To The Man Who Maybe Totaled My Car On Tuesday,
You’re lucky I’m in recovery, because you really messed me up. The tenth step reinforces the discipline of continuing to take fearless moral inventories, and I’ve done dozens on you in the last two days. Each time I reach the conclusion that I’m behaving fearfully:
I’m afraid the whiplash will cause permanent damage. I’m afraid my kid’s necks won’t get better. I’m afraid the body shop and insurance company will decide to total my Pilot. Knees, please stop clicking. How much money this will cost us? I know, his insurance will cover it all, but what if it doesn’t? And I DON’T HAVE TIME TO FIGHT INSURANCE COMPANIES. I’m afraid I’ll ask a doctor for oxy if the pain doesn’t get better.
Lord, “Do not be afraid” is the most repeated verse in the Bible. So I’m gonna try real hard, real hard, to be strong and courageous. I’ll try and remember that You’re the God of cancer, chronic pain, infertility, addiction, abuse, and car accidents.
You’re a God of Too Much. And a car accident on Tuesday morning was Too Much.
To The Husband Who Won’t Pick Up The Girl’s Hair Clips Deep Under The Clawfoot Tub,
You’re lucky I’m in recovery, too. Actually, I am lucky I have you. Thank you for all you do, for all you hold, for all you bend over to retrieve for me. I’ve stared at the hair clips for over a year; I know you don’t see them though. Finally I decided I was done holding it over your head, or over my own head rather. Like when I used to have to tread water holding gallon jugs above the water’s surface in water polo practice.
It’s so tiring. It’s Too Much.
I finished the inventory while sitting on the toilet the other day, staring down at the purple plastic edges peeking out from under the porcelain tub. Turns out I was dishonest (Babe, could you please come and reach these clips?), inconsiderate (I don’t care if he doesn’t want to pick these up, and hasn’t in over a year— I want what I want, right now), and fearful (What if I bend over too far and my sciatic flares up?)
Lord, forgive me for holding those gallon jugs for so long, the weariness was self-induced. I’m sorry I blamed David. I’m sorry I forgot just how capable, effective, generous, and loving I am. I could’ve picked them up; it was my Next Loving Step that I refused to take. And my marriage suffered for it.
To The Presidential Candidates In The 2016 Election,
You guys are hurting my feelings. I know, I’m afraid. Waiting for the result of the election is like waiting for a PET scan to confirm or deny the existence of active cancer cells. Does America have cancer or not? Who wouldn’t be afraid of cancer?
Could we try a little harder to resemble decent humans? Is that Too Much to ask?
Lord, just so we’re clear, I belong to You; not Hillary or Donald. I fight for Love, not reformed tax law. My birthplace has nothing to do with my citizenship. Eden all the way.
To The Biological Father Who Walked Away,
First of all, hi. It’s been a while. Your granddaughters asked what happened to you today, and I told them, I don’t know.
Second, I know you are wounded, not wicked. The inventories don’t always work on you, because it’s hard to figure out what role I played in you abandoning us all—again. Sometimes I land on dishonesty, because I know I haven’t reached out to try and redeem & restore. But then I remember the fruits of my honesty in the past, and so I think I’d rather keep my pearls to myself, thank you very much. And my therapist.
Lord…I don’t even know…I have no clue…It’s Too Much for me to begin to solve…take it and make it Good…
To The Giant Trucks Parked Outside My House,
Oooooh you know how to press a Mama’s buttons. I’m hot & flushed just thinking about all that premium space your behemoth vehicles hoard.
Inhale. Exhale. Too. Much. Inhale. Exhale.
But I know I behave selfishly. I WANT AT LEAST ONE SPACE! We have a 1-1/2 size lot, there should be something for Claire and her four babies. I see the fear, too. And I suppose it’s inconsiderate of me to expect my comfort to cost you yours.
Lord, Help me remember that you breathed into the truckers holy, body clay, too. You called them Good. May I breathe before cursing them under my breathe. Maybe they have needs, too? Maybe they even need to park in front of my fenced property? Maybe the problem is that I think it’s “my” property?
Maybe I need to chill the hell out and remember that I can’t control anything except how I choose to respond to the distracted driver on Colfax, the husband who tries so hard and the politicians who don’t try hard enough, the wounded, invisible patriarch, and the Chevy drivers.