Reagan Got Shot and I Got Spanked.

My family always had strong political views and shared them freely in our home. As most children do, I listened to my parents views, soaked them in and I adopted my parents' opinions. During the election between Reagan and Carter in 1980, we were very supportive of Jimmy Carter. My older brother Mark even dressed as Jimmy Carter for Halloween, in a tan corduroy suit with a Jimmy Carter mask on his face and at every door instead of saying the typical 'Trick or Treat' he would exclaim "Vote for me!". It was awesome.

As we know, Reagan won the presidency, was sworn in and took office in 1981 and just two months later there was an assassination attempt on his life. At the time, I was nine years old and my younger brother Gerald had just turned eight. When we heard the news, we ran outside and began dancing around our willow tree together, rejoicing and singing "Reagan got shot! Reagan got shot!" with blissful grins on our innocent faces.

I think it was our neighbor that overheard us and told our parents what Gerald and I were doing. And let me just say, we definitely received a proper scolding and sported some red bottoms that afternoon. Our laughter turned to tears and not because we were worried about our President, but because of our punishment. I remember feeling so confused and also quite ashamed. We were told it was not right to rejoice in anyone's demise and that we must respect the office of the President, even if we did not value or agree with the person in that office. 

That afternoon helped shape my current outlook. Since that time, I've understood that the President is the President. I may not like him, I may not agree with him, I may not have voted for him, but he is my President. And because he is my President of the nation that I live in and love, I pray for him and I respect the office that he holds. 

Today I have seen so many posts on Facebook from unhappy or angry people, from ecstatic or even gloating people, from people that have mixed emotions and from people that just don't seem to care. I have my opinions. They might follow after my family's or they might not. They might be different from yours or they might be the same as yours. They might be more grey than black or white. They might not be completely formed. They might be ignorant opinions or they might be researched opinions. 

But they are my opinions. We have the right and the freedom to express ourselves. I rarely express myself when it comes to politics and related hot topics. And that's my right as well. Here's what I will say. We live in a country that gives us the freedom to vote, for some of us that was more hard earned than others. I don't take that lightly and any time I am able to vote, I do so. I mark my vote, my opinion on who should be president and I do my part. 

My vote joins millions of others and they are then counted and we are given a result and it is what it is. We don't have to be thrilled about it. We can even be disappointed. We can be ambivalent or delighted. We can express those feelings, that is our right. 

What makes me sad, so very sad, is the hatred I am seeing. The absolute unbending hatred. And people, it is coming from both sides. My oldest brother Phil's best friend who is without a doubt pro-Clinton, had a Facebook friend in the pro-Trump camp post "Now, I want to go out and start shooting Muslims." This breaks my heart. And I've seen plenty of posts from the pro-Clinton/anti-Trump side too that I won't go into right now, but I'm sure you've seen at least a few negative posts as well, from both sides. 

I'm not going to tell you who I voted for yesterday. It might be who you think I would vote for and then again, it may not. It's my right to keep that private. All I'm saying is I'm sad today. I'd like to see us be 'Stronger Together' and 'Make America Great Again'. I'd like to see if we can be civil and kind to one another and see how we can work together because this is our America. This is our country. This is our very opinionated nation made up of very different people who are all very passionate about our country's future. 

We are an amazing country that has come a long way and still has a long way to go. We are not perfect. There will always be disappointments and failures to face; personally, privately, publicly, nationally. I still hope for our future. And I know you do too. I think it would benefit ALL of us to learn to be kinder to one another, to sometimes hold our tongue, or soften our words, to treat one another the way we would like to be treated. 

We're going to disagree at times. Let's love our nation. Let's be kind to one another. And let's work hard together to make a difference. And to both sides I want to remind you that bullying gets us nowhere. Hatred gets us nowhere. Kindness goes a long way in expressing your opinions and makes a huge difference in delivery and reception. 

Play nice people. 

11:57 pm.

This post was written by Kellan. It's a memoir, an assignment given to him for his English class this year. Posting with his permission. (I'm a proud mommy!)

11:57 pm

By, Kellan Thibodaux

It was the night before Thanksgiving when everything changed. My mom had let my little sister and I stay up late and we were watching TV when I paused the DVR to check the time. It was 11:57 pm. “Hey! Why’d you pause it?!” my sister Emmi belched out. “Checking the time.” I replied boredly. Then from the other side of the house, we heard loud whispers; panting. We walked with unease towards our parents’ bedroom to see our mother pushing repeatedly on our father’s chest, as he laid unconscious on the bed. 

“Mom? What’s wrong?” I said with tears rolling down my face. She turned and saw us and yelled, “Go sit on the porch with some toilet paper!” We ran to the bathroom and grabbed a roll of toilet paper to dry our tears with and sat on the porch waiting for our Pastors and an ambulance.

A few minutes later our pastor’s mom (whom we didn’t know at all) showed up and took us to her house and tried to distract us with basic conversation like “Sooooo, how’s school?” and “Sooooo, what’s your favorite color?”. My sister and I snuck glances at each other silently saying ‘Why is she trying to distract us? It isn’t going to work!’. Then she tried to distract us further by playing a Jackie Chan movie which we watched for all of two minutes before my Pastor’s wife Mrs. Cyndee saved us by walking in the front door to take us to the hospital to be with our mom.

At the hospital, we waited inside a small waiting room that held only two tables with magazines, a box of tissues, a potted plant and a few chairs. We sat impatiently while the doctor shared the news down the hall from the waiting room with my mother, Pastor Nathan and Mrs. Cyndee.  My sister and I decided to peek out the door to see what was going on but nothing was happening and we couldn’t hear anything so we went back in and shut the door to keep waiting.

Finally, they came back into the room. My mom sat down and said “Kids… I have something to tell you.” When she said that I looked backwards and Mrs. Cyndee was covering her face with both hands. I couldn’t tell if her reaction meant my dad was okay or not. I turned back to my mom and she said “Your dad… he’s gone.” I cried on and off while my sister cried hysterically and mom held us both in her arms.

The next few days were mostly a blur. I still can’t remember much of anything. I don’t remember Thanksgiving day which was the day after or even my sister’s eighth birthday which was the day after that. It’s a total memory fog.

This Thanksgiving will be four years without my dad. My fourteenth birthday is less than a month away. I’ve had to learn some essential things like riding a bike, mowing the lawn, and checking the oil on the car without him here to teach me. Sometimes it’s hard for me to talk to my mom instead of my dad about personal things as I’ve grown up the last few years.

Since I lost my dad, a lot has changed. Once in a while I cry myself to sleep at night and it’s still difficult for me to say the words “My dad died”. But I’ve come a long way in my grief and I’m so thankful I had such a great dad for the 10 years I had him. He was amazing. He loved me, my sister and my mom with everything he had in him. He was talented in so many ways. He was handsome, funny, smart, caring and giving. As I grow older, I find many of these pieces of him in me. And that makes me really happy.

#ichoosehappy

Some of you in my facebook world may have noticed a hashtag I've been throwing around since day one of 2016. Instead of making a resolution, I pondered on what I wanted to see happen in my life this year and it is simply one thing. To be happy. So I chose this motto for myself in the form of a hashtag: #ichoosehappy

The first year after I lost my husband was such a dark year for me. I struggled to survive minute by minute, day by day. I hid in my room, I ate my feelings, I cried, I slept, I was numb and I won the title of Miss Dreary Non-Personality.

The second year it was as if I was climbing out of heavy waters, draggy myself out of a pool after spending all day in the burning hot sun. I was working full time again, moving from an apartment to a house, trying to do everything on my own, re-disciplining my kids (because for the past year I just didn't have it in me), learning to cook more than just 5 meals and basically becoming human again.

The third year was a bit easier. A little less anxiety and depression, giving more of my time trying to do fun things with my kids, trying to be build friendships, enjoying holidays and cooking my first Thanksgiving all by myself, and trying to figure out who I am, what I want in life and what I want to be when I grow up. Honestly, I'm still trying to figure that one out.

But this year, as I work my way through our fourth year since Donnie passed away, I've approached every day looking for the joy in each moment, seeking the silver lining when the inevitable tough times arrive, being positive and joyful instead of staying dismal and depressed. Choosing happy has made a huge difference for me when bills are looming overhead and one income has been a challenge. It's made me grin and bear it when I'm feeling grumpy or my kids have been stinkers. Choosing happy has made me laugh when I locked my keys inside my house and had to sit in the car waiting for a locksmith. 

Choosing happy has made me say yes more often to my kids' requests and surprise them with new privileges AND responsibilities as they grow older. It's caused me to live in and appreciate tangible moments that are now fantastic memories. Choosing happy has brought more peace to my heart and helps me sleep better at night. And when I look back through the first five months of this year, I realize they have been a very happy, happy five months.

The year 2016 is approaching its halfway point and here I am still choosing happy. It doesn't mean that hard days don't come. I just had three days in a row that were the toughest I've had in quite some time. Anxiety attacks and depression showed up out of nowhere, bad dreams and sad memories overwhelmed me and stopped me in my tracks, made me breathe deeply, stand still and even stay in bed for almost a full day. 

But even in the thickest, heaviest, most wearisome moment of those days I knew that it would pass. I knew I would come out of it. I knew I would feel the sunshine of happy again. 

I love the power I hold in choosing happy. I may not have all the answers, I might not know what tomorrow holds, how I'm going to cross the next to do off my list or even when the next dark cloud might try to cover me, but I know I can purpose to choose happy in the face of those uncertainties. I don't need to have the answers. I just need to choose happy. 

Nights, Three Years Later.

I climbed back into the bed, hearing it groan and creak with my weight. I turned and lied on my side facing him, facing me. I closed my eyes blissfully because I had 2 hours before I had to get up again. I swayed my body towards his and smelled his clean fresh scent he carried after his nightly shower. I reached out and wrapped both my arms around his right arm, pulling it gently towards me and snuggled my face against the arm hair that tickled my nose and kissed the sweet spot below his shoulder where he had a slight indention. I sighed in utter contentment and satisfaction.

I knew as I hugged his arm against me that we wouldn't lay this way for long in the early morning hours. We weren't two people that could cuddle while sleeping which was a good thing since neither of us liked to snuggle all night. It's not that I minded cuddling, I enjoyed it, but I just couldn't sleep like that. It got on my nerves and kept me awake and it was the same for him. But we loved these brief early morning embraces; short, intimate, sweet moments of pure joy wrapped up in seconds. Fleeting touches, quick kisses, deep squeezes.  

We totally had our own version of that 'hug and roll' move down from Ross on Friends. That was good enough for us. We only wished we had a king sized bed where we could roll away and not touch each other at all while sleeping. That would have been ideal, to feel like we had our own bed all to ourselves, with plenty of room away from each other and yet still close enough to cross the distance and grab these quick morning snuggles. I sighed as I squeezed just a little bit tighter, that squeeze that means I'm letting go of you soon but for just another second I just cant get quite enough of you.

My breath catches in a quick sob as I rub my face against the furry sensation because I know, I know he's gone. I'm just a 44 year old woman lying in her bed alone, crying and chuckling ridiculously at the absurdity of the fact that I'm squeezing the life out of a teddy bear for comfort. You see, I never had a teddy bear as a child. Well, I had them but I didn't sleep with them because I just did not like to cuddle. I cannot ever remember sleeping with bears or dolls. I remember snuggling them for a minute and then pushing them away from me because I could not, I did not, I would not sleep like that. I would toss and turn, flail and wiggle, pick my head up and put it down a million times on my pillow to find that perfect spot to rest in and no stuffed animal would have been able to take that abuse. I saved them from myself by ostracizing them from my bed and placing them in the corner of my room or my closet.

This teddy bear in my arms, it helps. It's been almost three years now since he left me and I still lie awake at night. For the most part, I've moved past the daily heart wrenching grief although admittedly it still comes back in moments and immobilizes me, like this past week for instance, but that's another blog entry. Most nights though, I find myself lying awake at night, unable to sleep, unable to settle, unable to fully relax. And then there are moments I am so frantic inside where I just have this feeling that something is wrong, something is missing, something's been taken away from me and I need it so desperately. I need to hold something close to me, I need to press it against me to have that physical knowledge that I am not alone. I am not alone. I am not alone.

So for the past nearly 3 years when I experience that desperate feeling of approaching madness, I will get up as a last resort when I just cannot stand it anymore and I will wake one of my children. I weigh the risk in my head before I wake them; who has a test, who's gonna be grumpy, who's going to be willing to come quickly, who needs more rest, who'll be easier to wake up tonight?

I reached out and touched her arm and gently shook her. Then I started whispering "Emmi. Emmi? Emmi, wake up. Emelia. Emelia Rose. EMELIA." She gasped and started awake. Her eyes blinked open and I say with quiet desperation in my voice "Please come lay down with me?" like a scared little girl waking up her mommy after she's had a bad dream. "Please baby, please wake up, just come with me, come lay down with me, let me hold you for a little while. PLEASE." She nodded her head, turned over and climbed out of the bed. I stood there for a moment to make sure she didn't lie back down and once I heard the soft padding of her feet on the wood floor, I turned around and I walked back to my room. I put haste in my steps and quickly reached my bed, climbed up once again, the mattress groaning, and spread out the blanket, preparing for her arrival.

...Preparing for her arrival. When I was expecting her, Donnie almost died then too. I remember waiting. Waiting in a long row of chairs outside of the operating area, nervously waiting with members from our church and my pastors. My family and his weren't able to be there because everything happened so quickly and they lived hours and hours away. So we sat there in anticipation, with a completely different kind of expectancy, waiting for an update on the surgery, waiting for the doctor's report.

The doctor finally walked out decked in his mint green scrubs, still wearing his surgeon's cap on his head and his mask hanging from the little bands on the back of his neck. He wearily reached up and rubbed his forehead and came to stand directly in front of me. He was all business, this surgeon we had just met the day before, this doctor that saved my husband's life. He had no bedside manner unless he really, really tried once in a while as I would come to find out over the next six weeks. But in this first debriefing he gave me, he spoke with fatigued matter of fact-ness. "Your husband is stable. There was a lot of infection. If we hadn't operated today he would have died in the next couple of hours. And he is not out of the woods. The next day or two will tell" he said, "and the next several hours. We'll definitely have to go back in again. We'll do it tomorrow."

My breath caught in my throat and I swallowed against the dry lump that had risen. I said "Thank you." and he quickly turned and walked away. And I was so, so angry, so pissed off. I could hear the murmur of consoling words and encouragement given to me by the pastor's wife and the other church members. In comforting tones they said how it was so good we had seen this doctor in time, and how great it was that he caught the problem. They sounded like an irritating, maddening swarm of bees buzzing in my ears and all I could think was "God, I'm so pissed off at you. If you let him die... if you let him die, and I have to raise this baby and my son alone I'm gonna be so mad at you. I'm gonna be so angry with you!!" Oh I threatened him, I warned him. I was so mad, knowing that Donnie could still leave me.

All these thoughts ran through my head in those split seconds before I felt my girl climb up in the bed beside me and lie down. I covered her with one of the soft fuzzy blankets and drew her close to me.  She likes to cuddle so it's not a problem, she'll stay as close as I hold her, only slightly moving to get herself comfortable. She'll let me squeeze her, squeeze her, squeeze her as close to me as I need to and hold her so, so tight until that empty starving feeling starts to dissipate just ever so slightly and I keep that pressure, the locked arms around her body so she cannot escape though she doesn't even try to because she loves it. She breathes in deep and she sighs, satisfied, content in my arms and I hold her so tight, trying to fill that void and it helps, it does. Warm, salty tears slide down my face and under my breath I tell myself with quiet determination "I'm gonna be okay. I'm gonna be okay. I'll get through this, I will".

I rub my wet face against the brown furry bear and chuckle again, shaking my head a little. I've replaced those 3:00 am tiptoed moments to my children's rooms with this bear. Well, not completely. There are still moments where I have to hold one of them, but this bear helps. I don't always hold him at night, but I do sometimes, when I wish I could feel Donnie's arm in mine.

I miss him. I miss hearing him breathe beside me. I miss how he would shift his weight to get comfortable. I miss the clearing of his throat, his reaching for a water bottle on his bedside table and drinking throughout the night. I miss hearing him sit up on the side of the bed for a minute when he got up, maybe so he could wake up a little to clear the cobwebs or maybe he was dizzy and needed to center himself before rising to walk. I even miss hearing his leg drag as he walked to the bathroom. His gait had changed after those life saving surgeries from that healthy strong walk he had when we first met. Step-thump, step-thump. It made a funny sound when his nerve damaged left leg landed on the ground. My ears strained, going from normal size to 10 times their size in my mind, like cartoon movements in my silly ridiculous imaginations. You know how in the cartoons when a character's ears would grow larger when they are intent on listening? That's how it felt when he was away from the bed. 

I would listen for every movement while he was gone until he returned to the bedroom, attentive just in case he needed me, body on alert until I heard him step-thump back to the bedroom. He would sit on the side of the bed, take another drink of water and then lie down, turn over and face me, reach out and put his hand on my arm and squeeze it gently before he pulled the covers back over his neck and simply say to me "I love you". And I would tell him, "I love you too honey". 

Maybe that's why nights are still difficult for me. I try to ignore the silence. I fill it with worship music or funny YouTube videos. I watch Hallmark Christmas movies or something from Netflix. I try to read or drink some hot cocoa or hot tea. I sweep or clean dishes or do laundry. I sit on the side of my bed, drink ice water and rock myself back and forth and try to push down the frantic feeling as I hug my new teddy bear, laughing at myself to keep from crying, but doing what I have to do to survive, to stay sane even if I am a little crazy. I miss him every day, but in the nights, in the silence, in the waiting, I feel so alone.

Meeting Pop-pop.

My children and I just returned from a trip to North Carolina where I spent the greater part of my younger years growing up. From the second grade into my mid twenties I lived where the grass is greener, literally. The trees are abundant, the highways are beautiful, the mountains linger majestically in the background and the autumns are vibrantly full of breathtaking colors. I've missed the rich natural beauty of that southern state even if I have enjoyed living other places.

We spent hours this past week visiting with my family, a little time with a few of my friends, took a day to drive through my small hometown to show my children the houses we grew up in, the churches we worshiped in and the schools we attended. And most importantly, we visited my father whom I hadn't seen in fifteen years. My children at ages 10 and 12 were so eager to meet their "Pop-pop" in person for the first time ever. They've exchanged a few letters, phone calls and done a little face timing over the years, but this was a significant moment for my kids. 

The first twenty minutes after we arrived at my dad's place, my daughter who was seated near him just stared at him with a quizzical 'I'm trying to figure you out' look on her face. She studied him so astutely. This man who she had heard stories about, not all good and not all bad; with his swollen-red ankles, large belly and semi-lame arms very quickly stole her heart. After meeting him she thinks he's funny, she loves the way he chews and she gets a dreamy smile on her face when she thinks or talks about him. 

My son in his usual reserved way stayed mostly quiet, stood when my dad told him to stand so he could see how tall he was going to grow, laughed at his jokes, checked his mail, readily helped to wash the dishes and grinned ear to ear when it was time to take a family picture with his Pop-pop. My eyes get blurry over the pure joy resident on my kids' faces in those photos.

Last night after we brought all our luggage in, changed into our PJ's, had a bite to eat and said our good-nights, my daughter and son both drifted back into my bedroom with somber looks on their faces. I asked them what was wrong and my daughter replied softly 'I miss my Pop-pop' while her brother nodded his head and said 'Mom, this was the best trip ever'. So sometime this week some letters will be written, an envelope addressed and a stamp applied to it's top right corner to be mailed to North Carolina where we left a piece of our hearts behind. It was a good trip.

Extension Cords and Aftershocks.

Last weekend I took the time to go through a few boxes I had been putting off emptying and found new places to store the things they held. I busily placed the extra components for electronics, cable wires, twist ties and tools in the new-to-me shelves but paused when I came across several sets of extension cords, coiled and then wrapped and tied with the plug end. 

I gripped one of the bound cords in my hands and held it to my chest. His hands touched these last. His hands wrapped these and tied them and set them aside after a Christmas maybe four or five years ago, the last year he was able to actively make Christmas happen for me and the kids before I stepped in to do my best.

It's been a while since something shook me like that. It felt like what I imagine an aftershock from an earthquake would feel. The room around me slightly swayed and left me feeling a little off-center, dizzy and confused. It's funny that something as simple as an extension cord could put me off balance.

The next day I had a dream. He was back. He had fallen again and had to stay in the hospital for a few weeks to recover. We had moved into our new house and I was busy getting things ready for him to come home. But reality broke in when Kellan walked in my room to wake me up and ask me a question. In my stupor, I yelled at my poor baby "I'm not done sleeping!! Ask me later!!" I almost had him back for a minute there. Almost. And I just wasn't ready to wake up to the reality that he wasn't back and he wasn't coming home.

This week I've found myself trying to figure out what's wrong with me when I'm busy doing dishes or folding laundry and feel like there's something deeply wrong or missing. As soon as I sit still I suddenly feel like bawling for no reason. Or I'll catch myself spinning into an anxiety attack when I thought I had nearly overcome them. My chest hurts, again. I can't breathe, again. And I feel crushed, again.

I used to live in moments like these every second. I was overwhelmed in every moment and could literally focus on nothing else. Now, when these emotional intrusions break into my life, they catch me surprisingly off guard because they're truthfully and thankfully no longer the norm. I've come so far. So very far from the broken woman I was even just less than a year ago.  

In just over a month it will have been two years since we lost Donnie. I miss his voice and hearing him pray and sing and laugh. I miss his mad chef cooking skills and confiding in him about everything and talking with him about nothing. He was my best friend ever. Ever. Ever. 

And even though I may be over the bulk mass onslaught of my slaying grief, I know these aftershocks will come. They may last for a few seconds, or an afternoon or a week or two in waves like they seem to be resurfacing now, but in a way I am thankful for them. In the middle of the busy-ness of my life they remind me to stop and pause to remember, not the end of his life and how it devastated me but who he was and the magnificent memories I have of living life with him.

I loved that man from the depths of my soul. I loved him with all that I was and that kind of love doesn't just disappear. It may sleep until it's revived by something as silly and common as an extension cord or a dream, but it's still there. I don't want to forget him. I don't want to bury his memory and walk away. I want to grab those memories and hold them tight to my chest and remember vividly who he was. He was an amazing man. Talented, brilliant, funny, aggravating and amazing. And he was mine. 

True Love.

Easter Sunday 2014, as I was watching Jesus die on a cross, again, I had a sudden realization that something was wrong with me. As I sat there slightly sunken into my chair with my arms crossed against my chest, totally annoyed with the beautiful yet tragic display of God's sacrifice for me, I wondered briefly what my problem was when the answer suddenly hit me. I was angry at God. 

To be bluntly honest, the words that came into my head with this revelation as Jesus was being nailed to the cross were, "Oh my gosh! I am SO PISSED OFF at you, God!" For the rest of the service I continued shouting this at my Savior, inside my head, over and over again. It was empowering and somewhat euphoric. It was emotion I hadn't felt spiritually in quite some time. And it was anger. At God.

I allowed myself to say it. For the next two or three weeks I walked around repeating those words. Sometimes I would scream them out loud. Sometimes I would whisper them. At times the words were monotone. In moments I wept them. But I had to tell Him, even though He already knew. 

All that time, for the past nearly year and a half (back then) since my husband died, I had no idea I was angry with God. For months I was so numb spiritually. My relationship with God was dormant. I was expressive with my words on paper or via blogging but when it came to trying to talk with God, I could barely get the words out. I would try to pray and nothing would happen. It was like there was a door between us and it just wasn't opening. Until Jesus died on that cross again this year. And then it all came pouring out.  

It was freeing to release it. It felt so amazing to be honest. To be real. To tell God like it was. And to know it wasn't the end of our relationship. He didn't turn away from me. He didn't lock the door. He didn't walk away. He stayed right there, even though I was all up in His face, spewing not so nice words from my lips. He didn't leave me. He didn't forsake me. Instead, He loved me.

In those weeks of expressing and confessing my pointed anger to God, a breaking took place. I reopened the door I had shut. I knocked down the dividing wall I had inadvertently and unknowingly created. My anger which had been explosive, strong, hot, heavy and extreme slowly began to dissipate. When my steam ran out, my anger was replaced with a calming, soothing peace.

I began to pray again and was able to worship more intimately. It started being less about me and what I was feeling and more about Him and how He was moving and what He was saying. I felt more alive than I had in months. I felt there was purpose in my life again beyond just getting through the day at hand and began feeling hopeful for my future again.

And while I still don't have all the answers, I am learning to trust Him again to reveal them in His timing. I admit I still have issues trusting Him. I still battle with unbelief that He will move mountains for me, but I must believe that He will, because He loves me. 

And honestly, even though I'm not angry anymore, I'm still hurt. I miss my husband. I don't like being alone, even if I am getting more used to it. This wasn't the plan. I did not sign up for this. But what I've discovered through this experience of severe, earth shattering loss that I've been through is just how much God loves me. He didn't push me. He stood by patiently until I was ready to talk again. He let me be angry with Him. He understood. He listened. He waited. And He loved me. 

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails. ~ 1 Corinthians 13:4-8a