In our town, we have a huge old hardware store. It's located next to railroad tracks and looks to have been part of a mill harkening years back. The century-old cranky, creaky wooden floors are loyal to me; they are in sync with my every step. The farm relics, penny farthing bike, dusty original Radio Flyer wagon, and especially, the buttery scent of the popcorn in their antique popcorn machine reaffirm and enrich this experience even more. For this, I am ever thankful.

Every excuse I find to visit this relic-filled repository is cause for a quiet celebration in my soul. The exposed beams and rafters there remind me of our 1831 Colonial farmhouse. I often wonder what hides behind our plaster walls; I'd do anything to give them a voice. In my mind the conversations would revolve around family and farming; evidently, the founding farmer brought his family to this small town to grow produce on the two acres now home to our chickens and ducks.

I try to imagine life back in those times; physically demanding, few conveniences, turning and tending the soil from dawn to dusk. Providing food and shelter for your family was ultimately all that mattered. Marriages stayed intact no matter what; even when love faded, they weren't disposable. Choice wasn't an option. Life wasn't expected to be fair. It wasn't expected to be anything at all; it just was.

But that was then, and this is now. We live in a society that replaces, not repairs.

In a perfect world, we would each carry a tool box. It would include all we would ever need to navigate our lives successfully. Because we are each wired differently; the contents would correspond. Imagine the possibilities inherent in being able to lead a productive, uncomplicated and contented existence. Lives would remain full, and trash cans empty.

Wishing for both a perfect world and another trip to my beloved hardware store I thought about filling my toolbox...
•First on the list would be my favorite tool; a level. If only my abusive childhood had included a level, I'd remain centered irrespective of uncertain ground.
• A plumb bob would also come in handy; I could have used a vertical axis when my abuser reduced me to a horizontal, heartbroken human.
•A hammer and nails would be absolute essentials. I could hang a "Do Not Enter" sign when my boundaries were being crossed. A sign reading "Dead End" would have been perfect for times when I needed to obliterate the noise that was my mother when she told me I wouldn't get far in life because I was a "Stupid Bitch with a barely average IQ." After all, scotch tape is lame; that was what she used to attach a piece of paper to her bedside lampshade reminding her that I didn't matter because I no longer existed.
•Pliers would have helped me hold firmly to the fact that I AM worthy and I DO matter.
•Clamps (several) would have strengthened my grip. I desperately held onto my heart as my will to live weakened and nearly fell away.
•A flashlight would have shone through the darkness that hid the truth. I wasn't bad! I wasn't stupid! I WASN'T a mistake! I was a child born with the purpose of making a difference for others.
•A tape measure would have concretely measured the length at which a mother (in name only) went on to invalidate and incarcerate my soul.
•A screwdriver would have been irreplaceable! Abusers don't rely on simple nails to enforce THEIR place as soul-crusher and OURS as their soulless victim. They use screws to turn and twist reality into a game they always win, and we only lose.
•Copious amounts of glue (preferably clear) would have repaired the fractured, fragile frame that held the picture of what happiness was.

Unfortunately for me, and for many, there was no toolbox. Nothing to protect us from destruction, and demolition at the hands of our abusers. We couldn't stop them, BUT THEY DIDN'T STOP US! We survived, albeit not unscathed. Now we get to work.

At the very core of each of us lies a resiliency. It answers the call for hope and survival. It needs no phone booth to change into a brute force donning a hard hat and steel-toed boots. It stands tall when we feel small. Know that it's within you and me, ready and waiting to rebuild a stronger, wiser, and amazing life.

I hold hope that our old hardware store will reliably serve many for years to come. I guess it, too has all the tools necessary to help it recover from the ravages of time and anything else that might threaten to tear it down. If you find yourself near our little town, follow the railroad tracks. You will soon see where hammers meet nails, and hearts find hope. Oh, and don't forget about the popcorn!