I want to hold her in my hands and look at her face. My eyes scroll over the pictures that haven’t moved from the self-adhesive plastic covered pages for years. I am looking for her. As I turn the page, I take her in and notice a tightening in my stomach. “She’s a pistol,” I mumble, “with a tender heart.” Her baseball hat hems in her blonde ringlet curls. Her eyes wide open. Her pointed little tongue pressed on her lip. I imagine her knees that are tucked beneath the table scraped with both fresh and scabbed wounds.
I pull the picture close. Oh how she lives in most every memory I have of myself.
She is in the Easter picture set between her two sisters, adorned in a baby blue frilly dress and bonnet. Her purse, filled with frogs and worms is clutched in her gloved hands.
She did cannonballs off the dock right after the ice melted on the lake, to mark her place on the yearly calendar, as the first to jump in after a long Wisconsin winter.
She ran the basketball court as a young girl and then a young adult and used her body to box out her opponent and dove to catch any loose ball. She had an aggression that was tenacious but gentle.
She shuffled the halls of the psychiatric wards where labels, diagnosis and Dixie cups full of pills were given out and with her whit and relational savvy she rose to take her place on her Senior homecoming court.
When on the brink of death from another failed suicide attempt, she looked back at me in the mirrored light fixture that hung over my bed in the Emergency Room and said you aren’t done yet – don’t give up.
She found the strength and courage to escape 10 months of imprisoned hell from the pastor who groomed, seduced, and consumed me.
Oh my how I carry her with me.
She found free treasures on the side of the road when I had no money and helped me turn them into Anthropologie-esque masterpieces to make my space beautiful and cozy.
She helped convince me to purchase an exquisite white gown and hold my head up high when I walked the aisle through a difficult crowd, to take my husband’s hand in marriage.
She rose in the operating room and tried to out-smart the anesthesia after a traumatic miscarriage that ended in a surgery, on the most intimate part of my body.
She scooped me up and marched me into the counseling office and has kept close watch and asked big questions to help me establish it as a place of safety.
She is cunning and clever and can sniff out danger when it lurks. She can read people with precision and accuracy and can take in a room within seconds. She has sniper-like abilities when she is in the presence of false, inauthentic religion and is quick to raise the warning flag.
She is my scrapper girl.
She has rescued me from trouble, and yet she has not been invincible.
She won’t be messed with without a fight.
She has a vigilance and a commitment to keep me alive. But she has also taken the bait hook, line and sinker.
She has a ceaseless devotion to me, but I am at war with her. There is an ambivalence I have towards her because she has caused uncertainty and disruption.
As I work to embody my story, I want to bless her, and honor her, and lavish her with kindness. She has advocated for me so well.
As I begin to settle into spaces that are beginning to feel safe, my younger places have a lot of things to say. I don’t need her to fight and protect with such vigilance anymore. She too needs green pastures and peaceful waters to rest. She needs open space to run and play.
There is a new kind of suffering that I am enduring, as I call to mind, remember, grieve, and heal in very young places without her shielding and protecting me.
She is stunning, a glorious warrior.
Mercy to you my sweet scrapper girl.
Mercy to you.
Megan thrives alongside her husband of 15 years in Colorado. She is the mother of six children. While walking faithfully with friends, Megan co-hosts a marriage conference, a Christmas show, and a songwriter’s retreat. She loves Hot Tamales and Essential oils. She is a natural gatherer and organizer. You’ll find her listening to audio books while doing laundry and Costco runs.
This is so well done, and I can so relate. I too have had to ask that hyper-vigilant voice of childhood inside of me to quiet down, since what she urges on me is no longer serving. I too search for that elusive feeling of safety. Blessings to you, Megan, and thanks for sharing this.
Thank you Claudia -May you find that safety you are looking for and bless that younger place that has helped keep you alive.
BRAVO!!
Thank you JoAnna –
This new suffering seems like one of your gutsiest acts.
Your Scrapper-girl is trusting grown-up you to find safety for you both. She is darling. As you both lay your weapons down, even for a moment, may you find Love waiting for you.
Gutsy it is – Feels so unnerving at times. Yes to Love finding me.,..and all of us. Thanks for your words Jill!
Oh Megan, you are such a brave soul. It is obvious you have done good, hard work in engaging your story. I have never read anything that screamed kindness to their inner traumatized child as your writing did. How you are honoring her and telling a different story gives me hope for my own story and challenges me to let her speak to me more. Thank you for writing this piece, your voice is one that needs to be heard.
Aww thank you Amy. The work has been a journey for sure… one still in process. Re-writing our stories is a gut wrenching but holy process. I am glad it sparked hope for you. Cheering you on-
This gives each of us so much permission to attend to—meaning love, cherish, see, adore, name, grieve with, fight for and be playful with our own selves and little girls. Thanks for sharing this work of honoring and inviting us to do the same.
Amanda – you have been so helpful in naming her, seeing her, and blessing her. Who knew such goodness could come from walking the Chapel Hills Mall? ( I still don’t want to buy anything from there.) Your friendship is a lavish gift.
Megan, Scrapper-girl is amazing. I am so glad she’s got your back. You have battled greatly for all the beauty your life and family have. I missed seeing you at the last Cert weekend. Hugs across the many miles…
Becky – thank you for seeing her amazing-ness. 🙂 She has kept me alive. I missed seeing you too. Thankful for you Becky and hugs returned back.
Megan, I am captivated by Scrapper Girl; she was and is a stunning, glorious warrior. And you honored her and her story so beautifully in this telling. I am also captivated by you as now tend to these younger places and bless them with rest as you offer such wise, good, and courageous care. Thank you for sharing her with us. It is an honor to see her pictured in her baseball cap and through your vivid words.
Susan – your words always bring such encouragement. It was an honor (and scary) to bring her to this space – picture and all! 🙂 Hugs to you –