~Healing

Oh Yahweh my Elohim, I cried unto Thee, and Thou has healed me. ~Psalms 30:2 HNB

When I think of being me as a concept, I see splashes of colors like a painting in a museum that makes me wonder why the artist threw a bunch of paint on the canvas and called it art. I see fast moving snapshots of myself as if I am holding a remote fast forwarding through scenes of a motop_vie. All these things are me, Helaine. I am present, fighting, thirsty, alone, driven, and redeemed – me.

At fifteen my heart was in pain. Crushing, searing, blinding, “I can’t breathe” pain as I stared over the casket of a woman I still loved – my mother. Bending over, I draped my body over the cold, blue steel box I picked that held her, asking her not to leave me behind. I am not ready is all I can think of, not caring if it seemed selfish to hang on to someone who had suffered with a disease far more than I could imagine. I did not want to leave her out there alone in the cold Cleveland snow. I had hoped I could return later with a blanket so she would not be cold. Secretly, I wished I could stay overnight with her, so neither she nor I would be alone.

Twenty-four and he is finally here - My first born. I was not expecting him to be a boy. He partially filled the void in my heart that my mother left. Finally, I felt that I had a purpose in my life. It sounds cliché, however, I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going before he was born. His birth centered me and made me take a good look at myself and the choices that I had made. It amazed me how the birth of my son changed the direction of my life. I no longer felt the need to be the center of a crowd. Once he was born, I only wanted to be the center of his universe. When I looked at my son for the first time, I finally felt redeemed.

My father, who was always in the background and always there for me, is now gone. I was thirty-nine years old when he died and I felt alone. His passing was very traumatic for me as I was not ready to be fully “grown”. I was not ready to let go of a man who had always been my cheerleader even when I did not deserve to be cheered. I realize now how much I am similar to my father. In my mirror, my smile is my father’s smile. My wit, sense of humor and even the complexity of “me” is a mirror image of my father.

My husband, my anchor, my better half, and my best friend. It was not always the case that he was these things for me, I had to grow into our relationship. Sometimes when you lose a parent at an early age it is hard to form connections with other people or let them get close enough to hurt you. But love is worth the price, I've come to know and embrace that. In this mirror image there is no longer two, only one. He and I are one heart, one soul, one journey.

I look at me now; wife, mother of four, grandmother. I press pause and take it all in, my reflection in the mirror. I am a work of art progressing and changing with each brush stroke of life. The laughter I have experienced and even the sadness, all these complexities and contrasts are me. I understand the textures and colors that the artist has chosen, and concede that I am indeed art. Taking a deep breath, I brace myself, smile, and press play, eager for this mirror called “Life” to unfold.

Lainzboyz