A few months ago, I sifted through some old boxes of toys from my daughter’s childhood. I was mourning her moving out and wanted to recapture younger days. Instead of getting lost in her memories, I was transported back to a time in my own childhood.
I came across a small car that belonged to a family I once knew, the Lundbys. They were a typical American family. However they had many dark, ugly secrets, and they lived in my 3-story wooden dollhouse.
Since the Lundbys were dolls and unable to make basic decisions for themselves, I was fully in charge of their daily activities and conversations. This made me feel so incredibly powerful, something I had very little of in real life.
Being raised in an alcoholic household can make a child powerless, scared, and alone. I combatted this by escaping into the world of the Lundbys. They were my people, the ones I could force to act how I saw fit.
Unfortunately, as a broken little girl, the way I saw fit got pretty twisted at times. I decided to make them broken too, in more ways than one.
Mr. and Mrs. Lundby constantly fought, just like in my world. In their marriage though, Mrs. Lundby had the upper hand, and let me tell you, she used it. The third story window of their oversized home was completely broken out from the many times poor Mr. Lundby took a tumble, often pushed, out of it.
He was missing a leg although I can’t recall exactly how that happened. The plastic, bendable leg would definitely not come off from those simple daily falls. Perhaps I removed it another, more sinister way. Regardless, I obviously could have used some long, desperate therapy sessions already at that young, innocent age.
Grandma Lundby lived in a closet, as I suppose at the time, I wished my real life one could have been locked away in. She didn’t come out much. No one in the family really spoke to her.
What shocked me about those few months ago as I sat in the floor of my basement reliving the Lundbys brief existence, was how vividly I recalled Mr. and Grandma Lundby. The others have no details in my mind. I couldn’t tell you what color Mrs. Lundby’s hair was or if there were 2 sisters just like in my own family.
Mr. Lundby had painted on, slicked back brown hair. He wore a yellow shirt and jeans that hung free on one side from his missing leg. His face carried a constantly angry look.
Grandma’s grey plastic bun pulled tightly to the far back of her head. She couldn’t even lay down flat on her closet floor because it stuck out so far. An oddly happy floral dress adorned her little elderly body.
I remember those 2 family members in detail, which made me reflect on how that is possible. Why can I only see the darkness? Here’s the answer: the Lundbys had no light. This kept me trapped in memories of their darkest characters.
There is a key difference in the Lundbys home, my childhood home, and the happy, healthy one I reside in today with my husband and children. Jesus was not invited into the first 2. No one ever mentioned His name, discussed His beautiful sacrificial life, or taught their children about grace and forgiveness.
He lives in my home today. He is my home today. My husband and I teach our children about and show them unconditional love.
Jesus is helping me every day to move past the broken Lundbys and those dark days of my childhood. He is teaching me to let the light burn brighter. Putting Christ first in our lives and trying to live a life according to the beauty of the Bible makes all the difference.
My husband and I show each other true love and respect. He works hard on our life together, unlike Mr. Lundby and my own father, and in return, I don’t throw him out of third story windows…