Painted Walls…

My husband and I will be married 12 years this June.   He was 38 the day we were married; I was 23.   He was a widower and a father of 4.  I was a single mom of one.  He was my Prince Charming, I was his Cinderella.  Well….almost….

Prince Charming didn’t quite know how to handle a Cinderella who didn’t understand how to keep a spotless house and who thought the best form of expression was throwing things.  Cinderella was not quite sure what to do with a Prince Charming who never stopped working and didn’t think it was necessary to call home to say he would be late.  And she certainly didn’t know how to handle her role as the wicked stepmom.

We held on and we hung on and we fought for what we had.  We learned to love each other and learned to forgive and we believed God for the rest.   We realized that just like lace, sometimes the holes were necessary to make the pattern…

I moved into his home 12 years ago.  The home he shared with his first wife.   And each day I stared at the white walls and felt that somehow I was out of place.  This was her house and I didn’t belong….

Last week I covered those white walls.   I made them new with my blue paint.  I painted over the past...not to forget…but to move on.  

 

The effort to make a home that neither denied her nor myself has been difficult.   There was something cathartic in the painting of those walls.   I wish there were words to explain.  There aren’t.   I can only say I love my new walls.