Stupid Pigeon

I am mad. Hot, sweaty, salty-tears mad. And sad. Hiccuping, gasping and that weird sound you make when you can’t catch your breath, sad.


I am mad and sad. And I’m rhyming like a Dr. Seuss book. Good grief.

Yesterday I met with a personal training client (who, as a side note trains dogs for a living, and I think it’s safe to assume she wasn’t impressed with Tiger. Or me. It’s possible she noticed all the bits of chewed plastic from toys gone by and the half-eaten $40 flip flops that my Mother simply had to buy Emma Claire for Easter, because looking around with wide and horrified eyes, she politely suggested that I buy some more dog-appropriate toys. And, thank you very much, I did. I spent $7 on a bone that he promptly buried in the backyard. I should’ve just given him $7 to chew. That would’ve at least saved me the trip to Wal-Mart).

Anyway, my client. She wants to be healthy. She wants to be strong. And she has about 100 extra lbs standing in her way. She’s a mom and a wife. We’ve all seen Oprah. We know the story: she forgot to take care of herself. Her battle is mental. She has to believe that she’s worth more and until she does, nothing will change. Our first session was scheduled for tomorrow. She just called to cancel. She doesn’t believe.

It’s easy to give advice. She deserves more.

And since everything, including dogs and bones and overweight clients, seem to point me back to the drama that is my life, it hits me. He doesn’t think I deserve “more”. I’m not hot, sweaty, salty-tears mad because we are divorcing; I’m not gasping for air, sad because I’m going to be 40 and single (well, maybe a little bit sad); I’m mad because I spent 14 plus years loving and trusting and giving and trying and now I see. I’m sad because we’re “that” family…sitting in two different sections at the swim meet; sitting alone in church because the “kids are with their dad.”

Seriously, how did we become “that” family?

I’m mad because I didn’t see. How did I not see before? How do eyes get so clouded?

Fuzzy and wet from tears?

He didn’t think I deserved more. He doesn’t think I deserve more. Me, the mother of his children so little in his eyes. And what you do to me, you do to them. Standing in line tonight at Jimmy John’s (I really know how to rock a Friday night) I noticed several wall plaques just bursting full with sub-sandwich wisdom. One read, “Not every day is going to be sunny; some days you’re the pigeon and some days you’re the statue.”

Stupid pigeon.

He may not believe, but I do.

Or at least I’m starting to.

We deserve better. I mean, yes, without Jesus, we deserve, death, so Praise God for Jesus, but I was created in the image of the most high God and while I can’t find it directly in scripture, I’m pretty sure that means I was NOT created to be the statue.