I believe that there is a rainbow after every storm.
It was my 8th grade year; I was a mere 13 years old when the storm came. My mother was reluctantly divorcing the love of her life. My father, caught in his sin, was residing in the local penitentiary. My sister, a child of only sixteen years, was expecting the birth of her daughter in March. I was standing in the eye of the storm, trying to piece my world together with my tiny hands.
I went from cheerleader, honor student, and best friend, to wandering, helpless lamb in a matter of days. I walked the halls of my school with a painted on smile, but anyone who looked could see my empty eyes; No one looked. I would come home to find my mother in her favored location, weeping in the bathroom floor. My sister in her room, scared and confused, was debating adoption. They all gloated of my strength, but every night I cried out in the darkness and quiet of my bedroom; I was weak and broken. My world was no longer mine. The storm had taken it hostage.
It’s times like this when you always think it can’t get worse, but the winds seem to strengthen. You always think it will soon end, but it seems the winds never cease. You always think it will eventually be okay again, but the damages are irreparable. And then it happens, the rainbow.
It’s now seven years later. Here I sit, a junior in college, and I see my rainbow. I see a beautiful seven year old angel, intelligent and bold. I see her mother, finally finding her way in life. I see my mom, living, growing, in ways she never had before. I see myself, a leader, a survivor of the storm. I see that my world, although never the same, is whole. I see that I am not holding it up on my own, but the much larger hands, the gentle hands of the Lord, the same hands who placed the rainbow in the sky, have been keeping my world afloat all the while.
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