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Last year, in a response to a post my friend Billy Coffey wrote entitled The luckiest boy in the world, I wrote a post about my own personal experience with the aftermath of divorced parents. My parents’ divorce was extremely painful for everyone involved, but I still maintain that I’m a better for experience, even though I would never wish it on anyone:

“Not all children of divorce live their lives as victims. Some of us are stronger for it, because we had a parent who didn’t allow their circumstances to dictate whether or not they did the right thing. They did right thing despite their circumstances.”

When we’re going through the dark places, it’s so difficult to see the clarity of light they may someday bring to us.

A few months ago, my daughter told me that the parents of one of her best friends were getting a divorce. While I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised given the divorce rate in this country, I was. I know them to be a close family who love their three children very much. When my daughter told me of the divorce, she told me she didn’t know why her parents were getting a divorce and that she didn’t feel right asking. I told her that was okay, that if her friend wanted to talk about it she would. But her most important role as a friend right now is just to be there, to show her friend that even if her immediate future may be filled with inconsistencies and unknowns, her friendship remains a constant.

There have been many times over the past few months when her friend will call and ask to come over, and each time we pick her up. Sometimes for a sleepover, sometimes just for a few hours. I don’t think she’s escaping anything more dubious than the sadness that comes from knowing the house she’s grown up in will soon belong to another family. I think she just wants to be free of the big, heavy, grown-up worries that 10 year old girls shouldn’t have to carry. Even if it’s just  for a little while. Without fail, when we drop her back off at home we tell her she is always welcome at our house.

The greatest gift of my own personal experience with divorce is the ability to pass on my empathy and compassion to my daughter without her having to go through that particular dark place herself.

And I would never know the beautiful clarity of that particular light had I not gone through my own darkness.

image courtesy of photobucket.com

In the first installment of this series, The proper care and feeding of elephants, Part 1, I mentioned that I would be sharing a few examples of the unseen elephants in the room and how to insure said elephants continue to thrive and live indefinitely. The first characteristic mentioned in last week’s post was that the owner of the elephant is rarely its master. In the following short story, the roles of master and owner cross over and change.

Unspoken

The stack of magazines, once hidden carefully between the boy’s mattress and box spring now lies atop his neatly made bed. His mother discovered them while changing the bedding this morning. Her initial shock gives way to uncomfortable understanding. He’s not her little boy anymore. After her mind processes the whys of the situation, she begins to wonder about the where and the who. There will be hell to pay for any cashier who sold pornography to a child who is obviously under 21. She looks at the pub dates on the magazines. They’re 3 or 4 months old. Did he buy them or were they given to him? Or maybe he found them. But found them where?

The separation was difficult on everyone, but her oldest son seemed to take it the hardest. Filing for a divorce was not something she did lightly, but after discovery of the second affair, his promises seemed as empty as his side of the bed. She knew her boys needed a positive male role model in their lives. Unfortunately, their father wasn’t fulfilling that role. She grabbed the phone and dialed her soon to be ex-husband’s office. When she heard her voice–affair number two–she immediately hung up.

No, she would handle it herself. But what could she say to her son that wouldn’t cause them both embarrassment? That’s when she got the idea of putting the magazines on top of his bed. She reasoned that he would know that she knew. Surely that would put a stop to it.

When the kids got home from school, she asked them about their day just as she always did. She also mentioned she had changed the sheets on their beds, her eyes catching her oldest son’s gaze and holding it just a fraction longer than usual. As a cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck, her son said he was going to his room to play video games. He opened the door, his mind racing as he saw the stack of magazines placed so neatly on the center of his bed. What now? What would he possibly say to his mother? Then it occurred to him that she hadn’t said anything to him about them, even though it was clear she was the one who put them there. He knew his mother well enough to understand that there was often more meaning in the things she didn’t say than the things she did. And her message was clear: I know what you’re doing. Stop it now and we won’t have to talk about it. We can pretend that it never happened.

So that’s exactly what he did. He gave the magazines back to his mother’s new boyfriend and told him it was probably not a good idea to leave them at her house anymore. He also asked if he could get some tickets to the ball game. They’re all going together this weekend. Mom’s really excited that her boys seem to be bonding with her new boyfriend.

Good roles models are so hard to find these days.

Her son doesn’t look at pornographic magazines anymore. Not since his dad got him a new computer for his birthday. There’s so much more to choose from on the Internet.

image courtesy of photobucket.com

Yesterday at Billy Coffey’s site was a post called The luckiest boy in the world.

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of Mr. Coffey’s writing, but that particular post struck a nerve with me. If you haven’t read it, you should. It’s the sad and all too real story of how children are often made to suffer for the poor choices their parents make. And while I’m sure it wasn’t Billy’s intention to paint all children of divorce as irrevocably damaged, as a child of divorce myself, I took it very personally. In the comments I wrote the following:

I was one of those lucky kids, too. Fortunately not lucky enough to have 3 bedrooms. I had one room, at my mom’s house. The divorce was difficult for everyone but in my case, I think I’m a better person for having been raised by a mother who showed me how to choose to live with honor and dignity, to do the right thing even when others around you choose not to.

I spent the day with my mother on Thursday. This woman of small stature and enormous strength. By today’s standards she might be considered old fashioned. Her marriage did not end because of “irreconcilable differences” or some other fancy term that means two people don’t love each other anymore. My father left her.

If a single mother of four who had spent the previous 17 years raising children and being a housewife doesn’t paint a grim enough picture, consider that 18 years earlier, when she announced to her family her plans to marry an American serviceman, they completely disowned her. She has had no contact with any of them since. With the exception of the four of us kids, she was completely and utterly alone, with no job and no hope for the future.

As a woman from a very proud family richly steeped in Japanese tradition, honor and dignity are written into her DNA. She would never remarry. By her way of thinking, you marry once. She had been dishonored by one failed marriage, she would not dishonor her family and herself by choosing badly again.

This is the woman that is my mother. A woman who worked first as a waitress in a high end Japanese restaurant and later as a deli manager at two major grocery chains. She never took food stamps or any kind of government aid, even though I’m quite sure she qualified for it. I never remember being in want. She worked long hours on her feet all day then sewed and altered clothing to make ends meet. She’s suffered heart break that she didn’t share with us so as to not speak poorly of our father.

So when she tells me (as she did today) that she’s proud of who I’ve become, it is the ultimate compliment. I am who I am because of who she is. And I pray I can be the kind of mother she was and is to me to my own children.

Not all children of divorce live their lives as victims. Some of us are stronger for it, because we had a parent who didn’t allow their circumstances to dictate whether or not they did the right thing. They did right thing despite their circumstances.

The girl sat at home alone; at least without human company, but the family cat was there.

At 10, she had become an expert at faking a sick day. The truth was she didn’t want to go to school. She had always been a bit of a square peg, and now with her family still reeling from a bitter divorce, facing her school friends with their in-tact families seemed a bit too daunting for a Monday. Money was tight for a single mother of four, especially when said mother happened to be employed as a waitress. A day off to care for a sick child was not really an option when you worked for tips.

Her mother reluctantly left her youngest child home alone, knowing there were neighbors next door and across the street the girl could call in case of an emergency.

The girl was enjoying her solitude. She was ordinarily a talkative, outgoing child, but lately wasn’t really feeling that way. She was perfectly content with the company of the television and the family cat, Nicky.

Nicky was another matter. After an expensive series of treatments for feline leukemia, he was finally in remission. He represented the life before her dad announced (on Christmas day, no less) that he was leaving. Nicky was a reminder of a family unbroken – Dad, Mom, sisters, brother, dog and cat. Perhaps that was too much to expect from a cat, but as the girl sat there with the cat purring in her lap, she felt comforted.

That is, until the cat fell from her lap and onto the floor. He began to pant and become limp. Terrified, she did the first thing that came to her mind. She called Mrs. Jones.

The Jones family lived two doors down. Their youngest daughter was friends with the girl’s older sister. They were a good, Christian family who always seemed to be doing something for someone else. Mrs. Jones was one of the kindest, most sincere people that the girl had ever met in her young life. Even though the neighbors obviously knew what was going on in that house, the girl never felt judged or pitied by Mrs. Jones – only loved.

The girl dialed the Jones house, said something incoherent into the phone through her tears and hung up. Mrs. Jones was there in a matter of minutes. She embraced the young girl and told her it was going to be okay. She then calmly wrapped the cat into a towel, and walked with the girl and the cat the short distance to her driveway.

The girl sobbed quietly on the way to the vet. She knew that Nicky would not be making the return ride home in the car. Alas he did not, but Mrs. Jones was there. And somehow that made the ride home much more bearable.

In case you haven’t figured it out yet, that little girl was me. As I sat at the funeral of Mrs. Jones over 30 years later, I reflected upon how on that day and on countless other days for countless other people, her kindess and love reflected the Love of Christ. She really understood about that kind of love. I am so grateful for people in my life like Mrs. Jones.