Sunday Nights

Caution: This post may be perceived as sort of a downer. But it’s as real as it gets for me. And one of the purposes of this blog, for me, is to share the ups and downs of my particular path in life. And I guess I’m hoping that by getting it out, maybe I’ll somehow feel at least a little bit better.

I'm sure everyone would agree that we all have our own challenges in life. Sunday nights are mine. Following a weekend that is, no doubt, the best part of my week, the 8 o’clock hour always rolls around, no matter how much I wish time would just stop. I lovingly, yet begrudgingly, buckle my heart into the back seat of my car and drive 30 minutes—blinking back burning tears and swallowing the huge lump in my throat the whole way (because, you see, my heart is watching me intently the entire time in the rear-view mirror). I try to make cheerful conversation, to hopefully make our trip less daunting. More often than not my heart says nothing—often nodding off to sleep, I can only pray finding some comfort in the consistency of the routine. I’m usually happier for the silence. The times filled with words are tinged with protest, leaving me to wonder if my heart is damaged by the trip, or is on the verge of breaking. So I try not to think about it. I just watch the fiery colors of the sunset in the west and avoid contemplating the inevitable.

The moment always comes and goes. I release my heart in a grocery store parking lot. Just like that. I hand my heart over to someone else. Not just anyone—someone who once chose to break my heart…a long time ago. I watch my heart walk away, climb into another car, and instantly settle into another life. In less than 30 seconds—she’s gone.

And I wait. Sometimes it overcomes me, like a terrible wave and I gasp for air through a flood of sobs. Sometimes it just bounces around inside me, like the remnants of an echo in a stony ravine. Sometimes it stings as it smolders, a slow burn—resigned. But always, there’s pain.

I do my best to, again, drive 30 minutes. And somehow I walk around for the next three days. 72 whole hours without my heart. I still have my brain, so I wonder if she’s happy, I worry that she’s not getting what she needs, I rack my brain again and again for any solution I can think of to fix the situation, to make it different. Then I remind myself—of course I would make it different in less than a second…if there was any way I could. For now, there is not.

This is our reality—hers and mine. Somehow we try to make the best of what life brings, even when we’re left to deal with the consequences of others’ decisions. Even if it's for years.

Most of the time, she actually shoulders the back and forth much better than I do. I guess it makes it harder that I don’t get to be home with her during some of the days she's “mine.” Instead I go to work, so she can eat and have a place to live. But I think about her every second I’m away. And I would do anything to be home reading Amelia Bedelia and playing hopscotch instead. So for about 92 hours of each week, I know someone else is getting to raise her, hold her, and teach her. Not me.

So I do my very best to squeeze every last drop out of the time I have with her. It’s most certainly the greatest challenge in my life. Yet she is my greatest blessing. She is my heart. 

I am aware that, most of the time, I clearly do not take a “glass half full” approach to my situation. I do the very best I know how. Because really, I guess that’s how Sunday nights and the 92 hours away from her each week feel for me. Empty.

I’m honestly still figuring out what I’m supposed to learn from this stretch of my path in life. But I hope she learns something. I hope she knows that I always did the very best I could for her because I love her more than my own life. I hope she learns to be strong in a world that grows more challenging and evil every day. I hope she learns to be flexible because heaven knows life asks that of all of us more than we would like. Most of all, I hope that as she is passed around to and from so many different sets of arms, she gets more hugs and she feels more love.