Monday, July 6, 2009


I can remember the first time I ever heard this word. I guess I should say the first time I ever became aware of this word. I read it on a psychological evaluation of Amber. It was one of the many times she was evaluated during those teen years. The word has always been a very good descriptive word for her. Funny, though, this is the first time I have ever seen this definition. The definition I was given before was more of the sense of being dramatic, taking things to the extreme. Randy and I always thought she could have definitely been an actress  on the big screen. She has certainly been an actress in life. She craves attention and she is good at creating the necessary means in acquiring it.  

Yesterday afternoon, as we were leaving the valley to head back up to Pinetop, Randy pulled in a convenience store to buy gas. I glanced over at the curb, right outside the store. There was a woman, about Amber's age, I would say, sitting on the curb, with a paper sack by her side. Her hair was unruly, her clothes unkempt and she was barefoot. I saw another regular looking woman round the corner of the store and come talk to her. She seemed to be giving her advice, or that is what it looked like to me. Both women grasped hands and I could just tell it was something of that nature. The regular woman left and by that time we were ready to pull out also. Tears welled up in my eyes. Randy asked me what was wrong. There had been much activity at the little store. I am not sure he had even seen the woman. I told him, through broken, tattered words, about seeing the broken, tattered woman. It could have been Amber in her place. 

Quietly, but with force, Randy reminded me this lady might have abandoned her child, she might have stolen $10,000. from her parents, she might have, she might have, she might have. It reminded me about enabling. It reminded me there are shelters. It reminded me I know nothing about the circumstances of the woman on the curb. I could make up my own story about her. Perhaps she was not in trouble at all, but a reporter, acting in order to do research for a story.

Regardless, my heart ached once more for the brokenness of my daughter, for the brokenness of her family, regardless of the reasons or circumstances.

Sometimes life is experiencing a broken heart and knowing there are other stories to be told that will mend that heart. There might be ugly crooked stitches to the wretched seam weaved but the heart will be put back together and given another opportunity to smile.

Sometimes in life we all are histrionic.

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