She Believed in Me

When I was about 18 or so, so long ago now I barely remember, and I was nothing but a beautiful, scarred from childhood, know-it-all child, I met a man named Stephen. He was tall, creative, sensitive, deep and caring. In retrospect he was a lot like the man I finally chose as husband – although different in many ways, there are also more similarities there than I noticed previously.

At any rate, I loved Stephen madly. Until I met his family – and then I loved him more. He had two great sisters, a really fun father, the most loving woman I’ve ever met in my life (and I can still say that today – over 20 years later!), a nasty family dog, a crazy aunt. The type of family you wished you were a part of because you’d seen them on television week after week. Not perfect, not dull, never boring. Always loving, always laughing, always true. Even when the truth hurt.

Years after Stephen and I ended our relationship I still kept in touch with the family from time to time. When his father died I hurt like I’d never hurt in the past. Every bone in my body ached. I shouted to the skies. I selfishly pained for the loss of access to his jokes in my life.

There went a man who looked in your eyes when he spoke to you, always had a funny story to tell, could always turn your eyes away from your own hurt and inspire you to get on with your life. He wasn’t perfect by any means, but I loved him. On the day of the funeral the family let me ride in the limo with them – just like I belonged there. God knows my grief was intense but nothing in comparison to their own I’m sure. Yet they considered my heart and that touched me in ways I can’t explain.

I saw Stephen once more before I left the city – a few years after his father’s death. I think I had a cut on my lip at the time from the jerk I was living with. (An abusive ass who finally took me to the brink of actually fighting back!) Stephen asked me to leave him (not in a manipulative way that guys use when they’re trying to rekindle flames with their old girlfriends, but in a caring, brotherly sort of way). He tried to tell me that I was better than what I had ended up with. I appreciated that, but if you’re a woman living with abuse I’m sure you understand that it isn’t always easy to leave your attacker.

At any rate, I’m off track here…

The point was – loving family.

The mother, Bev. Always accepting. Always loving. Forever thoughtful. Good grief God put an angel on the earth to live and breathe amongst us. I was just this stupid broken girl. Not loved as a child. Still hurt. No direction. Just living. A know-it-all. A smart ass. Self-consumed. I’m not beating myself up here – that’s who I was! But not in Bev’s eyes. I was – what? – a kid that needed love? A precious jewel? A friend to confide in? One of her own? Yes. All that and more.

She believed in me – I think she was the first person ever to believe in me so much that I could feel it too. 

Bev had her own hurts and sorrows in life, but somehow she saw right through mine and tried to band-aid it all up with her own warmth and love.

If I had an idea, a thought, a direction, she’d tell me I was smart, right, destined for great things. And if I just wanted to sit and eat and smoke in her house and hang out like a lazy toad that was okay too. It was all okay. It was unconditional love and it was the first taste I’d ever had of it. Bev knows how to love – and she knows how to do it better than most of us.

Years pass and I’m terrible at keeping in touch. I had a child and I just had to ‘take her home’ to Bev. Show off my accomplishment – share my joy. It was instant acceptance. I watched the way she looked at my Veronica and I saw what love is supposed to look like.

That’s when I was 30 and still a stupid ass. I think we saw each other once again after that.

So now I’m over 40. And Bev still writes. Still sends Veronica cards on holidays, money for Christmas, and letters. How old is Bev now? Does an angel ever age? She’s gotta be pushing 75. I’ve always told her that I love her. I’ve always tried to tell her how uniquely caring she is. Did I tell her enough? Now that she’s laying in a hospital bed does she know?

I’m starting to figure out this life. Love is all that really counts. And the more unconditional, the better.