The Story’s in the Growth

The Story’s in the Growth

This week, I went for my daily walk and saw my husband had pulled a chair over to our creek. It moved me to picture my better half, of almost nine years, sitting there and being still. With my three-month-old strapped to my chest, I sat and rested my hands on the chair’s metal arms. I sat and stared at the water and at the late afternoon light falling like coins through the trees.

Shadows replaced light. I looked up and saw hundreds of birds passing over the canopy. It was such a beautiful image, those birds, their angled shadows reflecting down on the water below.

It felt like such a personal gift that I got up and walked around the creek to watch the migration. But the birds were going nowhere, just flying from treetop to treetop; snatching insects from the thick summer air before roosting for the night.

Creation heals me. During the eclipse on Monday, when the sun and moon converged into a glimmering silver ring and the lighting changed so that, no matter where you turned, a peach sunset painted the sky, I turned toward my husband and gave him a kiss as my in-laws’ confused rooster crowed.

This too was a gift; a reassurance that life is still beautiful and good, and perhaps even more beautiful and good for the hardships that underscore the beauty.

There have been times, since my husband and I shared about his brain tumor’s return, where we have each wished we hadn’t.

It’s easier to act like everything’s fine—that everything’s normal—when others aren’t kindly telling you they are praying, or giving you compassionate looks while you’re waiting in the carpool line.

And yet, the truth is, that is indeed just an act. We are each fighting unseen battles and to hold our battles close prevents us from drawing close to others and reassuring their hearts they are not alone.

Life is beautiful, yes: on Monday, you have eclipses, and on Tuesday, you have shadows of birds passing over trees, and yet amidst the beauty lies heartache, too. Allow that heartache to push your roots deeper; to make you reach out to the others in the battle; to clear away the scales of mundanity from your eyes and drag a chair over to the creek and stare out over the water; thinking about the beauty of life and love and family and knowing that—despite the hardships—this life is a gift.

Today marks one week since we received the letter from Mayo, and one of the truths I cling to the most is that the Story’s in the Growth.

The blog post I shared last week was a second draft.

When my husband read it, he said, “But you’re not there anymore. I know you, and you’re not angry.”

I thought, I beg to differ.

But he continued, “If you read back through your old blog posts, they would read exactly like this.”

At first, his honesty rankled, but after my breakthrough on Sunday, I reread and saw what he meant.

Because I’m a writer, I enjoy viewing my life as a story, and as any writer knows, the story resides in the character’s growth. Sometimes, you have static characters—the ones who are stuck on the spectrum; who are the same from The Beginning to The End. But they are never leading ones. The leading characters are the ones who go on a journey, and who allow that journey to change them.

It doesn’t mean they don’t fight against the challenges or have bad attitudes or hiss and spit as they slough their way uphill. But what matters is they eventually reach their destination, whether it’s physical, spiritual, or emotional, and they are the better for it, as are the ones who fight by their side.

I thought of that as I witnessed the eclipse, as I sat by the creek, as the birds swooped over trees, as I kissed my husband goodnight, as I watched my three beautiful daughters sleep: that this is my life; this is my story, and each chapter is certainly not easy, and yet if I will just continue to press through the obstacles, continue surrendering to the journey, I will find that my Story’s in the Growth.

I want to make it a good one.

Don’t you?