They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but one photograph changed my life.
In early August of 2004, I numbly walked out of the marriage counselor’s office,
Completely cold, numb, and unseeing.
It was wholly and utterly over—the relationship/marriage of 20 years.
Done.
Broken.
Never to be repaired.
As a mother of two young sons, as a full-time associate pastor of a church that obviously didn’t like pastors in the midst of a divorce, and as a woman who could not afford the house she was in, I knew that it meant more than just a change in marital status.
Within 24 hours of that appointment,
I had been asked to leave a marriage,
I had been asked to resign from my job,
I had lost any income,
I had lost my home,
And I had lost my church which was the home of my only friends in a town that was a 24-hour drive away from family.
Most importantly, and all importantly, I knew this would mean the loss of my 24-hour-a-day, 7-days-a-week, 365-days-a-year contact with the two most important people in the world: my sons.
It took only 24 hours to change every external aspect of my life.
AND only 24 hours to devastate all I knew of the world, all I knew about myself, and all my dreams and hopes for the future.
It wasn’t unexpected.
I knew it would probably come to that, but the reality is very different than the anticipated dread.
LIke most women, my identity came from my family and friends—and like many men, a big part of my identity also came from my job.
Now, the Kim I was . . . . was no longer there.
Who was I at age 35? Who was this person who was
Restarting her life by moving from a 3200-sq.-ft. home with a pool to a 800-sq.-ft. rental home with skunks living under it,
LIving her life as a single woman half the time when the boys were with their dad,
Applying to 60+ jobs because the school year had already started, and
Going from a size 10 to a size 5.
I walked each day in a fog.
My heart was on a roller coaster, two days on a high when the boys were with me and two days of heavy grief when my 2.5-year-old and 6-year-old were away.
I tried SO hard to be happy when they were with me, trying to keep them safe and loved,
Trying to pretend Mom was the same as always,
Even when she was a hollow shell,
A ghost,
A tender eggshell, a flicker of a candle—where just the slightest touch or whiff of air might destroy the life within.
* * * * * * *
In the start of October, as the fall season was upon us (even if the weather was still summer),
I made the extraordinary effort to lift my 75-pound depressed legs and my 750-pound depressed body (even though I was a size 5 at the time) and gather my sons into my used Honda.
We drove to a pumpkin farm out in the country.
The boys loved the apple dunking, the hayride, and the scores of scarecrows and pumpkins.
The female owner doted on the boys, and she offered to take our first post-divorce picture of the three of us.
I plastered on a smile, knowing that everyone must see my grief, my lost-ness, my hollowness.
I hugged my boys to me as we sat in front of a stack of pumpkins.
We got into the car and drove home.
Weeks later, I stood at Target, waiting to pay for the photos they had developed.
I shuffled through the images, smiling and remembering----
Until my breath caught, time stood still, and I couldn’t move—--with the photo of the three of us in my hand.
The boys were smiling.
I was smiling.
We looked happy.
I didn’t look broken. I looked like any other mom sharing a single moment with her sons.
I continued to look at the picture over the next few days and weeks.
I stared at it for minutes at a time.
I cried more than I want to share over that picture.
It was a reminder that life would go on, I would go on, and the boys would go on.
Life would never look like I thought it would as a child, but that didn’t mean that it wasn’t a life worth of love and joy and hope.
I would go on loving my boys 100%, whether they were with me 24/7 or not.
They would know I loved them 100%, whether they were with me 24/7 or not.
I could smile and enjoy small moments without being false to my grief.
The picture was framed and sat above my kitchen sink for an additional 10 years.
When days were rough, as I washed dishes, I looked longingly at that picture and remembered another rough time in my life that I survived.
When days were happy, I looked at the image and counted up other moments that were caught in a mental photograph.
When I was all alone in the house, I looked at the photograph and knew I was not alone.
* * * * * * * * * *
Obviously, years have passed.
I have framed other pictures, other moments that live on photo paper and in my head.
Moments with both boys when they graduated,
Moments with Anthony at the tailgate tent,
Moments with friends who were a part of a season of my life.
Moments with my parents beside me.
Yes, there is a bittersweetness to the passing of time.
However, these memories and photographs remind me that there is always an opportunity for me to believe that life will get better,
That I will smile again,
That life can still be sweet and meaningful after two marriages, three significant deaths, and 56 years on this earth.
This picture saved my life.
It reminded me (and still reminds me) that no matter what is happening in my life—externally or internally—
Life is worth living,
love is worth fighting for,
and joy is just around the corner.
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