Maybe that's why they left here in such a hurry. I know, I'll leave them a note in case they ever return.
Dearest Children,
I don't know if I could have loved you then as much as I do now. We spent so many difficult years together in the struggle to grow. I was a child when I had you. I knew what was wrong in me and tried to fix it in you — to make you strong so your life would serve others instead of always being stuck to itself out of fear.
Some of my weaknesses brought pain to your small and innocent lives. Life should have been spread out before you like a grand adventure. Instead I shoved you face first into cold, hard reality. "Who said life is fair?" I asked over and over as I prepared you for that "unfair" life. I tried to make you strong so you would not feel the pain of disappointment; would not bring that pain back to me where I was hiding.
In spite of my shortcomings, there was something solid and strong deep within me. I could feel it. I believed this inner strength was very important, so I structured your early life like mine was, to encourage the journey inward.
To accomplish this I gave you very little of what the world offered. We lived in a neighborhood where friendship was not that readily available, so you were forced to spend most of your time alone. I felt being your own person was far more valuable than being like everyone else, so I kept your life simple, bare, different from most of the other children who were your peers.
I stayed home until the last of you went to school. While I was always there, I don't remember ever spending time with any one of you reading or playing games or getting involved with the routines of your little lives. Instead, I kept a constant eye on your feelings, making sure you never suffered alone. I taught you how to think and reason and interpret those feelings. Even as children you spoke with wisdom and insight. You became my teachers and my inspiration.
Then it happened, a horrifying moment for all of us. I packed a bag and left our home. Lacking real courage, I ran away without you. The pain of that moment must be with you still. All I had ever told you about being strong, about facing problems, about loving you, must have become lies. All the wonderful times we shared as part of a bustling family must have dimmed in the flash of that moment. I returned for you, but foundations had been shaken.
Some acts I committed were wrong but innocent: marrying too young, too needy; bringing children into the world when I was not ready to sacrifice; hiding my real needs because I was not brave enough to insist they be met. The final act, however — choosing my pain over yours — was and is unforgivable. Therefore, it is not forgiveness I seek, but understanding and compassion.
In our brokenness we are sometimes unable or unwilling to rise out of our own desperate needs and care about others. A life well-lived, however, grows steadily toward love for others, and is one day blessed with the grace to forgive itself and move on. This I have done.
If I could live it all over? I would do exactly as I have done, because I was following something that taught me — sometimes gently, sometimes severely — what it means to be human. I tried to direct you toward that something I felt and heard; something I still hear — the Voice. It speaks the same message I heard when I was a child sitting in that dark church on Good Friday; it speaks the same message I heard in Jack-in-the-Box; it speaks the same message I hear now.
My dearest children, I will cherish forever the brief but everlasting time we had together. We shared the same body until life called you forth. While you are all grown up now and gone from my days — never will you be gone from my heart.
Speak.