Big Fat Pink Eraser

Sometimes I wish I could get a big fat pink eraser and rub out certain things in my life.

Painful events…bad memories…

Mistakes and missteps I’ve made…

Thoughtless words I’ve said that hurt others…

Relationships that have been more harm than good…

Erase them and blow away the gritty residue.

Wipe them off my slate.

Scour them out of my toilet bowl.

Pretty up my life-line. White-out the smudges.

Delete whole chapters.

Make it all pink and green and pretty and happy.

I was a neurotic first-born child.  When I was in elementary school, I’d be mortified to get a “B” on my report card.  It would be in either Citizenship (“talks too much with other students”) or Math (brain doesn’t operate that way.) I would be humiliated by my “failure.” So I would get an eraser and try to smudge that big bright “B” right out.  At least fade it enough so I could make it look like an “A.”  Failing at that, I’d apply a little spit to the tip of my finger and rub it like Lady MacBeth washing her hands.

Told you I was a neurotic child.

But guess what…

Not only would I rub out the offending mark, I would rub a hole right through the paper.

That was even less pretty.

I’m not exactly sure what triggered these thoughts. I guess it’s the number of painful things I’ve experienced...or my children have experienced...in recent years. Sometimes I wish I could make them all go away like a bad dream. Erase them from my life. Or at least from my consciousness. Pretend this or that hadn’t happened to me; undo this or that I’ve done. Press rewind and edit out that hurtful remark coming from my mouth… that stumble…that fall. Trash the painful episodes; rewrite the script.

But, remembering my old report cards, I realize that can’t be done without leaving a hole.

And (please forgive me here) we can’t be whole with holes.

We cannot eradicate certain fibers of our story’s parchment without negating the very fiber of our existence. Our fiber. All of the marks and splotches and spilled ink have made us who we are…are helping us to become who we need to be.

Like they always say about the Weaver…the dark threads are necessary for the fabric to have depth and richness and lustre.

So it is with the story of our lives, written in indelible ink.

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...more sister stories next time...