moving on

Image courtesy of Izabela Zagaja-Florek via Flickr Creative Commons

Last Sunday I visited my old church meetinghouse. It’s the building I first walked into with my high school boyfriend. The building I was later baptized in. And the building where I still find much solace and peace. After Sacrament Meeting came to a close, I stood, stretched and saw a familiar face a few pews ahead. It was somewhat different, of course. Tears of happiness and pain do that. Years do that too.

As I made my way forward, I wondered if I was so different than I was then. If he’d want to see me. Or if he’d rather leave the past there. In the past. But I wanted to see him. I had wanted to see him for some time.

When we were younger, my heart spoke loudly, but my mouth never echoed its song out loud. Hurt and pain stayed because I allowed them to. Deception stayed too. And despite forgiving him long ago, I had wanted to see him. To see if I had truly forgiven. To see if I had healed my wounds with the salve of my own heart. And my own truth.

After niceties were exchanged, we sat for a while. He told me about his families: the one he’d been born into and the one he’d created. And he asked about mine. We talked at length about high school. How he’d been lost, which I had known, and how he was sorry for the way he treated me, which I hadn’t. And I felt like I should say something then. Perhaps that I was sorry too. But he continued on. So I didn’t.

When he smiled, I couldn’t help but remember how I’d felt all those years ago. How first love strikes when you least expect. How it feels like netting stars and swallowing the sun. And how you are convinced. So convinced. It will never end.

But it nearly always does.

Image courtesy of quotes-lover.com

My first love ended. And when it did I was inconsolable. I didn’t understand how we shared so much and then shared nothing. How I was no longer the other half of the WE we had been. How it was just me. Alone.

Eventually, I understood the need to close that door. And the need to walk forward and open another. Then another. Eventually, I understood that odds are good we could have never made each other happy. And more importantly: that just because you share the past with someone, doesn’t mean you’ll share the future with them.

And that it’s okay not to. It really is.

Image courtesy of quotes-lover.com

There’s a reason it’s called first love. Because there’s supposed to be a second and a third until you learn what love really is. And what it isn’t.

Love is giving your last cherry Jolly Rancher and taking the burnt piece of toast.
Love is putting the lid down.
Love is picking up dog poop. Even though you don’t own a dog, but do own a lawn.
Love is sharing the fluffy pillow.
Love is watching hockey instead of Criminal Minds. Only to realize hockey is better.
Love is reaching for your hand when drifting off to sleep.
Love is taking the trash out before dawn.
Love is making sure you put toothpaste on both brushes. And always kissing goodnight.

Love is all the little things…
that make up a life.

So now, when I think about my first love, I’ll think about this one thing:

I’m happy he broke my heart.

Because it led me to The One who would rather break his own than break mine.

And that is what real love is all about.

You know that feeling? The one you have when you’re about to make a horrible decision? The one you’ve convinced yourself you have to make because there are no other options (even though there are)?

I had that feeling nearly four years ago.

We had decided to take on a new renter while we lived abroad in Brazil. We knew she was off. That she was prickly. That her all-too-nice exterior was covering something toxic. But, instead of bolting in the other direction, we signed on the dotted line.

The dotted line that stole our peace

AND

our sanity.

The woman who moved into our home (I specify that it was a home. We had made it that way. We had loved it that way.) was a horribly sad case.

This week she finally left.

This week we went to assess the damage.

This week we found a revolting reality.

Our home, now just a slab and walls, had become a sub-standard shelter. A place without life. Without soul. Without love.

Looking around, I felt sick and angry and completely overwhelmed.

I can’t do this.

Where do I even begin?

What’s the financial cost? The emotional??

AND

Is it even worth it?

One look to my husband confirmed that it was, so I started toward the kitchen and opened the fridge.

There was a strong waft of Y.U.C.K against my cone mask.

Worse than I thought.

I removed all the shelving, the bins, the ice maker and started sudsing. And, after four hours, I stepped back to admire my work:

It. Was. Like. New.

Like the neglect and indolence never happened.

Like she never happened. And I smiled at the thought of it.

Then stepped outside of myself and felt utterly cruel.

And realized…

all that time I’d spent hating her, I should have been praying for her. Because for her to become the person she is must have required horrible neglect and indolence on the part of those who were supposed to love her. To protect her. To shelter her.

And I felt something for her then that I’d never felt: compassion

How much easier it would be if we could just 409 our hearts and Mop & Glo our souls. If we could be made new, with some sudsy water and some serious elbow grease, like my lovely fridge?? And then I realized…

We can.

Anything that is loved can be restored. Perhaps it won’t be exactly as it was before. Perhaps we won’t be as we were before. And maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe what could make us bitter should instead make us better.

Perhaps it would be good for her to know that.

I don’t know if we’ll move back, if we’ll rent again or if we’ll sell.

And really…it doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that I know now that things are not always what they seem. And that, oftentimes, the experiences that test the most, teach the most, as well.

Dani De Luca

First Love: What it Feels Like to Swallow the Sun

409 the heart. Mop & Glo the soul.