I took the boys to ChickFilA yesterday to celebrate early dismissal from school, and I’ve decided I have to stop going there because something always happens that makes me cry.
She was dressed in a beautiful vibrant green maternity top with rosettes around the neckline. He was wearing glasses and a striped polo shirt and pressed pants. As they slid into the booth, I noticed that she seemed on the verge of tears. He was sitting opposite her and as he looked at her face, he scrunched his little nose and asked, “What’s wrong, Momma?”
Her voice trembled as she sadly explained, “Your shirt, honey. The little boy you were playing with had a pen in his hand and he got ink on your nice shirt. And we drove all the way to Raleigh to get pictures made, and your daddy took off work to be with us, and now your shirt is messed up. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to get the ink out now, and it was my favorite one that you have, and…” Her voice trailed away and she put her hands to her face in a vain effort to hold back the tears that were already making their way down her cheeks.
Are you there?
The day the final insignificant straw carries a spirit-crushing weight?
I could tell that it wasn’t about the shirt. There were burdens in her life that went way beyond an ink stain that could be photoshopped out of the final portrait. My heart broke, not only for her, but also for my dear friends who bear up under loads that grow heavier each day. My first instinct is to try to shoulder the load with them, but sometimes the narrow trail on their journey means there’s not enough room for two.
How do I help?
I saw that little freckle-faced boy lean across the table, pucker his lips, and softly kiss her hands as they covered her face.
“I love you, Momma.”
Offered in response to pain.
Oh, dear hurting friend, do you know you are loved?
Sometimes, love is all we’ve got to give.
Sometimes, it’s enough.
Have a nice day.