To Tell Him My Story

“I love you!” my son shouts as he leaps out of the car when we arrive at his school in the morning. He slams the door and dashes up to the passenger-side window and forms a heart with his hands just in case I didn’t hear him a second ago. I mimic the sign he forms and tell him I love him, too, though he can’t hear through the glass. He was moving too fast for me to tell him earlier. He’s always moving too fast, growing too fast.

He was dancing on the ultrasound screen when I first saw him. He still loves to dance and enjoys music, though only in the past few weeks we’ve discovered what types of music he likes—epic movie-trailer-type music by Thomas Bergersen, the violinist Lindsey Stirling, some of my Celtic music, some Bebo Norman, and Jars of Clay. His dad introduced him to Thousand Foot Krutch as well, so now I will be plagued by requests for harder music than I am fond of.

Lately, he’s become a fan of mine—of my books, in particular. I was stuck on a fight scene and asked him how it would go. I explained to him the characters—the main cast, the skeletons and “flesh savages” (basically strong zombies), and the “Shrouded,” a group of intelligent and powerful undead who have set themselves against the main characters. My son proceeded to use props to enact the scene as he imagined it. Since that day, we have had pillows as trees and other stationary objects; Pokémon cards, Goo-Jitz-U toys, and an array of other things as the actors; and Nerf gun bullets and hair pins as pole arms and hammers. My son is nothing if not imaginative. His input has been helpful. Just today, I discovered one of my characters gains an animal companion, as my son was intent this character saved a bird from one of the Shrouded and kept it as a pet. I’m leaning more toward a rodent, though.

It means a lot to me that my son wants to help with my writing. With dead pan certainty, he told me I’m going to become famous. To have fervent support from someone whose entire world fits in the small space around him most times is moving and inspiring. To see my son developing empathy and compassion when he is excited about something happening for someone other than himself is encouraging. I want to honor that love, and I want to protect his optimism and enthusiasm. I want to grow them.

But I am afraid. I can do no wrong in my son’s eyes, but that will not last. One day, he will become a teenager, and the car door will slam without a word. A hug in front of friends might be the most embarrassing thing. My books might become something to ignore and that his mother is an author might be a fact he hides. I’m not afraid of that. I am afraid of breaking my son’s heart.

When my son was four, it was only us two at home in our apartment. My thoughts had spiraled, and my mood was darkening. The desire to self-harm was overwhelming me. I knew I needed to get outside, so I ushered my son toward the front door to get his shoes on. He resisted. I don’t remember what he’d been doing, but it absorbed his attention such that to stop was the end of the world. As I urged him again to get his shoes on, he threw a tantrum. Inside my mind, anxiety heightened, and the usual delusions bombarded me. I couldn’t escape. I needed to leave the apartment before everything blew up inside, but my child was bawling, and I didn’t have the emotional capacity to get him out the door. It was hard enough to stay present. Psychotic visions were on the edge of my consciousness, and I had to leave.

I prompted my son again, outwardly patience and calm, struggling to cover up the mess in my head. He wouldn’t listen. I tried again. He cried harder. Just before everything imploded within me, I burst out, “We have to go, or Mommy’s going to die!”

I will never forget the look in his eyes as he stopped crying. He was terrified. Witnessing his eyes wide with fear, my heart shattered. What had I done?

I tried to backpedal. “Mommy’s not going to die, baby, it’s okay. Just get your shoes on, and we’ll go get a cookie from the bookstore.” In silence, my son put on his shoes, and we left the apartment. My system was in shock. The psychotic cycle broke, and I was numb. I attempted to console my child, apologizing and telling him I hadn’t meant what I’d said, that it had come out wrong. He was quiet.

By that evening, my son was back to his normal energetic self, talkative and excited about everything. I couldn’t forget, though, and I still can’t. I am afraid of breaking my son’s heart.

I don’t see any way around it. Telling my story is telling of darkness. There is triumph over the darkness, and there will be ultimate victory, but relating my life is to speak of how evil and brokenness played a major role in shaping my hope. If I am honest about my past, and if my son is at least as empathetic toward me as he is now, my son will learn some difficult things. And I don’t want to brush over them, either. The darkness helped shape my hope, and I would not have the faith and trust in God that I have without the difficulties I’ve faced. To tell my son my life devoid of struggle is to hollow out the power of my testimony. My story would fall flat.

One day, I will tell my son my story. I pray I’ll know when and how to tell him. I pray God will help him receive it as the glorious tale it is, the story of God’s faithfulness, grace, and love. Until then, I will continue to love him. I will introduce him to music, maybe dance with him a little, and ask for his help in writing fight scenes. (He admits fight scenes are his strength.) I will try to preempt him in the school drop-off line and tell him I love him before he slams the door. And maybe I’ll even listen to a little Thousand Foot Krutch.