More on this book
Community
Kindle Notes & Highlights
My mom was a big believer in giving things a chance, a second chance, even a third and a fourth. She said grace was like that, and we should always give grace in abundance. Even to ourselves.
Memories, certain ones, have a way of zipping together the past and the present. What was once completely separate is now entangled. What you felt then, you feel now, and you’re unable to pull them apart.
When people find out about your trauma, they start treating you differently. It’s way easier to hide all of that. From everyone.
“All right, I’m going.” She holds her hands up in surrender, then turns to face us. “But no sharing blankets, feet on the ground at all times and—” “Leave room for Jesus,” we all three say in unison.
“Okay, I have to catch your father before he falls asleep,” she says. “We will not be saving room for Jesus.” She laughs as she hurries up the stairs, then calls back down, “One of the perks of being married!”
“Look, everyone’s got history. Everyone has baggage. If you’re lucky enough to find someone willing to lug it around for you, you should let them.
It’s hard when the one place on the planet with the most pain is the same place that feels the most like home. I figure it’s that way for a lot of families. It’s just a matter of which one wins out—hurt or home—that determines your living arrangements.
