It's been a year.
One year ago today was the last day our son set foot in this home, the last day he woke up under our roof, the last day he was so close that I could touch him...
...and yet my touch could do nothing to soothe the long-buried rage that erupted from deep within.
One year ago today was the last day these walls...and our little children's eyes...lay witness to the violence that had become almost commonplace in the months before.
Violent rage had become the routine.
So sad, looking back. Sad that our little ones knew what to do when he flew out of control.
Go to the school room.
Close the door.
Strap the baby into his booster seat.
Pick out a movie.
Turn it up loud.
Wait for Grandma to get here.
My parents, ten minutes away, had been "on-call" for much of the summer. One year ago today, Grandma was here, in the room with the kids. Papa was upstairs helping Scott with Mr. J.
Angry and frightened and more traumatized than I realized at the time, I had been firmly instructed to get away, go downstairs. I was pregnant, and he had already threatened to kick me in the stomach more than once. It would be months before I would stop involuntarily jumping at the slightest sound.
Trauma goes both ways, you see.
The traumatized child becomes the traumatizer.
The victim becomes the aggressor.
And the family that refuses to give up on love will come out on the other side with the battle scars to show for it.
We will never be the same.
Some changes have been good, have taught us to be more like Christ...
...to rely more fully on Him.
But other changes are just layer upon layer of hurt and fear and pain and uncertainty...
...making me long for Heaven.
One year ago today, we called the police, and they came.
When they left, they took our son with them.
A difficult day, to be sure, but also a day of relief.
It's been a year of peace and healing.
Of letting our guard down and actually living again.
We've been able to reflect, reevaluate, and gain new perspective on the events of last summer.
We've been able to breathe.
Our son is not grown up yet. He's not secure and healthy and happy.
He still needs us.
May this time of refreshment prepare us for whatever lies ahead.