The look on her face said that she was stunned. Dumbfounded. Maybe even in awe.
She stared at herself in the full-length mirror. Mesmerized. Taking in the moment in all its fullness and
revelation. And then she burst
into tears.
She had been trying on wedding dresses with most of her
sisters all afternoon. There were
8 or 9 of us in a semi-circle taking over half the dressing area – all there
for a single purpose – finding a dress for my daughter’s wedding. Other than
the super-sized crowd of witnesses consisting of less than half of my mega-clan
of kids, it was a pretty much normal wedding shopping experience.
We all searched through the racks passing quick judgment on
every dress, “Too frilly. Too old
looking. Hate the neckline. Too much boobage. Not enough bling. Who would ever wear THAT? Gorgeous – but I could buy a car for
that price.” Rarely did two of us
agree on the perfect dress. Our
tastes are all vastly unique.
But we all know “the” dress when we see it. And this was hers. With tears streaming and black mascara flowing freely down her light brown skin, we all giggled and
gushed – knowing that this dress was perfect.
With seven brides so far – and another 9 or so daughters waiting
for Mr. Right - we are becoming fairly accustomed to the wedding planning
process! Small budget. Tiny by most standards. And the bride comes first. Find the perfect dress and accessories
– make her feel more special than ever before - and then decide everything else with whatever money remains!
But sometimes, I realize that I’m not prepared at all for
what happens. And today was one of
those days.
Today, as I watched her wiping her tears and still gazing
into the mirror, I realized that these weren’t just the usual bride tears. I know this child. I know her history. I know the ongoing trauma that she
endured at the age when most young girls are playing dress-up in old prom
dresses, creating make-shift veils and wobbling around on heels far to high for
their unstable feet.
This child. My
child. Had no frame of reference
for such a dream. My little girl
was struggling to survive the nightly abuse, while other little girls were free
to imagine and play.
I stared at her.
In awe of the femininity this particular dress exposed. Amazed at the glimpse I was being given
into her soul. The part of her
that dared to dream for something more than pain.
There were oohs and ahhs and woo who’s coming from the
semi-circle as we all expressed our approval. Aware of the significance of this exact moment in her life,
I say almost quietly above the
crowd noise, “Binky, you have never imagined this moment before now, have you?”
She looks at me, wiping her tears with her now black
fingers, “No. Never,” she manages to get out before the tears start rushing out
again.
She doesn’t need to say more. I get it. I get
that for at least that moment - she is finally free of some of her demons. She is finally free to see herself as
God intended her. Perfect and
beautiful. And maybe, just
maybe. For that moment. She doesn’t see herself as damaged
goods – unworthy of love and respect.
And I am there to witness God in all his glory. Working in the heart of my hardened
child. Ready to heal her from her
past.
Postscript: And that, my friends, is the answer to the constant question,
“How do you do this?” I am able to
endure all the pain and heartache and trouble and sacrifice because every once
in a while, I am allowed a mere glimpse of the potential life that has been
entrusted to me. And that is
enough to keep me motivated.
