Letting Go of Anger
Today is Halloween.
The kids and I met Stephen at his family's house. We visited with his family for a bit and then went out to take pictures and start trick-or-treating.
Stephen and I walked with our children from house to house, encouraging them to knock on doors and say thank you for the candy. We smiled at their excitement and reminded them to hold our hands as we crossed the road. We said hello to the neighbors and helped our babies open their treats.
Afterward, we rejoined his family for a little bit of dinner. We all talked and laughed. We teased each other and commented on how cute the kids were. Things were happy and lighthearted. For me, it all felt comfortable.
A few times, I passed Stephen on my way to the kitchen sink or as I walked into another room. Subconsciously, I wanted to reach out and grab his hand or put my arm around him. I didn't, of course, but a part of me still feels a little confused. A part of me misses a part of him. A part of me will always love a part of him.
When the kids and I got home, we told my mom about our adventures. After I described a cute interaction between Stephen and Baby Girl, my mom asked, "Was it awkward? Being there together?"
I hesitated only a moment. I remembered all the hard things that had passed through my heart and mind earlier in the day. I thought of my exhaustion and my personal pain. Those were the things that hurt. Those were the things that felt hard and awkward and confusing. But tonight, being together with my children, their dad, and their grandparents (who love me like I was born into their family), I felt whole. I felt safe. I was happy. It was right.
"No," I replied, "It wasn't awkward at all. It was really nice, actually."
I'm not in love with Stephen anymore. I know that it's right for us to get divorced. My happiness is no longer wrapped up in what he thinks of me. However, I still care about him and his happiness. Sometimes I do really miss him. I want the best for him and I want to be a friend to him. Most of all, I don't want to carry around a bunch of anger toward him.
I don't want to live my life being angry at Stephen in the back of my mind. I don't want my kids to ask questions about the divorce in 10 years, only to hear me respond with strained tones and thinly veiled disgust. I want them to love their dad as fully as possible. My children should not have to feel like they need to withhold love from one parent to please the other.
I also want to be able to teach my children what true forgiveness really looks like. I want to be able to say I have sifted through the painful things that have happened to me, understood my anger and fear, looked into the hearts of the people who caused my pain, and then fully and frankly forgave them.
I want to teach my children that they can do the same thing. I want to show them by example what it means to be compassionate. I want to understand what Christlike love, Christlike forgiveness, really looks like. I want to be like Him in that way.
I want to be able to love everyone like that. And maybe I can start by trying to love Stephen like that.
The kids and I met Stephen at his family's house. We visited with his family for a bit and then went out to take pictures and start trick-or-treating.
Stephen and I walked with our children from house to house, encouraging them to knock on doors and say thank you for the candy. We smiled at their excitement and reminded them to hold our hands as we crossed the road. We said hello to the neighbors and helped our babies open their treats.
Afterward, we rejoined his family for a little bit of dinner. We all talked and laughed. We teased each other and commented on how cute the kids were. Things were happy and lighthearted. For me, it all felt comfortable.
A few times, I passed Stephen on my way to the kitchen sink or as I walked into another room. Subconsciously, I wanted to reach out and grab his hand or put my arm around him. I didn't, of course, but a part of me still feels a little confused. A part of me misses a part of him. A part of me will always love a part of him.
When the kids and I got home, we told my mom about our adventures. After I described a cute interaction between Stephen and Baby Girl, my mom asked, "Was it awkward? Being there together?"
I hesitated only a moment. I remembered all the hard things that had passed through my heart and mind earlier in the day. I thought of my exhaustion and my personal pain. Those were the things that hurt. Those were the things that felt hard and awkward and confusing. But tonight, being together with my children, their dad, and their grandparents (who love me like I was born into their family), I felt whole. I felt safe. I was happy. It was right.
"No," I replied, "It wasn't awkward at all. It was really nice, actually."
I'm not in love with Stephen anymore. I know that it's right for us to get divorced. My happiness is no longer wrapped up in what he thinks of me. However, I still care about him and his happiness. Sometimes I do really miss him. I want the best for him and I want to be a friend to him. Most of all, I don't want to carry around a bunch of anger toward him.
I don't want to live my life being angry at Stephen in the back of my mind. I don't want my kids to ask questions about the divorce in 10 years, only to hear me respond with strained tones and thinly veiled disgust. I want them to love their dad as fully as possible. My children should not have to feel like they need to withhold love from one parent to please the other.
I also want to be able to teach my children what true forgiveness really looks like. I want to be able to say I have sifted through the painful things that have happened to me, understood my anger and fear, looked into the hearts of the people who caused my pain, and then fully and frankly forgave them.
I want to teach my children that they can do the same thing. I want to show them by example what it means to be compassionate. I want to understand what Christlike love, Christlike forgiveness, really looks like. I want to be like Him in that way.
I want to be able to love everyone like that. And maybe I can start by trying to love Stephen like that.
Comments
Post a Comment