Date Stamp

I don't mean to do two 'divorce' posts in a row. It just happened that way.
I usually feel the urge to blog when there is a lot on my mind.
Today, there was a lot on my mind.

It was four years ago today.

Four years ago, that I finally mustered up the courage to do it.

I woke up that morning knowing,

Today would be the day.

I grabbed my manilla file folder,

contents of which took me months to finish.

Fill in the blank here.

Decide your child's future there.

You think that t.v., that couch, that kitchen table is rightfully yours?

Please list here.
It felt childish.
And overwhelming.
And stupid.
And insanely important.
And some days, I could only finish one page.

It was a sad manilla folder. 

And I hated it.

It sat on my desk for weeks.

And every time I would glance at it, my eyes would dart away quickly as to not remember the thing I needed to do.

I wasn't ready.

But four years ago today,

I was ready.

I laid my two year old boy down for a nap

and asked my mom if I could take her car.

I put the top of the convertible down in the driveway.

I remember feeling grateful for the beautiful sky that day.
I remember the way the sun and wind felt on my face.

I remember what I was wearing.

I remember what song was on the radio.

I remember how long that 5 mile drive felt. 

I had been there before.

I had been there to pick up those sad papers that would fill that sad manilla folder.

But this time was different and I knew it.

My life was about to change forever.

After parking the car, I started up the steps to the courthouse.

It was beautiful, that courthouse.

Historic and beautiful.

And I hated it.

Because in just 60 days I would have to return to that courthouse,

walk down the long dark hallway to a room in the basement,

stand alone in front of a judge, and wait.

Wait for him to read through those papers.

Wait for him to glance up at me from above his glasses that sat low on his nose,

and wait for him to sign his name on the line and finish something that was never meant to end.

Inside the courthouse, there was a bench immediately to the right.

A man sat, holding papers in his hand.

I don't know what those papers said or the fate of that man's future,

but his demeanor told me,

his papers, like mine, were sad too.

In front of me was a staircase. 

Twenty steps I thought.

Twenty steps until it's over.

I couldn't believe I was actually standing where I was. 

I put my hand on the railing,

and took that first step.

At the top of those twenty steps was a window.

A sad little window, with yellowing plexiglass.

The woman sitting at the desk behind the sad little window asked if she could help me.

I choked on the words, and said,

"I'm here to file my dissolution papers."

I handed her my sad manilla folder.

She opened it and grabbed her date stamp.

She stamped every single page in that folder,

tapping her stamp on the ink pad between each one.

I hated that date stamp.

I wished she would go faster.

Tears were coming and I didn't want them to.

I needed to make it back to the car before I let the emotions take over me.

I couldn't cry in front of this stranger in this beautiful courthouse I hated so much.

She then copied every single paper.

One for them. One for me.

She stapled her stack and handed me mine.

Back in that sad manilla folder.

She looked up at me and asked for the filing fee.

$250.

The tears came.

I pulled my checkbook from my purse.

Two hundred fifty dollars and no/100----------------

I signed my name, 

the tears continuous now.

In 60 days, I thought,

this won't be my name anymore.

I looked up at the woman behind the window,

and handed her my check.

My tears puzzled her.

I'm guessing most people that hand her $250 checks under that yellowing plexiglass are happy about it. And maybe some, even do a heel click on their way down the stairs. 

She gave me instructions about the next 60 days, and with a sympathetic look in her eye and a tilt of her head said, "Have a good day ma'am"

It was done.

The thing I had been fearing for months was done.

And as I drove home, I felt relief. 

Uncertainty, but relief.

Camden was still napping when I got home, so I went quietly to my room and shut the door.

I opened the curtains and let the sun shine through the windows, which made a perfect square of sunlight on the carpet.

I laid down in that perfect square with my head on my arms.

It was warm in the sun.

I cried into the floor and fell asleep. 

When I woke up, I knew it was time to start over.

Here was my chance for something better.

I put that sad manila folder on the highest shelf in my closet, promising not to think about it for the next 60 days. 

This day, four years ago, is significant to me for another reason.
This was the same day, that on my knees in prayer before bed,
I felt the overwhelming confirmation that I had made the right decision.
It was over.
And He was proud of me.
I cannot begin to describe the peace I felt at that moment.
It quite literally washed over me.
 I fell into my pillow and sobbed.
The answer I never thought would come,
the answer I spent hours in the celestial room seeking,
the answer I begged for, pleaded for,
for months and months and months
finally came.
He was listening.
All that time He was listening.
Even though there were moments I doubted it.

There are times, during visits to Thatcher,
we drive by that courthouse.
I think about the staircase.
I think about the woman behind the plexiglass.
I think about the defeat I felt that day.
I think about the hope I was given that night.
And whatever happened to that sad manilla folder,
it's contents now signed by the judge?
It sits in a plastic bin with other important papers.
Only now,
 I don't hate it so much.
Because that sad manilla folder led me to something greater than I could have ever imagined.