Forgiven and Loved. Words I carried with me tonight to my friends’ house for a kid-filled dinner party. The day had been dreary—hot, sticky, and grey. At our hour of departure, the sun broke through as if to say, “Come as you are into the light.” So I put aside my food anxieties. When we arrived at their house, my son and daughter bounded out of the car and headed off into the green dream of their enormous backyard in search of their sons. The adults sat in a circle around blue tortilla chips and homemade guacamole. I looked at everyone and thought, “You are blessed to have such good, real friends as these. Friends who care about you. Friends who have stayed by your side throughout all the shit. Friends with whom you can be honest about the slips and slides. Friends who celebrate your recovery, too.”
Mexican potluck dinner: salad, burritos, Spanish rice, poblanos stuffed with melted Manchego cheese, fruit, and ice cream topped with a honey/graham cracker/Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal mixture. All decadent and good. And I was able to eat a little of everything.
Afterward, the kind of evening that makes you remember summer. Kids shrieking and fighting and reconciling. Swings reaching the sky. Beach ball soccer. Badminton. My daughter giggled so hard she peed her pants, according to her count, five times! My son’s face was sticky with ice cream. I know this because he kept sneaking over and giving me sly little kisses.
At home, my daughter hugged me and turned my arm over, reading the word. “Loved,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Momma, you already are loved.” And in the abundance of love I felt this evening, forgiven, too.