You take them on dates and love them in the most beautiful Lee Anne way.

    Thank you for writing this. ❤️

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s