32

Ok. It sucks being 32. I know it's taboo to be so honest, but for me, it sucks being 32. I smile and I'm happy, but in a very real way, I find myself in mourning. Mourning the loss of my mother. In shock that she really was this young (my age) when she died. (I still think I'm 20.) Mourning all the years of my childhood- or what was supposed to have been my childhood-- alone. I just read this story about this young girl who was orphaned when her dad died her freshman year of high school. It told of her joy, her sucesses, and her determination. It was like I was reading my own story- only extend the thing all the way back to 3rd grade. Add a LOT more home turn overs, schools, living inches from the streets, poverty.

When I was a sophomore at Texas Tech, we watched a video about kids living on the streets. Everyone else in the class was shocked because of their conditions. I was shocked because their situation looked so familiar- and I had never realized that we were living "on the streets" or close to it all those years. Digging in dumpsters for cans, "camping" for months on end, nomads. My father finally got desperate enough that he drove us up to my aunt's house (I was 13- 7th grade). My father left, supposedly for the weekend, but he never came back. And when he left, We were alone! Left to be taken advantage of. Vulnerable. Without a father, our only protection was the gospel. I clung to it for dear life. My brother wasn't so lucky. I escaped Sodom and Gomorrah when I was 15. But only to experience another 3 sets of parents before I went to college. Either they couldn't provide a safe environment- or they really didn't want me- It was always one or the other.

My pain, my loss, my fears. They are real. And sometimes, I guess, the soul inside of me just needs to me to acknowledge the inflamed old wounds, change the bandaging, and try to let it alone again for a while to let it heal some more.