Wounded.

I burnt myself yesterday. It hurt a lot. Three-inch diameter second degree burn on my abdomen, plus some lovely first on the sides with these pretty blisters. I cried for a long time and then I made my mother come over and look after me for a little while, which was nice.

And today I felt better, but it still hurt – it hurt to sit, to lie down on my side or tummy (my ALMOST exclusive sleep), or to walk around. So all of the hurting.

And then it was cold outside but Elijah had a baseball game and the Chief had work, and it was left to me to take the boy, plus his three siblings to the game and to the park around the game.

Did I say that it was cold, yet? I hate the cold. It made me tense all up which hurt even more. And so I walked around the park, hobbling, scowling, trying to watch the game and three good but active kids at the same time.

And I thought, I would like it if people knew why I was scowling. They probably think I’m mean, but I’m lovely. I’d like to wear a t-shirt that says, ‘Wounded – Catch me Next Time.’

But you don’t.

Nobody does, and they’re all wounded, aren’t they?

olivia

I learned something about my daughter recently: something that had been secretly causing her pain. Something that had been causing her deep, soul pain for almost a year. Something she was keeping a secret. Not someone hurting her or anything like that, but something inside of her that was hurting herself. I had no idea. I was crushed. How could my daughter, my beautiful sparkly daughter, been carrying weight around like that for almost a year?

That mean waitress who forgot to leave the lemon out of your water, and the neighbor who’s angry at your music? Wounded. The lady who bumps into you at Wal-mart and then scowls at your children? Wounded. The guy who rear-ends you or who you rear-ended? Wounded. All of them, they are wounded. They may not actually hate you. They might just have a gaping red hole in their abdomen (read: heart) that they can’t or won’t or don’t know how to tell you about.

So let it go a little bit; maybe even show them your scars or tell them theirs are okay. Smile at them and mean it.

Because next time it might be your turn to be wounded.

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