Hurt to Freedom

Shared with permission from my sons-

I watched them climb the old cemetery concrete steps together today.

As much as I had wanted to do this for them. I could not. Oh, I had tried but I could not.

I couldn’t climb those steps for them.

It was a holy moment. A hard moment.

And they had to walk those steps themselves. No one can do it for another. Not even a momma for her children.

And it has to be done. No matter how wrong the wrong or how deep the hurt.

That hard climb has to be made, or we stay stuck and freedom never comes.

I stood back, and watched, as the rain fell, and they walked up those steps.

It had rained the day I buried my husband, their dad, all those years ago.

Tears filled my eyes. And the cold rain fell. Of course, it was falling.

Oh, I wanted to run up those stairs and hold my boys, but I felt like the Lord was telling me, “not yet”.

As much as I wanted to do this for my boys. I knew I could not.

But God was. He was holding them just like He always had.

They talked. They cried. They said words my ears couldn’t hear, didn’t need to hear.

Arms wrapped around each other.

My boys, now men, stood there looking down at the grave of the man who had chosen to die rather than stick around to raise them.

And then, the rain stopped. It just stopped.

And I knew I could go to them.

I walked up those old concrete steps of the cemetery toward the grave – leaving the embrace of my husband, the godly man who had married me and loves my boys so very much. Those boys now men.

Just about there, they turned towards me, faces wet with tears, and I knew before they said a word.

Finally, forgiveness.

Finally freedom for the both of them.

Yes, the rain had stopped. And I praised the Lord.

The rain stopped. And I’m so thankful. Forever thankful.

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