The Flowers

There is a time for everything. There is a time to be silent, and there is a time to speak. This is my time to speak about one of the darkest days of my life. However, the darkness no longer engulfs the memories, nor does it engulf me, because on the ten-year anniversary of that dark day, everything changed for me.

The tenth anniversary of one of the darkest days of my life found me living in Arkansas once again. The morning of April 30, 2018, was a tad cool, even refreshing, as only early spring can be. As I left home, sunlight filtered through the trees illuminating vibrant hues of new life – leaves, grass and flowers – all announcing the arrival of spring. My heart felt heavy but I didn’t want to think about it. I just wanted to make it through the day and turn the page of the calendar.

Completing my first stop of the day, I climbed back into the black pick-up truck, and drove toward Starbucks and a morning of work awaiting me.

“Take your mom flowers.”

My instant reaction: “NO!”

“Take your mom flowers.”

I felt angry.

“Take your mom flowers.”

I didn’t want to and wasn’t going to.

Instead of fading, the nudge wouldn’t leave me alone.

“Take your mom flowers.”

With every possible argument I could think of, I countered. “I have a very tight budget” and “I don’t want to” and “She doesn’t deserve flowers” and “What good will it do?” and “It’s not safe” and “what about my biological father?” to name a few of my many, many arguments that morning.

“Take your mom flowers.”

This was so hard. Feeling magnetically pulled, I found myself driving toward Sam’s Club, and still arguing. The memories started. Too painful, I pushed them down, and crammed them back into their tidy little boxes and slammed the lids shut. No way was I going there. I didn’t want to think about the past, and especially not that day.

Besides, the present moment was more than I could handle – I hadn’t seen my mom or my dad in 9 years. Nine years. NINE. Actually, several months before I saw my dad across the church at my grandmother’s funeral, and the back of my mom’s head as she sat in the pew. Otherwise, the last time was at my grandmother’s 90^th birthday party, nine years earlier.

I parked the truck in the Sam’s parking lot, and dialed a friend, then another, then another and another, desperate to find someone to go with me to take the flowers. I couldn’t go alone; I didn’t feel safe. It wasn’t safe. Every call a dead end, I sighed. I had been willing, wasn’t that enough? Surely, this was simply a little test of my willingness.

“Take your mom flowers.”

Apparently, willingness wasn’t enough. My stomach felt sick.

Sam’s garden center was set up in the parking lot. I exited the truck and started walking. My mom likes plants. A flowering plant would be the perfect choice. I meandered through plants with all colors and sizes of blossoms. A large pot of beautiful flowers captured my attention. I knew. My mom would love them.

After I paid for the flowers and loaded them in the truck, I drove farther north to Bentonville. Every part of my body screaming at me, wanting me to hit the brake pedal, make a hard U-Turn and race away to safety.

Still I drove on.

I argued with God.

Tears fell.

I drove under the canopy of old trees down the narrow streets past historic mansions and the Bentonville square.

With every forward rotation of the wheels on the pavement, the tension in my body increased while the weight on my shoulders grew.

More tears.

Ten years and two weeks before, for the first time in 13 years, I dared to say “no” to my father.
Ten years and two days before, for the first time in my life I confronted my parents.
Ten years and hours before, I received the email from my father telling me to come and collect my belongings. My parents kicked me out of their house.

My body wanted to throw up. Poignant as if they happened yesterday, the memories from ten years prior flashed before me like slides in an antique projector.

I felt the pain. The confusion. The grief. The betrayal. The abandonment. Again.

I smelled the odor signaling natural gas.

I saw my mother’s glazed eyes.

I heard my father telling the ER staff, blaming the suicide attempt on the “estranged daughter.” Blaming me.

I tasted the saltiness of my tears as I sobbed on the hard tile of the ER floor. All alone.

Sometime in these hours, my pastor came. He sat beside me on the tile floor of the ER. I will never forget that. He stayed right there beside me – for a long time. Then his wife arrived, and I clung to her. They both were balm to my broken heart and soul.

Time sitting there on the tile of the ER floor felt like an eternity passing in slow motion. Waiting, sobbing, wishing to wake from the nightmare.
5 hours passed before the ER staff said they thought my mother would make it.

My mother almost died.

My mother wanted to die.

The salty tears in my memories merged with the tears rolling fast down my cheeks.

My parents blamed me. Then they apologized to me. And then my parents continued to blame me.

Describing the pain inflicted by these accusations is beyond my reach at this time. As deep and as excruciating as this was for me, I knew without a doubt that my mother’s choice to kill herself was not my fault. I knew it wasn't my fault.

That knowledge doesn't stop or eliminate the pain, or the myriad of questions I posed over the years.

Then, as clear as day, I saw the answer to my inquiry of “why?” uttered countless times over these ten years.

In a single motion, that could have taken years to successfully accomplish, God used the severity of the events which occurred on April 30, 2008, to forever break the chains binding me to my parents.

Conditioned as I was from my earliest childhood to bow to authority, to accept the blame, to take the blow, to fix the problem at any and all cost to myself, the fact that I saw the reality and truth that this blame was not mine to shoulder is astounding. In the midst of trauma, and despite being in shock, I didn’t bow this time.

God broke my chains.

I gasped, drawing the fresh air of spring in, filling my lungs.

The anger faded, this time for good. In its place, I found compassion. I felt peace, and yes even gratefulness, because although my life as I knew it went up in flames and burned to the ground on that dark day in 2008, God brings beauty out of the ashes. And on the tenth anniversary, God let me see a glimpse of the beauty He brought out of the ashes.

I’m free. Free!

More tears fell as I drove the final miles to my parents’ little house.

Parking at the curb a little ways from their house, I carried the large pot of gorgeous flowers and placed them on the little wrought iron bench that had belonged to my grandmother. Glancing toward the house, I saw the large front door standing open; and from where I stood in the yard at the end of the walkway, I saw the only glimpse into the house I would ever see through that glass door.

I left the flowers and walked back to the black truck. Okay, I admit it, I ran.

I didn’t include a card.

I want to imagine though that my mom knew deep down when she discovered the flowers that the flowers were from me. That she knows I love her. Or maybe the flowers were thrown in the trash. I doubt I’ll ever know. Either way, I needed to take the flowers on that day, ten years later.

I drove away.

I felt lighter.

At peace.

Free.


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Depression and thoughts and/or plans of suicide are very real.
If you or someone about whom you care needs to talk,
help is available 24/7 through the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline.
Call 1-800-273-8255 or chat online at suicidepreventionlifeline.org.
You’re not alone and you matter!!!


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Although God broke the chains binding me to my parents in an instant, my journey of healing continues – albeit slow, tedious, and painful. For 12 years, the week leading up to April 30^th has been extremely difficult, and this spring was no different. However, as dawn broke through the darkness of night as the calendar once again turned a page, this time to the first day of May 2020, another burden lifted and took wing because the truth that this secret is no longer mine to carry brought immense relief and a different type of freedom. I knew the time had come. I knew this is the time for me to speak. 

Following this post, I wrote this Open Letter to my Mom

#cultsurvivor #traumasurvivor #sexualabusesurvivor
#trauma #Suicideattempt #SuicideAwareness #Depression
#Truth #SpeakTruth #TruthSetsFree #NoSecrets #Secrets
#BeKind #Compassion #Healing #freedom
#YouMatter #YouAreNotAlone #GetHelp
#BeautyoutofAshes

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