Being a community-oriented and deeply faithful person living in the buckle of the Bible Belt, Texas, you can imagine the number of times that even for those that loved me, when they saw me what they saw was a woman with a broken family. Though as polite as we southern church folks can be, rarely did folks say it to me directly. Yet it was everywhere, the language of children from or in broken homes. It wasn’t until in a meeting of volunteers in the children’s ministry at my church when one of my dearest friends, and buddies in fights for justice and inclusivity, used the phrase that I cried. 

I normally cringed or fumed when I heard the phrase, broken home, but this time I was deeply hurt. She was driving home the necessity to cultivate small group prayer, even among the youngest of those we served (the two and three-year-olds) and mentioned that the same things their parents were receiving pastoral care for as adults were affecting them, though they may not have the words for it. As she described the importance of making time to hear what their little hearts wanted to let God know from their own perspectives, she delineated a shortlist of things they were battling because their parents were in those same spiritual fights — alcoholism, food insecurity, their homes being broken by divorce. And suddenly my chorus of “Amens,” caught in my throat. I stopped breathing and my eyes filled with tears I couldn’t stop from running over. It seemed like time slowed down to a near standstill, but in what was just probably 2 seconds I was mortally wounded and no one else batted an eyelash.

Because I love her, and know her, and have decades of therapy under my belt, after we adjourned our meeting, I stopped her in the hallway. As everyone scattered toward their classrooms, she saw my tears and we wrapped our arms around each other’s necks because that’s what friends do when they see you crying.  As I explained to her how hurt I was and why we kept our arms around each other at arm’s length so we could still see each other as I shared.

“All of us are broken,” I said. “All are us are in some sort of fight for our lives spiritually or physically. My family isn’t broken; not any more broken than one with two married people and alcoholism or terminal illness. My family and our homes are healthier now than the shambles of a home that existed when I was married. It hurts to hear my life and Montgomery’s life described that way. But I don’t have any other way of quickly naming for a list whatever either. But it isn’t broken.” I sobbed, barely getting those last words out.

She hugged me again until my breathing calmed. She acknowledged the language was antiquated and loaded. She agreed that there had to be another way of naming and talking about the unique needs of my family, and similar families, but she was at a loss for words as well. 

Neither of us had a solution. 

We couldn’t just stop talking about families like mine; we couldn’t become a faith community that just ignored non-married family structures. 

We also couldn’t just keep hurting people. 

We agreed, to keep seeking God, and podcasts, and books, and conversations to find something better.

It’s been about 2 years since that conversation in the hallway at church. 

In what was emerging in the months shortly after filing for divorce, since that conversation with my friend in the hallway at church, in the years now since our marriage was dissolved, what has emerged is that we, my ex-husband and I, have both in many ways become invisible. 

Many, even those I love, have hurt me by referring to our family as broken, or less pointedly, our home as broken. But that is still inaccurate. Our homes are intact — well as much as homes that house full, free, healthy, nearly 4-year-old boys that don’t believe walking is a suitable method of moving through life can be considered (physically) intact – it does oftentimes resemble tornado wreckage. However, the baskets, and drawers full of toys, the musical instruments in nearly every corner the house, and the rooms full of games, laughter, and stories are evidence that there is nothing broken about either of the two homes my ex-husband and I now occupy.  

Physically, spiritually and emotionally our lives, our hearts, our homes have expanded.

I rarely call him my ex-husband. I usually refer to him by his name, and the alternate is Montgomery’s dad. If I’m being cheeky, and hopeful, with my girlfriends I refer to him as my second husband — vaguely referencing the possibility of a third; though that would require me to go on a second date with another human at some point, I digress. 

To call him by his name is my way of not only recognizing his humanity but also decentering our existence as a couple, and our marriage, as the defining mechanism of what we are, a family. 

He is Montgomery’s dad, his parents Montgomery’s bubba and nachè, and I am Montgomery’s mom, and my dad Montgomery’s papa, my god mom Montgomery’s mimie, we are, along with a host of cousins, aunts, uncles, and other loved ones, Montgomery’s family. 

Montgomery’s family is intact; a unit of people that are healthy and whole, and love that beautiful boy beyond any reasonable measure that exists — fully.  Not in pieces, wholly, fully, completely.

Through our faith, each of us will confess that we are broken before God in some deep and profound ways. Yet each day we seek to live from the fullness of God’s love and grace, rather than out of any brokenness we may feel or have experienced. And still, the life that we with Montgomery, and every other week “without” him, are not broken lives. The way we live is not a consolation prize we slunk away with after we didn’t manage to keep our marriage together.

Our home was not broken, it was expanded. Our homes are not broken, they are vibrant. I may have lost some picture-perfect daydream family when I filed for divorce, the one I fantasized about; but we fought and prayed for the family we have. The one that will forever be Montgomery’s family.

With the demise of our marriage we have been able to do what many would say we failed to do in our marriage: we died to ourselves, and what was us became imperceptible. As we became invisible, the stage was set for something else to be most visible — a WHOLE, JOY FILLED, MAGNIFICENTLY FREE LITTLE BLACK BOY.

And what we all know is that at this moment, that matters.

It was a touching piece, extremely encouraging, and helpful in the ways it affirmed all the reasons women might step out of the photo frame — body image issues, always being busy literally doing the background things, forgetting that your kids are a part of a whole family, and how you feel and look is as important for them to see you prioritizing as it is for you to prioritize them. She also did an amazing job at dismissing those reasons as not good enough without being condescending and dismissive of all the things we think and feel as mothering women.

I was pregnant when I read that piece. It’s shaped me deeply as a mother — for the better.

However, even the best advice can encounter a hitch.

When my son was 11 months old, my husband, his father, and I separated. More than a year later our divorce was finalized. It’s hard to get in the picture when you’re the one taking it.

I know in the age of selfies, this seems like a non-sequitur; and, with the number of photographers that I have in my life you’d think every damn second would be documented. In some ways, I’ve got more formal and professional photos of me and the kid than many families EVER take in a lifetime, and he’s not even four. Gratitude for this privilege hasn’t stopped a deep pang in my gut, and the slight onset of anxiety, every time I realize I’m in a moment that my former partner, or maybe any partner, might snap candidly with ease.

There are times, like when we break into dance or song; or, when he wants to help in the kitchen, and he takes off running then comes careening around the corner, wearing the proudest grin, having found his apron and a spatula I’d been trying to find for weeks somewhere in the house amongst his toys. Instead, I deepen my breath, roll my shoulders back to open my heart and intensify my gaze — hoping that I’ll remember.

Hoping that if my mind ever gets scattered by chance or age, that just like a physical photo that memory would remain.

Hoping that it will be one of the stories that I tell over and over, that begin with the phrase, “Did I ever tell you about the time…” and my loved ones, or the charge nurse, roll their eyes because they have heard it before, maybe even 45 minutes ago, but I’ve earned the right to tell it again, and they oblige, sometimes out of love, sometimes out of obligation.

I have few confidence issues; thanks to the combination of stubbornness and an adventurous spirit my doubts are primarily situational issues that a Beyoncé sing along in my shower or car can cure. I’m a pretty audacious person. In most instances when folks ask me, “how did you have the courage to do that,” or “how did you know you could do it,” my thoughtful response is almost always, it never occurred to me that I couldn’t.

Even if I have a skill gap a mile wide, or can see where my capacity might fall short, my thought process almost immediately begins to strategically analyze or query how to get there – and there is wherever I’ve decided is necessary. And, there my friend is the hitch.

The idea of being invisible isn’t at its root about being insecure — though if unexamined can lead to insecurities. Every time I think to myself, I wish there was someone here to capture this moment– and there isn’t- a deep pang of grief hits me. A moment of grief so deep and intense that gratitude isn’t the answer.

So I deepen my breath, open my heart, intensify my gaze and HOPE that I, or he, will remember.

I don’t typically cry in these moments, but the times that the tears have come, are actually the times when we are in public and some might think it’d be easy to “…just ask someone to take a picture of you guys for you…”

As much as that thought might seem an ingenious solution it actually brings shame and anxiety, grief’s twin cousins. I’m an intensely private person and an introvert. First of all, the idea of talking to a stranger is nuts! Even more so, the idea that I would ask them to take a picture of something that in my heart feels exciting and intimate between a mother and her child…just kill me with shame and embarrassment why don’t you?

Maybe with enough yoga, prayer, and therapy, I’ll get past that. I don’t have a desire to learn how to let strangers into intimate moments. That just doesn’t seem like it could be the best answer. So, I risk losing amazing memories, just hoping that I don’t. Even as I type that it seems ridiculous.

Writing this piece to share with the world came to me as I was in the pool this past Memorial Day weekend.

About 6 months ago, just weeks after turning 39 years old, I got a roommate. Only the second roommate I’ve ever had in my life (well not counting the two husbands I’ve had). Over the years as new mothers with partners, then as new mothers without partners, then as entrepreneurs with toddlers, we’ve developed a bond and trust. It seems kismet. Two solopreneurs, two crazy amazing toddlers, along with a cat and a dog, all together.

This weekend, as we all enjoyed the weather and the pool and the promise of summer, I yelled for her to snap a few pictures of us. I thought twice before I did so. She was sitting next to the pool with her phone and her little one. In my hesitation I wondered if I was being intrusive; then wondered if I was being vain. Then I finally asked – for better or worse this is the picture. I don’t want to forget it. Motherhood is raw, and there is no sane way to do it without vulnerability. As much as there are moments we are so thankful will never be documented, I’ve realized that to be remembered, we’ve got to be fully seen, so somethings absolutely have to be documented.