Yesterday I remembered something important—something lost in a sea of labels and responsibilities. Something I have long kept hidden in the deep back pockets of an apron. I am a woman.
My husband had left for New York City and I was wrangling my small children and feeling serenely effective as the single mom on the pew bench alone at worship. But something naggled at the back of my mind. A memory jarred by my independence and singleness. I am a woman!
What if, what if, what if...my husband never returns. What would I do? How would I care for my little ones? How would my life continue on? Surely I'd want companionship still. Life would not end.
Morbid? Perhaps. But I came to an unsettling conclusion. I've buried my identity as a woman deep inside my other identities as wife, daughter, mother, sister, and friend. But woman? I've always been afraid of that one. I used to be afraid to be sooo young and beautiful, but now I am just busy playing the role my life has evolved into. And I'm not so young any more. Beautiful. Maybe, but it's a beauty--a missing piece--I need to reclaim.
