Forty-Five

Forty-five years ago, in a small ceremony in my parents' backyard, I said "I do" because I couldn't bear to part with my unborn child. (So much is said of the woman who "trapped" the guy, but I was the one caught in a trap.) In 1981 "Christian" girls didn't birth and keep children born out of wedlock. They either quietly terminated a pregnancy, or disappeared for a few months and secretly released their child into the arms of complete strangers. I took what felt like the "easy path," although it was far from simple or painless. I gave up my childhood sweetheart, high school graduation, college, and my reputation. Maybe he felt trapped too, but he had been taken in a snare of his own making, one which he would bemoan on and off throughout the years. I was caught because there was little room for escape and only two choices, marry him or sacrifice my child. I don't say it to make anyone sorry. It is what it is, and I loved him deeply for many, many years. On the outside it looked as though we'd made it, and most days I sincerely believed it myself. I put every ounce of energy into making it so, but grasping the wind or holding water in one's hands is impossible...

Sometimes the broken cannot be repaired or reconciled no matter how much we wish it to be so. Sometimes a break is desperately needed. Even life saving surgeries do not come without pain. Open wounds heal with time. Broken bones mend. Scars, numb and tender all at once, remain. Divorce, even necessary ones, leave scars.

Today, instead of a wedding anniversary, my kids and I will celebrate, in our traditional manner, the birth of my fifth child. There will be love, laughter, and strawberry shortcake. (He turned 36 yesterday.) I have wiped away the tears, gently soothed the ache inside, and counted not the losses, but the blessings. He is just one of many.