There are people in our lives that come, stay a while, and go. Often this leaves bittersweet memories and scars that take years to heal. I have only experienced this twice in my lifetime so far. Once with a boy, once with a friend.
I am a firm believer in that everything happens for a reason. No person’s influence, no circumstance, no outcome is an accident. Every life experience is something to learn from, to grow my faith through, and to mold me into the woman I am becoming. I continually hope and pray that these things make me more empathetic toward others and a better wife, mother... person in general.
Last night I engaged in a self-inflicted opening of old wounds. The boy that came and went happened to be speaking at our youth group. I debated skipping his message and showing up just for small group time with my senior girls, knowing there was a possibility of making myself upset. Turns out all my girls were busy and wouldn’t be there anyway... meaning that if I showed up for anything, it would be solely for his speaking.
I’ve written about this boy before. Long story short, this is the one I gave a whole lot of my heart to, at a young age, and for a long, pivotal period in time. I now know that the love I had for him does not compare to the love I would eventually have for my husband Jon. But at 17-22 years old, I loved this boy with everything I had.
After years of ups and downs, being separated by county lines and continents, this boy and I had decided to really hunker down, work things out, and be together. We both felt like it was right (again, “right” feels a whole lot different with Jon... right with a breath of peaceful, fresh air, not a constant battle out of “love”), and it was what God wanted for us. Only a few months into this decision to be together, I had a wakeup call. My love was leaving me again... this time across the country to New York. It was the last straw for me, and it felt like my back was breaking. All it took was a ten minute phone call from California to upstate New York one October night in 2004 for us to tearfully realize we were not right... and we were not going to happen.
Having never experienced anything worse, and being 22 years old, I actually felt like my life was over. The world as I knew it was ending, and I truly didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself. The boy and I had made plans. Big time, life-changing plans for well into the future. What would I do now?
Days turned into months, which miraculously turned into years. We both went on with our lives, followed paths that led us to our significant others, both of whom are perfectly and wonderfully suited for each of us. We both have children, bringing an even greater joy than I could have possibly imagined for myself. This boy and I are exquisitely happy where we are.
There’s something that happens to a human when they make a connection with another human. Mentally, physically, spiritually... it doesn’t matter if it’s one or all of these. When this happens, you carry a piece of that person with you for the rest of your life. And in many cases, like this one, the other person carries a little piece of you with them for life as well. This is where the bittersweetness comes in.
Over the years the boy and his family have lived in many places. Sometimes it’s right here in his hometown, sometimes it’s in another state or country. But because of the piece of me that he’s taken with him, every time I hear others talk about him, every time I see him in person, a flood of different emotions wash over me. From amusement to annoyance, relief to uneasiness, and even joy to anger. Some people would argue that I’m still holding this particular person and situation too tightly and I need to just get over it and let it go. I would argue that certain people, especially when they were at one time such a significant part of our life and one of the ones who knew us best, can elicit such a dramatic range of feelings whether we’ve “let it go” or not.
Last night I sat, uncomfortably at first, in the back of the room with my best friend, who showed up for moral support, waiting anxiously for the boy to start speaking. In all honesty, I was intrigued. He spoke of things I knew about and things I didn’t. He has the same sense of humor and intentional awkwardness he’s always had, but along with that he now has life experience and maturity. The ego and insecurity I knew has morphed into a humbler and peaceful man. I gained more respect for him as I sat and listened to his journey over the last thirteen years. Years I was a part of and years that I wasn’t.
As pictures came up on the screen, I recognized certain photos of him from a time in my own life when I had poured myself and my heart into caring about, loving, and praying for him. This is when the pangs began.
Along with the range of emotions people and memories can drum up in us, sometimes we have actual physical reactions. Looking at old pictures elicited fluttering pangs of anxiousness in my stomach. At one point in telling his story, I not only felt like he was talking about me, but that he was talking to me. This was the most painful part of the night. I immediately felt all the blood in my body rising up to my face. I started sweating like I was sitting in front of a blazing bonfire, and I felt nauseous. I was nervous that tears of anger would start involuntarily rolling out of my ducts, but as I stared at the floor and listened, uncomfortably burning up, I allowed myself to realize that everything he said was true. Knowing him, he was not intentionally speaking directly about or to me, but simply telling his story, which I happen to be a small part of.
I knowingly put myself in the position I was in, and I knew exactly what kinds of feelings it would stir in me. While I don’t regret attending his message and intentionally seeing him up close and personal, even as I sit and write this, my stomach is full of the butterfly pangs. The physical reminders of a time in my life that will never leave me, a person I will never stop caring for, and the strength I have obtained by living through it all.
The reason for writing down what happened last night is mostly therapeutic for me. But it will hopefully someday serve as a mother-to-daughter lesson for my precious girls. I am desperate for them to love without fear, and to embrace the paths set out for them. Every person Kealani Joy and Leila Jane meet, and every situation they encounter can make them stronger, if they let it.
I also want them to know that when things don’t go the way they think they want, there is always something better on the other side. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the life I am living now, with Jon, Kealani, and Leila, is exactly the life I am supposed to be living, and exactly the life I want to be living. I love every aspect of it and am so thankful for all three of them that some days I actually cry because I am so overwhelmed by my blessings.
Mr., KK, and Bobo, I love you.
