She warned me that it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
My fourteen year old daughter wanted to tell me about the dream she had last night and it started with: “There was a mob running around the neighborhood and one of the guys got into our house.”
The attack on our country’s Capitol had clearly been a dominating topic of discussion.
My daughter must have seen my face drop, because how many more things could my kids have to worry about right now? She wanted to assure me that I shouldn’t worry as I listened. So I took a breath over the dishes I had been washing.
“So the guy gets into our house and goes to my room and hides in my closet.” I shouldn’t think this is going to get worse? “He’s aiming his gun at me. And he’s bald.” An important detail, I guess. “But I look at him, mom, and he looks depleted.” Depleted? “So I offer him a sandwich. And he says ‘Sure.’”
She continues: “We’re in the kitchen and I offer him turkey, chicken, or salami. He picks salami. I make him a sandwich and while he’s eating he tells us that the election was rigged.” She struggles to say rigged, as it’s a word she’s read more than heard. “But when he says that part about it being rigged, the whole family is in the kitchen and all we do is nod our heads because we don’t want to contradict him and get him mad.” I love that she says ‘contradict.’ “Then he gets up and walks out the door.”
She is smiling as she is telling me the dream. It wasn’t a nightmare. A guy was hiding in her closet with a gun and she wasn’t scared. She was compassionate. She offered him a sandwich. I wanted to kill the guy who threatened my daughter with a gun and she wanted to feed him.
I don’t think I need to worry about her as much as I do. She knows when people are depleted.