The Tree of Codependency

Years ago, I received a gift that I didn't really want. A new baby tree - given to us because some family member joined the Arbor Day Foundation. They really didn't mean harm. They just wanted to share the gift of life, I suppose. They also probably knew that my then husband loved planting trees. As the member of the family who mowed the lawn, I was less than thrilled by the prospect of a new obstacle to swerve around.

I found comfort in the fact that, most likely, this young sapling was never going to make it.

Ironically, it survived.

Year after year, I thought this would be the winter that would kill it. And it just kept on living.

Several years into this journey, we noticed that there were two different colored leaves on this tree. Upon closer inspection, we discovered that there were two tiny trunks tangled together. Apparently, we were the recipients of two trees, but never noticed.

Recently, I spent some quality time in my front yard, reflecting on this tree - these trees. Their trunks tightly woven together, their branches splayed in odd fashions, looking more like a short, stubby bush than a tall, beautiful tree. Its growth had been stunted. This tree of codependency.

On the longest of the desperate, chaotic branches, appeared the first and only buds. This cluster of pink hope was isolated and alone among the tangle of branches.

I thought about this sign of life. It felt like a scream of a soul that wanted to be seen.

I related.

During the years of  my marriage, my emotions and spirits and hope were twisted up and tied to another's highs and lows. Instead of being woven together to form strength and intimacy, I was bound to him, as in the ancient practice of foot binding in China. My every thought focused on being his happiness. 

For years I assumed the blame for his depression. 

I accepted the lie that I could be, should be more. 

I curled up inside in a ball of shame as I was reprimanded for not putting him first, for having my priorities wrong, for being manipulative and unconcerned about his needs.

With each criticism, each moment of neglect, each doubt, I strove to be better, to draw closer, to meet his every need. I gave him complete control over my emotions, my ability to cope, my perception of the day. I thought that was being submissive.

I was wrong.

Satan took a beautiful word, and made it my chain. 

But Jesus broke that chain.

Now I feel sad. Not because I own someone else's feelings. But because that's my feeling. As I look upon paperwork with legal terms and spots for signature, I feel sad over the loss, the death of a marriage. But that sadness is mine. 

 Right now, that victory is my pink hope.