Parenting and Other Nightmares

 

I look back now and wonder if they’ll ever know.

Not the facts, we told them plenty of those,

but the feelings that lived under the facts,

like a hand on the small of your back

guiding you through a crowd you can’t see.

Do grown children worry the way we did?

That quiet, constant scanning of the horizon,

Looking for storms before the sky admits they’re there?

Do they lie awake counting worst-case scenarios

the way I used to count ceiling tiles,

trying to make a prayer out of late-night frantic thoughts?

We lectured. We made rules.

Sometimes it was wisdom. Sometimes it was panic

wearing a respectable face.

We cried where they couldn’t hear it,

in the bathroom with the faucet running,

in the laundry room, folding little shirts

With tears, we wiped off before we walked back out.

We had dreams that didn’t make it.

Some were selfish, if I’m telling the truth.

Some were shaped like them;

graduations, safe choices, a life without the hard parts.

We walked through shattered things and kept walking.

I hope they know our intentions were never harsh,

even when our words were.

More than once, I’ve sat in the dark

and begged guidance from a God who already knew

I was doing my best with what I had;

And still, I didn’t always know what I was doing.

I wanted them to be proud of me.

I needed them to see us, just a little,

not only as “Dad” or “Mom,”

But as a person trying not to come apart.

We told ourselves, "Everything we do is for them."

and somewhere in that sentence

We misplaced parts of ourselves.

We built a life we thought they wanted,

steady, respectable, lined up like bricks.

Then one day, we noticed we were living in it, too,

and it didn’t fit us the way we thought it would.

Nothing has ever hurt us as much as seeing them hurt.

I’ve tried too hard to fix what can’t be fixed fast,

to say the exact sentence that would heal the whole room.

Maybe they’ll never know the weight of those years

until they’re the ones listening for a key in the door,

until love makes them cautious,

until worry starts sounding like their own voice.

If that day comes, I hope they remember this:

We weren’t trying to control them.

We were trying to keep them safe...

And if we got it wrong, we're sorry.

God knows we're sorry.

wcd

Crossing the Too-High Bridge

 

I was little, and that old Huey P. Long bridge in New Orleans
might as well have been the edge of the world.
The lanes looked too skinny for the car we were in,
and my brothers and sisters… Lord, they knew exactly what to say,
would lean in with their cruelty like it was a game:
How high it was, how easy it would be to go over,
How you wouldn’t even have time to holler before you were gone.

I sat there holding my breath, trying to act tough,
But my body told the truth before my mouth ever could.
Sometimes I peed a little from pure fear.
Not a proud moment, but it’s honest.

And when a train was crossing at the same time,
metal and thunder rattling the whole thing,
It felt like the bridge was alive under us,
like it could shrug and sling us off to prove a point.

The worst never happened.
But it always seemed like it might.
Then I turned sixteen and got a driver’s license;
And wouldn’t you know it,
Life brought me right back to my nemesis.

The pastor invited me to ride with him to New Orleans.
I didn’t know what he and my mother had cooked up,
But I found out when he pulled over at the foot of that bridge,
calm as Sunday morning, stepped out, and said,
“You’re driving us across.”

My driving experience was a 1963 Rambler,
And here he was handing me the wheel
to his brand new Chrysler New Yorker,
all that shiny metal and power I didn’t feel ready to hold.

I remember my hands on the steering wheel,
the bridge rising up in front of me like a dare,
My stomach churning hot and hollow.
Raw fear again! Same fear, different seat.
But I did it.

He said I needed to face it.
Oh wow. Did I.
That’s how it’s gone, if I’m honest.
So many bridges after that one;
new jobs, hard conversations, losses I didn’t get to vote on,
doors I didn’t think I was qualified to walk through,
days when I felt the lane was too narrow
And the drop-off was too close.

But the lesson keeps coming back the same:
You don’t get brave first and then cross.
You cross it shaking.
You cross with your pride tucked away somewhere safe.
You cross because you have to and because God is kind.

Grace has met me at the foot of more than one bridge.
And every time I thought, “I can’t,”
Some strength I didn’t know I had surfaced,
and I found myself on the other side,
still here,
still held in His mighty hands.

wcd

What Do You Believe In?

 

Someone asked me what I believe in,

and whether I’m “for” Republicans or Democrats.

So here's my answer, for better or worse,

This is the truth of it.

I don’t fit neatly into either box,

And I probably never have.

I grew up believing in the American Dream,

the kind you reach for with both hands...

and a little hope.

I’ve lived long enough to see wars

That didn’t feel right or just,

and watched this country argue with itself

more times than I can count.

But I’ve also seen the best of us.

America has always been a melting pot to me,

a place where the Statue of Liberty

still means something.

My own ancestors came here chasing a promise,

And I haven’t forgotten about that.

My loyalty isn’t to a party,

And it surely isn’t to a politician.

I'm loyal to ideals,

the kind you carry quietly,

the kind that shape how you treat people.

I believe immigration should be legal

and orderly.

I believe the law should treat us all the same,

I believe in education,

in honest work,

And in the strength of community.

And I believe in the Constitution

and I believe in our democracy;

I believe these hold us together

when the storms of war roll in.

So that’s my political reality,

As simply as I can say it.

It's what I've always believed in,

And that's the truth of it.

The Hornet

 

I guess I spent most of my life angry.

Not the loud kind.

More like a pilot light that never went out.

People called me a "hornet"... among other things.

They had no idea how much of that sting

was just hurt wearing a tougher face.

I learned early to fold everything small.

Hide it behind a laugh.

A joke.

A well‑timed line of sarcasm

that made people think I was fine.

I got good at that.

Too good.

There were thoughts I never said out loud.

Dark ones that curled inward,

When I didn’t know where else to put them.

I didn’t trust anyone

with the depth of that hurt.

Sunday sermons told me I was wrong for feeling it,

So I carried the shame quietly,

like a secret I couldn’t confess

even to myself.

Most days I just… simmered.

No release.

No place to put the pressure.

Even now, I’m ashamed

of the words that flare up in my head

before I swallow them whole.

With time, I’ve learned to walk away.

To accept that some people are rude,

or just crude,

or careless with their words,

but not out of malice.

Some folks just can’t think past

whatever falls out of their mouths.

And I see how I still brace for impact

before there’s even an offense to meet it.

Old habits.

Old armor.

I’m still learning, slowly,

that some things

and some people

just can’t matter in the long run.

Age has softened me.

The sting isn’t what it used to be.

But I still keep people at a distance,

not out of coldness,

just… safety.

Just the way I learned to survive.

And maybe this,

these words in the dark,

never meant to be sent,

is the closest I’ve come

to saying it plainly:

Anger shaped me,

but I’m trying to live

without letting it be

the whole story of what killed me.