The Sculptor of My Life

Life has been a continual torrent of cardboard, filtering throughout my space. The palms of my hands covered in newsprint ink, I am easily distracted when I spot a worthy article to read. Never mind it has sat in a corner for months; the potential home of a spider- most fortunate not to cross my path. In packing up the memories of my life, there has been this cathartic sensation overcome me. Off to one side are items marked Bibles for Missions thrift store. A friend of mine recommended donating some of my things and I agreed, as I use to shop at their location in the Okanagan. Another area in my tight space has boxes and furniture for a single mom and a little girl. 

As I re-packed my daughter’s things, I was struck with a profound sense of reality that had me grab onto a box, marked Shayla- Keep Forever! I could hear the words clear as can be:

“Momma, give this stuff away…I’m not coming back.” 

Shayla- Belle of the Prom

Holding onto this stuff reminds me of Linus clinging to his security blanket. In the few moments that passed, I was determined to whittle down more items to give away. In the years since her passing, I have gone from two truckloads of stuff, to now only less than a dozen boxes of my babygirl’s bits and pieces. With every move, I am transformed…like the original Himalaya's being thrust through earth’s core, I feel remade into the woman my Saviour created.

Sorting through a box, I find my daughter’s Belle piggy bank that she carted around, clinking of pennies. 

I recall how her Disney dream came to life when she found her own Belle dress for prom. After the death of Shayla, I found a way to cultivate a piece of these recollections and still let some of her things go. 

While sifting through the mounds of cards I have kept for scrapbooking, I found one that made me stand in silence and read the words.

I was not prepared for what I had assumed was a former Mother’s Day card from my daughter. 

Inscribed in the fold of paper was my former boyfriend’s handwriting. Paul had bought the card on my first Mother’s Day- in 22 years- without Shayla. He wrote the following:

“I know Shayla is not here in body, but she is here in everything we do, see, touch and taste. She was a joy to know over the years, growing as a beautiful person. I think this card says what she would say if she could. You are a wonderful mum so be proud and in everything you do, Shayla is watching…Smiling.” 

The words caught me off guard. Yet there are times when you can go back and harbor only a sense of gratitude for it. Memories also have a way of leaping through the quantum portal and bring forth more reminiscence. In all the years I was with my former partner, there is one singular moment that he and I were without a doubt in sync with one another; attaining peace with a majestic water god of the sea. We were on vacation in Hawaii, snorkeling on the Islands. One day in Waikiki, something went by me in a flash. I dove in as did he with grains of sand flushing through the murky waters, suddenly there was clarity. Right before us was a sea turtle using his right flipper, motioning us to follow. We kept a safe distance as they are endangered; yet when I looked over at Paul, I saw something in his eyes that I would never see again before my departure to the island I now live… there was harmony with himself, with me and the gracious creature guiding us from beginning to end, when we finally broke away. 

One of my treasures from my Hawaiian adventures

I know that over the year, in the Counseling I have received, there is more than the past being shed. The sorrow over these two losses is dissolving away, while emerging in its place is:

A time to tear down and a time to build up; a time to weep and a time to laugh Ecclesiastes 3

Now, like the golden sparrow, I have found my own trilling melody. I am making room in my heart because of the unyielding decision to step away from the shadows of my past. 

I imagine the hands of God remolding me to His perfection; patiently studying every inch of my human form. He dips the tip of a paintbrush in a gold shimmer and washes me anew with His grace. In the solitude of the room, I may possibly hear the voice of God. 

Emerging from this place, I am not the same person who walked in…discovering my writer’s voice is one thing…I am now focussed on finding the true person hidden beneath the layers.

There is not a heart but has its moments of longing, yearning for something better; nobler; holier than it knows now. ~ Henry Ward Beecher

By TL Alton