Once many years ago, I watched on TV as a woman accepted an Oscar for a documentary about Jews in Nazi Germany. In her speech, she talked about how her life has been shaped by the fact that she survived the war, when so many of her family members and compatriots perished.
She referenced all the television viewers at home and said (I’m paraphrasing because it was a super long time ago) that of all the joys the world has to offer, we really ought to value that of, “A quiet evening at home. It is a luxury and a gift that so many never lived beyond the horror of the Second World War to see. Enjoy and appreciate the beauty of your quiet evening at home.”
I’ve never been subjected to imprisonment in a concentration camp. I cannot even pretend to know that degree of suffering. But I’m realizing that the trauma I experienced raising Jack, at first with zero help and in later (more violent) years with increasing levels of outside support, was actual trauma.
It negatively affected my physical health. It subjected my mental health to a fiery furnace. Emotionally, I have grown stronger, not weaker from these experiences. I think I have an inkling of what PTSD feels like. But that’s not what this post is about.
I’ve been turning the phrase “a quiet evening at home” over and over in my mind. It is beautiful and the concept is startling and refreshing in its simplicity. Perhaps I see it this way because when Jacky lived here, there just were no quiet evenings at home.
It wasn’t Jack’s fault. It was simply the nature of his disability, that he was mostly agitated by the activity/noise/chaos/unpredictability of his family. Even when our activities revolved around Jack’s needs, our very presence, combined with our inability to provide 24/7 completely predictable, calming, and unvaryingly structured routines stressed Jack and increased his problem behaviors.
Jack still has the occasional outburst at his group home. But overall, he is calmer, less agitated, and more relaxed in his current placement than I have seen him in many years. Jack has peaceful evenings at home. It’s simply a different home.
I, meanwhile, am savoring the new-to-me phenomenon of a quiet evening at home.
For so long, home wasn’t restful. I did not experience a sense of “it’s good to be home,” when returning from being away. Home was a minefield, my own personal tornado alley, the wilderness of my afflictions where, it turned out, I literally lived. My respite happened when I left home to see a movie, shop alone, or eat out. All of these activities, I found, featured me walking around with a giant case of Imposter Syndrome. “I don’t really live a normal life,” I felt I should admit to random strangers, who saw me without my child-rearing circus in tow. “My life is actually quite unusual. Bizarre, even. Have a nice day. Cheers.”
Now here I am, enjoying the quietest evening at home that ever was. And this isn’t rare for us anymore. It’s the norm. It’s the delicious, miraculous every day (and night) for me and mine.
I will never not be astonished at the beauty God has wrought in my life, in both the travail, and now the quiet.