“Do Not Leave Your Longings Unattended”

     This morning I had the great privilege of sharing my story at MOPS, my journey of reclaiming my passions amid parenting. Wow. I am still in process, but it has been an immensely rewarding one. As I typed up my "talk" I found myself thinking of a story, perhaps my own, and minimized my speech to let myself type freely. I love to tell stories. I printed off several copies, as sharing fiction can be vulnerable, but so many friends asked for copies, I was sad I had not printed more. At least this way, I had more time to edit (forgive the typo's in the original copy) :). Since many did not read my short story, I am taking a risk and sharing it on here, in hopes it will encourage someone. Yes, I will feel incompetent and insignificant, and I confess this to break the hold of fear, and it only partially worked, but I still wrote it to encourage some and this is why I share.  

                             Do Not Leave Your Longings Unattended

  

          “I don't know who I am anymore.” Sarah rested a cheek lifelessly against her palm, a knobby elbow propped against the kitchen table. The sky was split in half beyond the window, a orange horizon hung below a hazy gray covering. She resented the postponed evening, as the children took advantage and insisted on later nights. Now, they were finally asleep, 37 minutes after their bedtime. She sighed. Her husband, Carl, was rummaging in a kitchen drawer just behind her, prepping the coffee maker for an early morning pre-scheduled brew. He rammed the filter drawer with the heel of his hand.  “This thing is so old,” he spoke to himself, just under his breath.

           A clatter and snap filled the silent kitchen. Carl grumbled. “I guess I'm going to Wal-mart. Unless you can survive without coffee?”

          “Negative.”

          “I thought so. Need anything else to make it through tomorrow?”

          Sarah sat straight, rousing her mind to a wakeful state.  “Bread, peanut butter, milk, cereal...” There was more, but she couldn't think of it right off.

          Carl's face twisted and he rested a hip against the counter,  “Didn't you just go to the store two days ago?”

          Sarah tipped her head sideways, “I did, but-”

          “And, you went $50 over budget.”

          She expected him to go there.  “Honey...”

          He sighed, giving in, “It's fine. I'll get what you need.”  He drug his hand across the counter top, catching the keys with his fingertips and flipping them into his palm before they tumbled off the side. A little game he played with himself. Sarah was listless.  “I heard what you said, and I don't know what you want me to say.”  He caught her eyes,and his expression softened. “I'm sorry.”  He shrugged with one shoulder, rehearsing the grocery list she had given him in his head. Before he could walk away, she called out to him. 

          “Am I the same person I was when you married me?”
         “You're better,” he assured her.

          “You have to say that.”

          He rolled his eyes, “You're a little more introspective than you used to be, but other than that....” he shrugged again as her gaze pressed him. “You're stressed more than I remember you. You seem worn out, but Clara gets you up several times at night, so I understand. You're a little more anxious,and I can't remember the last time you had fun.” Was that what she wanted to know?

         Sarah dabbed at the first bit of tears that formed in the corners of her eyes, a stinging wad sat in her throat.

       Carl strode across the room and fell to his knees in front of her, “Gah, Sarah.” He felt the first subtle twinge of remorse, then, anger. First at himself, then at her. “You pushed me to say all that. I think you're a great mom.”  He grabbed a limp hand from her lap and squeezed it, “I wouldn't change anything about you.”

          She nodded over him, though her tears fell like a rainy day window.

          Carl's eyebrows peaked, “You really don't get out enough.”

          That was always his answer.

          “Do you want to go to Wal-mart?” he asked, his voice perky.

          A late-night, kids-free trip to Wal-mart was tempting. Since when was 8:45 a late night? Since when was a trip to Wal-mart tempting? She shook her head, looking past him. “Wal-mart won't fix this.”

         “Have you tried praying about-”

          “Why do you always go there?” Sarah whined, and lowered her head into the crook of her elbow, choking out a train of sobs.

          Carl rolled his eyes, “Because God knows you better than I do.” He waited for her to calm, and squeezed her hand again, urging her to return to the conversation. “I pray for you,” he offered, his voice smooth and full, like honey.

          Sarah lifted her head, a soft smile curved onto her face.“So, tell me what to do.”

          He laughed quietly as he pulled himself from the floor and sat in the matching chair just by her.   “What do you need? A day off? To cut back?”  He folded his hands together like he was closing on a business deal.  “Do you need help with the kids? Do you need-”

          “I need peace,” she said, cutting him off.

          He stretched his frame against the chair back, drawing away from her, “Only one person can give you-” he started.

          “I know,” she said, her voice low and sharp. At least her tears had dried up. “If that worked, I'd have what I needed.”

          Carl rolled his tongue around his mouth, withholding so much he wished to say. Correction never satisfied Sarah. She was too bright for that. “Well,” he started, leaning forward again in his chair, “You need a change.”  He had to help her think for herself. It was a learned trait, one he had honed after 8 years of marriage. “What do you think that looks like?”

          Her eyes searched the ceiling, for this is how she did her best thinking. “I do need a break,” agreeing with his suggestion. “And, I need help.”  She sniffled at the admission, a pool of tears filling her eyes, again. Why couldn't she parent three children happily? Keep up a house? Maintain a schedule? Other people did it without dissolving on a weekly basis.

          Carl was nodding, his black and white brain calculating the logistics. “I'll take Sam to soccer this week and get Molly to dance.”

          “You do so much, Carl,”  Sarah said, then dabbed at her eyes with the collar of her shirt. Carl could do it all, and still shepherd a congregation. Even now she saw him picking away encrusted food at the kitchen table, swiping the remains into his palm. “Stop it!”

          “This table is filthy,” he said before realizing this would not comfort her. He gave a haphazard shrug, “It's not a big deal. We only eat off of it.” That was not helpful.

          Sarah pulled in a long breath, “So, you'll take over some errands this week?”

          “Sure.”

          “That will help.”  She rested against the wooden back of the chair, gazing past Carl. Somehow, the solace she had been seeking still eluded her. The swarming tension was present within, keeping her awake, pulling her away from Carl. He persisted.

          “What are you going to do about Sarah?”

           She raised an eyebrow, “What?”

           Carl nodded, decisively, “What will you do?”

          “About what?”

          “About yourself?”

          She chewed on his words, then searched the ceiling again. “I'll probably go to sleep soon...”

          “You sleep every night.”

          “Not enough.”

           A slight smile spread across his face, “You and me, both.”

          Sarah sighed and fell forward, resting her head against Carl's shoulder. He was a rock; a steadfast,true friend for every season of her life.

          “Sarah Simpson. What would she have done at her wits end?”

          This was her maiden name. An immediate picture of herself adorned in mismatched pajamas, a sloppy bun wound atop her head, appeared in her mind's eye. She was sprawled across a twin-sized bed, her bent knees in the air like twin flagpoles. She was drawing. For hours she would do that, staring on at a still prop, her mind in constant motion, energy flowing throughout her entire body, though it always focused her. She smiled at the memory. But, what did Sarah Simpson know? All she wanted was to become Sarah Crandall, Carl's wife. Sarah Simpson didn't like herself, either.

          Carl smiled, recalling a memory of his own,“Sarah Simpson would have tucked herself away in a quiet room. She would have prayed and written in a leather bound journal she had cut and sewn herself.”

          Sarah sat up and faced him, a curious smile on her face.

          “My hippy wife,” Carl said, completely endeared.

          Sarah laughed genuinely then sat back against the chair, calming. “I used to draw.”

          He nodded, other memories flooding back.“You used to read your Bible with a box of crayons! And, when we drove a long distance, you would pull out markers and color your arm. It was your personal canvas!”

        Though she cupped a hand over her mouth, it failed to stifle girlish giggles.

        “I remember! Oh God,I remember!”

         “Why'd you stop?”

          Sarah knew when she had stopped. After Molly arrived two months early, there had been no time to rest or eat or think anything beyond dreaded what-if's. Then, when Molly lived- Thank God, Molly had lived- she hadn't drawn again. “It feels foolish to have needs when others need me as much as they do.”

          Carl's expression fell, remembering Sarah as her former self. She had been so free. Had he done this to her?

          She read his mind, “I wanted to be a wife and mother more than anything, but I've traded myself.”

          His knuckles traced her cheekbone like the tip of a feather, “We need you.”

          “Who am I?” She asked, her eyebrows drawn, the lines across her forehead thickening.

          “She's in there,” Carl assured her gently and smiled. “Now, if you want coffee tomorrow...”

          “I know,” she conceded, “You need to go.”

          He kissed her forehead, then stood, retrieving his keys. He left.

          As Carl pulled from the driveway, Sarah strode quietly through the living room and opened a corner closet. A soccer ball, two overstuffed jackets, and three iron golf clubs tumbled out. Kids. Clutter. Carl. She rolled her eyes. A tattered sketchbook was tucked in the corner on a top shelf, and she fingered the edge, barely catching the corner with her middle-finger and pushing it closer. When it was in her ownership again, she left the spilled contents of the closet and walked away, the sketchbook flat and against her heart.

          The sketches were elementary, boasting of undeveloped talent. But, some of them had a special touch. Substance. She couldn't look away from one particular sketch, a wrought-iron bench on a quiet ocean shore. She had sat for hours in the sand that day sketching, her elbows digging round dents into her thighs. Her knuckles aching. Her heart fluttering. The emotion roused in her again.

          Draw. A quiet voice within her spoke.

          She smiled slightly, focusing inward. “It's been years,” she said under her breath, dismissing the suggestion. Or, maybe it was a command? She heard nothing more. Yet, the deep corner of their plush suede couch called to her. Her feet carried her there, slowly, and even when she arrived, she stood staring at the empty spot, wondering whether she should give into it. How long would it hold her captive? A red crayon lay tossed aside on a neighboring end table. Sarah chewed on her lower lip, her eyes darting to and from the red crayon and the corner cushion of the couch. She drew in a breath, then lowered a knee onto the cushion, then another,then she turned, facing outward, and readjusted several times the way a dog might before deciding how to lay. Her knees tipped forward, the sketchbook resting against her soft stomach, her thumbs tracing the page with the bench. She turned the page, and it was blank. She reached over the arm of the couch for the crayon, and took it into her possession. Her fingers cradled the crayon, then gripped it, and she pulled a scarlet ribbon across the page. She didn't know what she was drawing. She was just drawing. Her heart was thumping.

          Draw yourself. The quiet voice within was awakened, yet again.

          She smiled, even as her heart ached. “I am a mess,” she said aloud, no louder than a whisper. But, she obeyed, scribbling the very sunset she had seen that evening. Suddenly, she jumped from the couch, the sketchbook tucked beneath her elbow, and ran to a nearby drawer. It flung open with force, and she pulled a handful of arrayed crayons from its midst, as many as she could fit into her palm. Then, she returned to the couch, capturing the orange sky in its splendor, a fingernail slant of sun as it sunk below the horizon, and a patchwork of clouds that had dotted the atmosphere before the haze. Then, she drew the haze; the dreariness that would soon become nightfall,and the very tone she meant to convey gripped her within.

          Morning will come. The quiet voice spoke,and she nodded to herself, understanding.

          Sarah barely noticed when Carl stepped into the living room.

          His face lit up when he saw her, so familiar, and yet, someone he had never seen before. A seasoned Sarah; one who was not quite as playful and free as her former self had been, but still, one he had always known she would become: mature, deeply intelligent,a kind and gracious mother towards his children. A woman. That was it. She had become a woman. Curled in the corner of the couch, her over-sized nightgown hanging over her knees like a tent, the sketchbook resting in her lap. Had he ever loved her more?

         “You found your peace.” He said, his eyes warm and tender towards her.

          She held up a finger, signaling him to wait. Then, after a brief moment, when her drawing was complete, she raised her eyes to face him, her expression aglow, “I found my sketchbook.”

 Summer Krismanits