I will attempt to share some musings of lessons learned - whether spiritual, life-lessons, or what ever... primarily to share the exchanges between spirits while I focus more and more on, this world is not my Home, but I am headed Home!
I grew up hearing the term, “in the eye of the beholder”. I was too embarrassed to ask what that meant, so I assumed it meant, “The Beholder”, or, God. Perhaps this is what gave me the concept of God being The Watcher. I perceived Him as being our Watcher who silently and distantly observed our lives, noting all the deeds, marking each as good or bad. At the end of our life, the marks are tallied and that determines our ultimate destination. The concept of God helping us through life was completely foreign to me.
The attitude of God being our Watcher, recording every deed onto a ‘good’ and ‘bad’ tally was contributed to by well-meaning Christians… church-goers… religious-folk. I was introduced to the church during a time when the church as a whole was deeply immersed in the earning mentality and in confining God to the pages of a leather-bound book with gilded pages. I recall feeling embarrassed and ashamed by the number of people turned away from the church by the harsh, judgmental attitude they encountered when they asked for help or came for a visit to check out attending there as their new church home. It reminded me of the attitude I’d encountered during my high school years, living in a church-sponsored children’s home. Rather than learning to love God and basing our decisions on trying to please Him, our moral decisions were based on staying out of trouble and avoiding being branded a shameful and humiliating label with a feeling akin to wearing the scarlet letter. One could say that we practiced “don’t do” Christianity. As little as I knew and understood about the Bible at the time, I still sensed that this could not be what motivated people to obey God, to even want to go to heaven!
Where I attended, a ‘personal’ relationship with God was discouraged for fear of being categorized with ‘those that have it wrong’ Christians. We were the group that had an impressive amount of Bible knowledge and could quote book, chapter and verse but whose pews were filled with sour faces, hard hearts, and dry spirits. Very much like the religious folk of Peter’s day.
Remember Peter? Peter had walked with Jesus. Peter had said some amazing things, made some incredible claims, had denied Jesus three times and was three times called to feed His sheep. He was of the ‘inner circle’, closer than the average disciple that walked with Jesus, only to later abandon Him. He was of the twelve. Yet, in Acts we read how he got up from the table of the Gentiles to go and eat with the Jewish leaders of the day, succumbing to the need for their nod of approval and acceptance. As much as Peter had learned, as much as he had experienced, even by the side of The Savior, he still had so much to learn regarding God’s ways. But don’t be too hard on Peter. We all have a little Peter in each of us – times when we aim for the acceptance of an esteemed person or group of people rather than pleasing God.
Looking back to the children’s home, I believe this is the mentality that ruled the actions and responses there, just as it has ruled prominently and still rules some today. This has been on my mind and in my heart since the post exchange regarding ‘broken’ people that I posted about previously. It troubles me that so many accredit… or blame the home for their decision today to shun, reject (insert your phrase of choice) Christianity and the church… and ultimately, God. The mentality I’ve described is responsible for portraying God in the wrong light. Many have received the concept of Him sitting as our Judge or like a hall monitor walking the halls, looking for someone out of place or doing wrong. While God will judge us and does judge our hearts, He is not like the librarian that shushes us if we make a sound. He is more like the perfect balance of a doting father or nurturing mother as well as a guide or teacher. He is as real and is as alive today as He was real and alive to the Hebrews as they walked safely through the parted sea. While the Bible is His Word and a place to learn about Him, He is not confined and cannot be contained within its pages. He is full of love, generosity, compassion, passion, and He pursues us. Giving His only Son to die so that we may live with Him is only the beginning – it’s not all inclusive of His gifts to us of Himself. For all who have been given an inaccurate portrayal of Him, He longs for you to know the truth about Him, Who He is, and what He wants with you; to love you, bless you, guide you into a life of His peace, His joy. He wants to heal you, restore you, that you may live life abundantly! When in a relationship such as that with Him, your ‘don’t do’ Christianity becomes an attitude of lovingly seeking to please Him, full of gratitude, full of joy, full of love!
I posted this last night but during the night decided I need to come back and change the final words. I kept going back to what troubled me - those who proclaim to reject Christianity and the church due to their experiences in the home. As I considered what I would say to that, I thought about my own life, my own experiences. I thought about my favorite holiday, Christmas... well, perhaps Thanksgiving and Christmas due to our family traditions of each. The woman who raised me did a lot of damage physically, mentally, emotionally... perhaps even spiritually. So much so that the name by which she called me has been legally dropped and I now go by a name that sounds nothing like the one she called me. Yet, it was she who gave me my holiday traditions that I have passed down to my own children and now down to my grandchildren!
There comes a time in every one's life when you must choose to put away some things - things that could damage or at least diminish the quality of life in the present for self... for those you love. To choose to continue to reject God is risky. It's risky to you and to those you love and cherish due to your influence in their lives. What you deprive yourself you are also choosing to deprive them. If your first introduction to God was through the home, through the church that sponsored the home, I agree, it was a poor portrayal of who God really is. I challenge you to find out for yourself all that you can about God and reassess your decision.
I recently had an experience on a group board that raised some interesting
pondering for me. A question was posed regarding negative experiences
other group members had experienced as opposed to constantly hearing only of
the good experiences. I suggested that perhaps those who had negative
experiences were remaining silent for a variety of reasons, among which could
be that they were trying to reassess those experiences or trying to hold on to
hope that still some good could come from those experiences. Others began
posting either why they wouldn't talk about it, or posting some of their
negative experiences. Then I felt compelled to write why I had retained
my silence regarding my negative experiences. I stated in part, "Broken people tend to have jaded memories;
their perspective is based on their view of self, the world and ultimately God
from their brokenness." I
elaborated on that briefly and further stated that I believed that society as a
whole had come a long way in learning better how to help broken people to heal.
I went to lunch and returned bringing up the group board I was amazed to
see the volume of postings that had collected during my lunch break. I
read some, but not all of the posts as there were so many. Someone else
had posted much more eloquently and more concisely exactly what I had tried to
convey in my post. Then I read the original poster's comment that seemed
addressed to mine, saying in part, "We
were not broken. In some cases there were victims, but victims can go on and become
survivors!" Stifling the urge to respond in the same
tone I sensed this response was written, I replied that, "What I'm referring to - since the fall of mankind, we are all broken to one extent or another, one degree or another. It's not a criticism.
Just a fact. Abuse (regardless of which variety) causes brokenness." I further assured
those on the board that it was not my intention to offend. Shortly a
response followed assuring me that no offense was taken and concluded that
assurance with, "In the course of
my life, being a Child Advocate, I have heard the term "Broken" used
by staff and children. When a child tells you they are "broken" tells
me that someone has told them that time after time, with no understanding of
what the term means. I do not believe that any of us were or are broken! I
believe that many of us could have or would have benefited from therapy.
Regardless of the type of abuse, all of which is egregious, should have been
addressed instead of being pushed aside, ignored or not acknowledged at all,
did more harm than good. I believe that there were a lot of victims and unless
someone teaches them how NOT to be a victim and be a survivor, they will
continue to be victims. Victims to themselves, of the past, to the person/s
that committed the transgression and quite possibly to the future." Several more
posts followed, again, I have not read each one but so far have not found any
others pertaining to my comment and the reaction I got to the term I used,
"broken".
I have reviewed what I said and what the other poster said and I cannot distinguish a
difference other than the term each of us chose to express the state of the
abused; other than, I extended it to all of us being broken, not just the
abused. This assessment launched me into pondering why one would prefer
the term "victim" over "broken". Or, perhaps more
accurately, why one would have such an aversion to the term,
"broken". I spent several hours pondering this very issue.
Finally, as I was preparing for work this morning and resuming my
pondering, I decided to blog about it today.
Perhaps
for some, to admit being broken, implies admitting to being irreparable.
After all, from our human experience, broken glass can never truly be
repaired, at best, it has tell-tale cracks revealing where pieces were glued
back together. Broken plastic or any other material is even worse... they
all seem to truly be irreparable. Do shattered (i.e. broken) dreams ever
come back? What about promises? What about relationships? Do
we truly see repair in anything we witness as broken? Is there truly such
a thing as restoration?
I have
read several books and heard numerous sermons beginning with the Fall of
Mankind and continuing through the Bible to reveal how we live in a state of
brokenness. The earth even groans as though in childbirth, awaiting the
day it will be renewed! This is not to say that everything in our world
is bad! Far from it! Even death and decay hold beauty in our world.
Does that repulse you? What about the beauty of autumn? The
changing of the colors of the leaves reveals their death process. A
flower, when trampled on gives off its best aroma. And I submit to you
that rising from the midst of shards of brokenness are beautiful spirits embracing
their lives wholly and truly acknowledging God as their sustain-er, giver of
hope, friend, best supporter, Savior.
So, what happens when you look at your life and come to the conclusion or revelation
that you are indeed broken? What happens when you look in the mirror one
day and say, "Broken...now what?" Actually, I've already
revealed to you, 'now what'. You go to God. You trust God.
You give it all over to Him and let Him deal with it. "Just
like that?" Just like that, but it's not as easy as 'just like
that'. Everyone's process is different, but everyone has a process!
God takes everyone through a process that draws each one closer to Him;
closer to a relationship dependent on Him and daily drawing strength, grace,
mercy, forgiveness, comfort, healing, and peace from Him. For some, the
process may take years, for some, months, weeks, or even days. For a rare
few, it's almost instantaneous! I was not among the rare few! But
after all that God has done for me throughout my process, I no longer fear my
brokenness. I believe I am nearing the end of my process... process of
healing. I will still continue to grow closer to Him - one doesn't have
to be in a healing process to be drawn closer to the heart of God. I no
longer cut those I love with my sharp edges because God has smoothed them as
only He could, so it's no longer scary to get close to someone. So if you
find yourself arriving at the conclusion that you are broken - don't fear it.
Don't waste any more time denying it. Start today, this hour giving your
brokenness over to Him. If you have to start the process again tomorrow
or the next hour even, just do it. How ever many times it takes to start
over to keep you in the process... moving deeper and deeper into the process
with Him. Eventually, you won't have to deliberately start over. Eventually,
you will readily and easily see His hand at work in your heart, in your spirit,
in your life, healing you of your brokenness and then you, too, will have your
story to share to help someone else along in their process!
Abigail was her name. No other name is necessary to introduce her. Everyone who has read and studied the Old Testament knows of whom you speak when you mention her name, Abigail. Therefore, maybe it was the circumstances of the moment… It could have been that the timing was right… How many times had I heard the story? How many times had I already been impressed and influenced by her actions toward David while she was still the wife of Nabal? People are amazed at her wisdom and initiative that motivated her to take the proper action at the proper time, in the proper manner with the proper attitude. I have never before felt compelled to write about her but had aspired only to emulate her – until that Sunday morning that a young Christian man stood preaching to our congregation and spoke these words, “…she spoke God back into David’s life.” Therein lay the inspiration for this writing, this appeal, if you will… the call for Abigails.
Abigail lived long before the established church, as we know it. In spite of that fact, I believe she demonstrated what we, as children of The Promise, should be displaying in every aspect of our lives, collectively and individually. 1 Samuel 25:23 states that she quickly got off her donkey and bowed her face to the ground. She “quickly” got off her donkey. The adjective caught my attention because of our reluctance to become intimately involved in one another’s lives today. Yet there are so many around us who are ensnared in temptation or entangled in their own brokenness that desperately need God spoken back into their lives.
Abigail had to admit to the foolishness of her husband. It wasn’t her sin. It wasn’t even an action she had knowledge of prior to it being carried out. Yet, her willingness to go quickly and admit to Nabal’s sin prevented another from committing sin. In addition to Abigail heading off developing trouble and sin, we learn a lesson regarding procrastination. Had she not gone quickly, it would have been too late to prevent disaster. Had she hesitated, judgment would have fallen upon her household and therefore, upon her. Perhaps the wrongdoing deserved judgment, but apparently, not a judgment in accordance with the will of The Father as evidenced in the outcome recorded in 1 Samuel chapter 25. Even David, in verse 34 stated, “…had you not come quickly, not one male belonging to Nabal would have been left alive…”
Abigail quickly got off her donkey and bowed her face to the ground. I have often admired the oriental custom of bowing to one another. It conveys much more honor than a mere handshake. Since this country likely will not convert to bowing in lieu of a handshake, honor can still be conveyed when approaching someone in regards to the direction he is going or in regards to someone’s brokenness. Tone, attitude, demeanor, besides the selected phrasing all convey the heart of the one approaching. Veiled accusations or judgments intended to humiliate or shame someone are usually easily seen through. The ‘holier than thou’ mentality had no room in Abigail’s heart when she went to approach David. Abigail honored David in her bowing her face to the ground. Already, without speaking a word, her actions alone began the process of defusing the situation and disarming David. Her actions were soothing to him emotionally, as a cool compress on a fevered brow. Her humbled actions preceded the sincerity of her words thereby convincing David of her earnestness.
Abigail had quickly rushed to David, hopped off her donkey and bowed her face to the ground. What was her next move? 1 Samuel 25: 24-25 “…let the blame be on me… my husband is a fool, his name is Fool and folly follows him… I did not see the men my master sent…” She acknowledged the specific wrong. Abigail spoke from her heart and confessed the wrong done to David and his men, the specific wrong, acknowledging David’s feelings and demonstrating her understanding of his motivation. She addressed this motivation directly. She stated her defense only to the extent that David realized that she was willing to suffer the consequences he had determined for her husband although she had not committed the offense. She did not do this as a manipulative ploy. David would have seen through that and responded accordingly. Her confession was honest and sincere. There was nothing to interpret or decipher. She exercised straightforward honesty and sincerity from the heart.
Abigail’s next words offered David a picture of himself in obedience to God while describing what he was considering. She reminded David of God’s blessings and of his purpose according to God’s will as evidenced by the blessings David had thus far received. She reminded David of how God had always been there to protect David, to lift him up, giving David strength, courage and honor. She offered gifts to appease David and his men as she continued to remind David of his purpose in God’s plan. To reiterate the words of the young preacher the Sunday morning that this message was inspired, Abigail spoke God back into David’s life. What a beautiful, unselfish and loving gift!
We need Abigails willing to risk so much to try to guide someone back to the straight and narrow; champions of valor. She was not supernatural or in any way exceptional to any of us. What makes her story extraordinary was her heart, her willingness to do the right thing at the right time in the right manner with the right attitude – regardless of what it may cost her. She possessed no mythical ability to enable her to do that… just a heart of love, honor and a need to do what was right. Not to be right, to do right. That’s what makes her unique, notable and worthy of emulation. The young man referred to the need to draw those back to God, to speak God back into the hearts of those wayfaring. However, I believe the need to speak God back into the hearts of the broken is equally important and necessary. Perhaps, rather than judging someone whose faith seems to be slipping, a closer look will reveal a brokenness that is draining that faith.
You remember Esther and what her uncle, Mordecai told her when she was reluctant to approach the king in behalf of the Hebrews. “…Who knows but that you have come to royal position for such a time as this?” Perhaps, God intended for you to be His hands, His feet, His heart, His words to someone He put in your path. Perhaps, He set you up to be an Abigail to someone. Let us, as Abigail, speak God back into one another’s lives!
Say it to my face
Look me in the eyes
And say what you have to say
You know we can't erase these words before goodbye
And turn the final page
Ahh here comes alone again
Everything's broken
Everything's vacant
Everything's wasted time again
Sentiments hopeless
Innocence jaded
Everything's wasted time again
And so we leave this stage
And all our best read lines
And all the acts we played
So say you wanna leave
And say we never held the way we always hoped we'd try
And say hello to alone again
'Cause, everything's broken
Everything's vacant
Everything's wasted time again
Sentiments hopeless
Innocence jaded
Everything's wasted time again
Ahh someday we might find
Some sacred place in time
But until then all we'll share
Are dreams we've left behind
'Cause everything's broken
Everything's vacant
Everything's wasted time again
Ahh, yeah!
Everything's broken
Everything's vacant
Everything's wasted time again
Sentiments hopeless
Innocence jaded
Everything's wasted time again
Everything's broken
Everything's vacant
Everything's wasted time again
Sentiments hopeless
Innocence jaded
Everything's wasted time again
Everything is broken
Everything is wasted time
Everything is broken
Everything is wasted time
I heard this song for the first time this morning. I had to look up the lyrics because the chorus caught my attention. Ouch. I can definitely relate. I believe that many if not most of us can relate to the song writer's feelings portrayed in this lyric.
Having more than once been broken, hearing this song and reading the lyrics - my heart is touched. So much emotion was poured out by Fuel in performing this particular song. I'm not familiar with Fuel and don't know anything about their other work, but this song definitely captured my attention as I was getting ready for work this morning.
It got me thinking about all the broken people in the world, still fragmented from shattered dreams, broken relationships, lost hopes. I cannot help but feel that those of us who have passed through healing owe it to our Healer to extend the gift given to us and point the way to Him. Share! Don't be stingy with so great a gift but reveal the source! Encourage the broken to take that step and allow Him to heal them!
No sugar-coating, though. It isn't easy. In fact, it is painful, often scary. But He often brings us back to a painful situation in our lives to reveal to us that He was there when it occurred, and He is tender, compassionate, merciful, caring and willing to lovingly heal the affects it had on us. He walks us through the healing process as well, never leaving or forsaking us, as promised! He can be trusted with your most fragmented pieces - you know the ones, those on which you keep cutting yourself.
Someone very precious to me is right there, right now. She is trying to take that step to allow Him to heal her. I've watched her cry, and boil over with anger, resent, and then crumble in fear. Typical responses. This morning, she girds herself up to keep an appointment at noon (changed from 9:00 at the last minute) with mixed emotions. She knows my story. She's seen how God has helped me, healed me. She wants that for herself. It's painful. It's scary. And reliving that pain makes her recoil in anger and spew resentment. But she's taking that first step. I wish I could be with her. But Someone much more capable than I am is with her and that's far better! Someday, when she's healed, what a story she will have to share!
I have to begin with what I have come to call, my “D-Day”. I’ve looked at a calendar for May of 1986 and I believe that it’s a good thing that I cannot remember the precise date – only the month and the year.
I refer to it as my “D-Day” because it was my day of decision. I was dangling precariously at the end of my rope and was beyond weary of the chaos in my heart, in my mind, in my spirit and soul. I was weary of the temptation to commit suicide and struggling each passing day, each passing hour with whether or not to do it. I was weary of seeing the concern, even fear that was etched on the face of my husband as he searched my eyes for clues of just how close I was to committing the deed.
Had I prayed? Of course I had prayed! Diligently I prayed for relief! But for months, the intensity continued to increase that I began to believe I was truly not long left for this world. What was so intense? That, I have to divulge from hindsight because, at the time, I really had no idea.
I had four years with my birth parents before that relationship was disrupted with extraordinary events that permanently separated me from my biological family. I was taken to live with a man and woman from Alaska to Texas by way of California and later Colorado. The woman was unable to have children of her own and lived in a time that women felt valued, or devalued, by her ability (or lack thereof) to produce children. The circumstances and details of going with this woman and her husband are shady, obscure, and highly questionable. Suffice it to say, there is evidence that not everything was on the up and up.
It wasn’t long before the cultural differences produced enough frustration in her that she became abusive. She did not like for me to remember Alaska, my large family, or much of anything from my life before her. She enjoyed showing me off to guests as the little savage she’d rescued who only ate raw liver. That was entirely untrue. I could recall the dishes my natural mother prepared and I could, even then, assure you, they were fully cooked and not unusual or savagery at all. She would show a tattered flour sack that was coarse and scratchy, claiming that it was all I’d had to dress in when she rescued me. I can now show photographs of my sisters and me wearing frilly dresses and patent leather shoes, fur muffs and bonnets. I spoke with a native slur indicative of the dialect of my family that she claimed as further evidence of my savage ignorance. Speech therapy in the second grade adjusted that adequately. This should be enough ground work for you to realize the mentality of the woman raising me.
Eventually, the relationship she was in turned sour and she began seeing other men before her divorce. At the age of nine, one of her boyfriends began sexually molesting me. When I told her about it, she laughed at me and told me that, “a real woman doesn’t scream”. I recall thinking that I never said I was a real woman, I was a girl. And I made myself a promise that would prove to be a very bad call on my part for several years to come – I promised myself I would never give her reason to laugh at me again for screaming. Though given ample opportunities, I held my voice. So it was that I eventually evolved into believing that to be loved, I had to give what I had been taught to give. I don’t have to elaborate on what that did for my reputation through my school years. By the time I was in the children’s home where I was frequently reminded of what a bad and sinful girl I was and how I was so bad for the boys there; I had been through a variety of perceptions of God, The Father. At that point, He was my Judge, my ridiculer, accuser… someone to be avoided.
The mild beatings started around the age of nine as well. By mild, I mean, she would use what ever was handy to her; a belt (not administered to merely the traditional location for this type of discipline – but where ever it happened to land on my body, including my face and head), a plastic, toy baseball bat that went to an enlarged version of a game like Tiddlywinks, to a broom handle. The more severe beatings that involved fists or other hard objects came later until it was too physically exhausting for her and she resorted to using a one foot sized, handheld, electric cattle prod. The prod, she would place at the base of my head on my spine and depress the button, laughing as she watched my body quiver and tighten up uncontrollably.
I was not allowed to play with other children much but was kept confined either sitting in the shade outdoors or preferably, indoors. Therefore, I read. Often, the only thing I could find to read was a King James Version of the Bible. I didn’t enjoy reading the New Testament, so I read a lot of the Old Testament. There was never any question in my mind as to whether the stories I read were true. I had some understanding of the Bible being God’s Word and therefore, of course they were true! When I would read stories about atrocities that happened to women that involved rape or abuse, I noticed that I didn’t see much if anything said in regards to God disapproving of such behavior. I read about a woman’s brothers killing hundreds because of what was done to their sister, but it seemed to me to be more about the brothers and their actions than about what happened to their sister. I began to develop the idea that what happened to women or girls in particular, was not very important. The important things, as I understood, are that we do not lie or steal, or kill, and we must obey our parents; the last thing, in my mind, assured me that her actions towards me had God’s approval and blessing. You may take that to mean that while I believed in Him and considered Him powerful and the absolute authority, I considered that He was not safe to trust.
Returning to my D-Day in May of 1986, now, perhaps it is easier for you to see why there was intensity in my mind, my heart, my spirit, my soul that so tormented me, nearly to the point of suicide. While I was happily married to a good man who loved me, provided well for me and my children, and I seemed to have everything I had ever dared long for in life, I was a mess inwardly and did not understand why! I chastised myself for my seemingly lack of gratitude. I was continually reading books that would only reaffirm my deepening sense of inadequacy and worthlessness – The Total Woman, The Proverbs 31 Woman, etc. Well-meaning Christians would encourage me to count my blessings, be grateful, look at how much worse off someone else was than me (I always had a problem with that! It seemed a twisted sort of mild delight, or at least relief, in the misery of others worse off than me). Also, if not directly stated, there was the implication that if I didn’t manage to pull myself out of my rut by my own bootstraps, I was worse than ungrateful, I was practically spitting in God’s face and letting Him know that He wasn’t doing enough to please me. I certainly didn’t want to be guilty of that, so I trembled and prayed and continued to get worse, deep in my soul.
This brings us back to where we started, the morning of my D-Day and my challenge to God. I didn’t perceive it as my challenge to Him, but, what else would you call it when I told Him that something had to change that very day – either the temptation would forever go away or, I would do the deed and get it over with. I walked out to the nearest tank behind the dairy and stood there glaring at the water, my mind racing for how to do it! I saw my husband watching me, following me from a distance, obviously very concerned. I hated what I was putting him through! I was angry, tired of the confusion, tired of hurting, tired of having to talk myself out of it repeatedly. I wanted to feel alive. I wanted to feel enthusiastic about life, not scared of it! I asked God if I was supposed to always feel scared about life and expressed my frustration should His answer be, ‘yes’. I confessed that I believed I should simply be grateful that He saw fit to send His One and Only Son to die in my place and I should stop being so selfish and demanding. But then, something snapped inside me and I raged. I told Him that I didn’t care if He did strike me down, but that I was appreciative of the sacrifice of Jesus, but if that was all there was to it, it just was not enough for me! There had to be something more! There had to be life! Where is that joy the scriptures speak of? Why couldn’t I have that? I pleaded that there had to be more, that if heaven was like worship service, who would ever want to go there? I wanted to know why we couldn’t experience healing today like those of the New Testament. We had people with broken hearts, struggling with depression, etc. and to be able to have joy and life - a full, happy life would be such a tribute to Him, to God, if He would only allow it!
I need you to really feel this with me! My heart ached with such an ache; it seemed it would feel better to reach in and yank it out and watch it bleed out on the ground! I had so much anger over the confusion and the hopeless sense of inadequacy that if I had to bear it any longer, I would have no choice but to kill myself! I was even angry that I was out at the tank unprepared! I had brought no gun, not even a knife! I would either have to drown myself or try clubbing myself in the head with a rock. I just wanted it to end… not necessarily my life, but if need be, even that! And so I stood, huffing in my rage, fists clinched and asked God to remove something, anything! Either my desire to die or my life! Then I just stood there, waiting. Wondering what would happen next. I started to replay and analyze everything I had just declared to God, but then decided that I didn’t even want to do that anymore. If I couldn’t have a conversation with God without having to second guess every thought that came out of my head, then why bother? If God didn’t want to see what lay on my heart, then He would have to remove it or remove me! But I wasn’t going anywhere until one of those two things happened.
First an hour passed. Then two hours. Then I realized that my fists weren’t clinched. I was almost afraid to focus, but I did… my heart didn’t hurt. I glanced around without turning my head, afraid of upsetting the applecart. I was still alive; all the evidence indicated that I was still alive. I focused on the pit of my stomach – it seemed, fine! Then I let me feel myself breathe – inhale, exhale. No quiver. No griping pain. No piercing, searing, hot pain anywhere. I could breathe! I could feel my heartbeat and hear my thoughts without the raging in the background! Slowly, I turned toward the house. One step and then another. After about the first 20 steps, I stopped pausing after each step to see if the darkness was going to return. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, and wouldn’t for several years to come, I had just experienced my first indication that perhaps… perhaps I can trust God after all.
My D-Day took place 5 years prior to my divorce. Those five years I dove into Christianity with full vigor. I taught the 2 – 3 years olds, eventually the 4 – 5 year olds, until I finally ended with the 1st and 2nd graders. I taught VBS every summer. I attended lectureships in Abilene, ladies retreats in Brady, and was at every gospel meeting my home congregation put on and every special speaker event conducted in the area! I kept a prayer journal and believed myself to be a good Christian wife and woman. I participated in the Ladies Prayer Sisters and never missed a salad with them! I wrote cards, sent letters, made phone calls. But something was still happening that I seemed unable to stop. My husband began pulling away from me. In hindsight, I can see and hear his sense of feeling threatened, even betrayed, by my change. I was going some place that he wasn’t and it felt that I no longer needed him. I tried to include him in our family devotionals, in which he would make an appearance and sleep through, but I ended up taking the lead. I tried to get him to say the prayers over the meals, but again, had to take that lead myself. I read so many self-help books and pressed hard to grow into the Christian woman that I believed God wanted me to become. But my relationship with my husband suffered more as the time passed. Eventually, infidelity came into our relationship. Still, I refused to consider divorce. Finally, he could bear it no longer and he divorced me. After he had sent me to Montana to wait for him with the kids there, I sensed that he had something else in mind, not eventually selling his part of the dairy and joining us up there. So I returned to Texas to find him involved with another woman whose dad was a deacon in our congregation. I appealed to the church for help to save my marriage. I appealed to my father-in-law, who was an elder in the same congregation. I appealed to my brother-in-law. I appealed to God! I was desperate! I had to find a way to save my marriage. But divorce came anyway. As I was reeling from that, I received a phone call from one of the other elders who requested a private audience with me in his home. I kept our appointment and was confused at his wife’s response when I arrived. She politely acknowledged my arrival and disappeared into a separate room. I was shown a seat at the dining room table and he sat adjacent to me. I don’t remember much about our conversation other than the numb feeling I felt inside and out! For days after that meeting – who am I kidding, for years after that meeting, all I could think of is that I had been, ‘put away’ and that I therefore had, ‘no right to remarry’. I had been, ‘put away’. It was official. I was trash. I was worthless. And the elder supported that and all but told me it was ordained by God that I be so considered.
So, this God to whom I prayed, pleaded, begged and appealed to for help to save my marriage was now telling me that I was to be punished for the rest of my life for my failure as a wife. My ex-husband already had remarrying plans in the works, but I was to be alone. I was 34 years old and the prospect of the rest of my life alone was not very appealing to me, to say the least! But, I loved Him… God. I loved Him and wanted to please Him. I couldn’t be angry at God! It wasn’t His fault that I was a failure as a wife! I did something wrong and had to pay the consequences. So, I couldn’t be angry at God. I didn’t even feel I had the right to complain to Him about my failed marriage or my life sentence as a marred woman unworthy of ever remarrying. To bring it up to Him would mean I would have to look at myself and the ugliness of whom and what I was, so I chose not to talk about it. Had I talked to Him about it then, I may have discovered earlier that while I may not have been angry towards Him regarding my failed marriage – I was hurt. I felt betrayed. I felt He had abandoned me. I wasn’t to learn that for a while, though.
We talked about my work and a little about my divorce for our first session, and then he sent me home with an assignment. I don’t know why I was so excited about an assignment; perhaps it gave me a sense of hope that this counselor and therefore the affects of his sessions would prove different, actually beneficial this time! I was eager to get home and start writing on my ‘time-line’, as he’d called it. I had to record everything I could remember from the time I was born to the present. I hit the highlights and tucked my paper into my purse for safe keeping until our next appointment, one week later.
In his office with my time-line in hand, I waited, suddenly anxious about how he might respond to what he read on my time-line. When he entered, it was a quick, polite greeting and he didn’t reach out to accept my time-line. Instead, he wanted me to read it aloud to him. I gave my best disgusted look, tried my best intimidating look, and glared with all my might. He was so under whelmed; I’m surprised he didn’t yawn. He just waited for me to finally stop making faces at him and start reading my time-line aloud. I popped my paper in my hand to straighten it smooth and began reading. As I neared age nine, I remembered what was written there and tried to hurry passed it as quickly as possible. Feeling relieved that he didn’t stop me there; I read on to the present then laid the paper in my lap. When he didn’t immediately say something, I glanced up and quickly back down, yes, he was looking at me. And no, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He leaned forward in his chair and requested that I reread something, age nine. I thought, oh, he wants to talk about my first attempt at suicide, what would drive a nine-year-old to attempt to commit suicide? He probably wants to know how I tried it. I reread age nine, the first entry stating that I had lost my virginity, age nine… I was just about to read the part about first suicide attempt when he stopped me. Reread that again. I was aghast! I growled the words at him as angrily as I could, “lost virginity, age nine” and fought to keep from crying my humiliation – still that determination of not giving her reason to laugh at me.
I felt so angry. I felt betrayed; I thought he was going to help me. All he really wanted was a reason to put me down, humiliate me, make me feel worse than I already felt. I wanted out of that room so badly; I played it out in my mind, dashing out the door, down the hall and away, away, away, as fast as I could. But I sat planted on his couch, waiting for his response while staring at the shiny tops of his shoes. He leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. His voice was gentle but clear, “why do you call it, ‘losing your virginity’?” he asked. I scoffed at his question. “What would you call it?” I responded.
He looked at me a moment. “Tell me about it.” He pressed. “Tell you about it?” I was indignant. I wanted to say, “You pervert”, but I didn’t. I asked, “You mean you want the gory details?” hoping I would shame him into saying no. He waited. I waited. He won and I proceeded. When I had finished, he scooted his chair closer to me. This further enraged me; I really wanted to call him a pervert now! I imagined him trying to put his hand on my knee and wondered the best way to respond. His voice was even gentler as he repeated his earlier question, “why do you call it, ‘losing your virginity’?” he asked. I looked up at him amazed! I had just told him! Could he not understand plain English? I sat with my mouth gaping open, staring at him. He went on, “why wouldn’t you call it what it is?” I quickly answered, “Oh, you’re looking for something like promiscuity? Something not quite as dirty as ‘virginity’?” He looked at me and said, “Rape. I would call it rape.” I was stunned into silence. I was nearly 37 years old and I had never once been told that I had been raped when I was nine-years-old. I’d been accused of being promiscuous, of being bad, of being sinful, of being bad for boys, but I had never been told I’d been raped. Suddenly, things were different and changing very rapidly!
He asked me how I believed that God felt about what happened to me. I felt on stable ground and tried to quote him scripture about a millstone around someone’s neck. He didn’t let me finish my safe quote but knocked me further off-balance, telling me that God cried. I stopped talking and looked at him to see if he was serious. I suspected that he was serious, because he was crying! Tears rolled unashamed down his cheeks at he tenderly looked at me and told me how God would have preferred to have held me on His lap and assure me that He did not want that for me. I couldn’t imagine it! God? Crying? For me? There sat Dr. Timothy Young, self-proclaimed representative of God, crying, just as he said God did when this atrocity occurred.
I saw Dr. Young two more times after that session. He armed me with tools that would prove invaluable in the years to come. He was preparing me, you see, for my long journey home, into the heart of God. He began by rewriting my dictionary and redefining for me words like, family, love, God, even, Donna. He let me know that God wanted me to know that He was there for me. It felt odd… wonderfully odd. I wanted to believe it and hoped that what he was telling me was so true. In Dr. Young’s office, I learned that I had not been invisible to God and that He truly cared what happened to me all those years ago. I wasn’t sure what that meant for me, but it felt good and I was glad it did mean something, even if I didn’t yet know what.
From that point in my life, four more years would pass before I would begin to sense something different about God and His relationship with me. I would pass through several bad judgments and consequences. I wasn’t just a victim; I also made decisions for myself and often the wrong ones that got me into more chaos and conflict. But along the way I was introduced to people like Ruthie Merritt, my mentor if you will, from Garden Ridge in Lewisville… who pushed me to teach a ladies class for my first time. Twila, a blind woman, also from Garden Ridge, who saw more in me than I ever saw in myself. And I received books like, “Transforming Grace” by Jerry Bridges or “Trusting God Even when Life Hurts”, also by Jerry Bridges. I had a very difficult time with “Transforming Grace” when I read it for the first time. The author used the analogy of trying to jump across the Grand Canyon and let God’s grace make up the difference for what our efforts could not do for us as being the way most Christians defined grace – I tossed the book across the room. It made sense to me to work in fear and trembling for my own salvation – wasn’t that even a quote from the scripture! So, this grace thing was a very scary concept! Studying about the Sovereignty of God made sense, but His grace, though wonderful, did not make sense!
When I moved from Texas to Montana due to financial woes, having to allow my kids to move back in with their dad and now step-mother, I fell apart again. I still did not know how to hold on to God so that He could hold on to me! I drank to excess and was in and out of several meaningless relationships. But even in the middle of all of that, something would happen that someone would give me something else to feed my starving spirit. I don’t recall how I obtained a copy of "Experiencing God" by Henry Blackaby and Claude King, but it was the workbook and I devoured it. I liked the idea of God being found, heard, and experienced outside the covers of even a well-worn Bible! I still needed to believe that He was real, present, current. I didn’t know how to recognize the hand of God working in my life, but hungered for it, fiercely! At some point, some how, I was given a verse to digest for several years. Romans 8:28. I read an account of a woman declaring that she wanted to slap people when they shared Romans 8:28 with her after she has suffered a devastating loss. I could not identify with that mentality because, when I received Romans
as my verse, this is what I was given to digest:
For we know that in all things, God works for the good of those who love Him and were called according to His purpose.
I meditated on all of it, word by word until it became like a mantra for me – For we know – we don’t have to guess, fret, worry, wonder or plead that maybe… we have the certainty of, the knowledge, we know! That in all things – oh! All things! Not just the good, the outstanding, the phenomenal, the extraordinary but even in the bad, the devastating, the painful, the grieving, even the mundane, simplistic, ordinary, and routine things… all things means, all things! That God… not Michael, the angel nor any other angel or heavenly being, but God, Himself. The Creator, the One Who sits on The Throne of heaven, The Father of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, the giver of the law and of grace, God! Works. This was the most amazing to me when I first received it! God works! I had mentioned earlier that I went through a variety of perceptions of God through out my life. God working was not among them! I perceived Him on His throne of judgment, slamming His gavel against me! I perceived Him with a look of disappointment, disapproval, even disgust. I perceived Him as not even noticing me at all, having much more important matters and people in the world to attend to than me! But here, I learned and absorbed that God works! He works for the good… What is that verse in Jeremiah about Gods plans to prosper us and not harm us? The Bible is full of such verses. My heart goes out to the poor soul who believes that those are only written there to reveal to us how much God loved the Israelites! Such limitations imposed upon God are so debilitating for us and are not within His plan for us! He does work for the good – of? Of those who love Him.
Remember my issue with the concept of grace? Jumping across the Grand Canyon? Throwing the book across the room? What did I have to do to earn God working for my good? Love Him. And? Love Him. You may add, obey. The law of love sums it up, though. Because, if I love Him, I will obey Him! I can obey without loving Him, but then I’m back in the law, but I can’t love Him without obeying Him. That, “something more” that I raged about on my D-Day was a love relationship with Him. Of course, I didn’t understand that at the time, but I gradually came to realize that’s what I yearned for and raged about that day. So, God works for the good of those who love Him… and then, as if all this is not enough – He gives us even more! Not only has He sent His One and Only Son to die in our stead, providing a way to Him, to His heart for which He does everything and all we do is love Him, He also lets us know that He continues to pursue each of us individually! What Jesus did, He did for all mankind from the beginning of time to the end of time. But God continues to pursue each of us on an individual level because His Word states in Romans 8:28 that, “….God works for the good of those who love Him and… and were called, according to His purpose”! Imagine God valuing you and your talents that He calls you to serve Him in His Kingdom! Reflect on all that that entails! He noticed you, personally, individually. He knows you personally, your heart! He highly values you personally because He called you! Of all the people He has created, He picked the purpose for you and picked you to fulfill it! For many years, through every thing I faced, I faced with this verse on my lips and etched in my heart. And I can assure you that I never felt like slapping anyone who quoted it to me.
Revisit with me for just a moment, the little girl who grew up to be a fear filled woman. Fearful of being abandoned, of being inadequate, of being unloved, of being invisible, of being unwanted, unneeded, unappreciated, of being unnecessary. The Father demonstrated to me that I could trust Him. He revealed to me that just as Rahab and her family was protected though surrounded by walls crumbling down around them, He would protect me as He worked to tear down the walls of my heart. As my trust in Him grew, His work in me increased so that I must share one more significant event with you before I close.
The woman I spoke of at the beginning. For many years, she was the voice in my head that accused me, ridiculed me, haunted me and continued to torment me. As time passed, her voice was not as prominent, it was not as able to influence me as in the past, but it was still there. For many years I feared turning out like her and resisted anything that even remotely appeared to be in her taste – with very few exceptions. I was given the book, “Captivating” by the Ladies Class and was enjoying its message when my car was totaled. The other person’s insurance paid for the damages and cut me a check. With a lot of assistance from one of my church family, a car was found and I agreed to it, just hearing about it, sight unseen, in other words. It seems a petty, insignificant thing to say that upon seeing the car for the first time and realizing that it was white, unsettled me inwardly. I pushed that initial response down and began telling myself all the reasons I was so grateful to have the car. Meanwhile, I was still very involved in reading, “Captivating”. As my feelings regarding the car being white began to surface, I read in “Captivating” about how The Father will sometimes take you back to something significant in your past, in order to reveal His presence there. I had been denying that the color of the car was an issue, but within two weeks, it was very apparent to me that it was definitely an issue. The source He used this time was the book, “Captivating”. He revealed to me that because ‘she’ always insisted upon having a white car, I associated white cars with her. Besides traumatic experiences in her white cars, the white car had become a symbol to me of all that was bad in her. In essence, it had become a symbol of my pain. The misperceptions I had developed of me were developed, in part, while riding around in her white cars. My fears were harbored there. White cars were like vehicles of dark, foreboding memories that I really did not wish to stir.
But The Father spoke to my wounded heart and tore down yet more walls from around it. I was unaware of the significance of white cars to me. It took The Father revealing it to me with the help of the book, “Captivating”. As I absorbed this, I was awestruck by the fact that He could not have revealed this to me, had He not been there when the abuse happened… as my fears were developing! And I realized, for the first time, I was never alone! He never abandoned me!
The Father allowed me to just absorb that for several months before introducing me to yet another book. Ironically, I had this book on my shelf for several years but had never read it. Suddenly one day, as if by chance, I was looking at my collection of books, trying to decide what to read next. I had just finished reading, “The Shack” for the fourth time and needed something else to read that would continue the nourishing value I experienced from reading, “The Shack”. The book really stood out to me on the shelf, “The Gift of The Blessing”. I pulled it off the shelf and began reading it. A couple of chapters into it, I was focused on my own children and their experiences with me as their mother. A little farther into the book, suddenly the focus shifted to realizing some things about me that I would like to correct. Continuing deeper into the book, pain. Old, long forgotten memories resurfaced. This time, I easily admitted that I was feeling a bit miffed at God. Why was I remembering the events I was remembering, especially since they had been long forgotten! What useful purpose would it serve, remembering them now? I was reminded that I trusted Him. That He had more than demonstrated Himself trustworthy. He had more than demonstrated that He was safe. I knew He had been working on my heart. Yes, I wished for Him to continue, yes, I wanted to cooperate.
Then, there it was. I couldn’t believe what I was reading. I immediately asked The Father, “You don’t expect me to bless ‘her’, do You? Please say it isn’t so! How could You want me to do that? You know what she did to me! I can’t do that!” Less than a week later, I found myself riding in my white car along with my Daughter; on my way to Brady… yes, to bless ‘her’. My Daughter came along for moral support. This event took place just a little over a month ago. Do I believe that The Father is real and present in our lives today? Oh yes! Definitely! The evidence is irrefutable! All that I have seen has taught me to trust all that I have not seen. As I stated, this event occurred just over a month ago. The next day, I was aware that she was no longer the monster living in my head. Her voice was completely silent and remains silent to this day.
I am a work in progress. He has brought me such a long way from where I was and far enough to know, I have such a long way to go! Along the way, what ever I may encounter, He will never leave me nor forsake me! Of that, I can absolutely be certain! I do not know what my future holds, what lay beyond for me along my journey; but I both know and trust The One Who holds my future.
Something interesting and intriguing going on in worship lately! I regret, due to illness, I have missed the first two, but our congregation is beginning to share testimonies! I think that is extremely exciting! I am most anxious to hear how The Father has interacted in the lives of those I've known, or perhaps have not known, to draw them into a close relationship with Him! Everyone has a story! Everyone! And I find it very uplifting, encouraging, stimulating and exciting to hear the stories of others!
I think I will attempt to share my story, here in my blog. I'm a little torn as to how to go about it due to recent events. I don't want to... how shall I put it? I don't wish to bring harsh judgement on anyone involved in my past while revealing what lay in my past. I no longer hold against any person their actions that helped to create who I used to be that God had to... undo in me. Yet, to know just what He has done for me, how much He has done for me, some revelation regarding my past needs to be revealed. Seems a fine balance. I'll need to put some thought into it before I attempt to share my story.
I've written before about today's topic, but it bears repeating - we have leaky reservoirs. I think I'll do a study about blessing others because, if I'm not mistaken, the verses that encourage, admonish or even command us to bless others speak of doing so out of the abundance of the blessings we have received. One can not acquire an abundance if he or she leaks!
It has been a concern of mine for a while that it seemed I was constantly feeling the need to focus on me - what I need. I was weary of being so needy, it was making me feel selfish. I was concerned that I was not loving others, giving to others, blessing others as God intended. It was during one of the times I felt this most keenly that it came to me about the "abundance", or some versions use the term, "over-flow". In conjunction with that concept, it was revealed to me that I leak. My cup constantly required refilling because while God was pouring in blessing, it was leaking out.
I believe that most, if not all, of us experience a leak or two that requires the healing touch of God and our participation in our own healing - cooperation. We all have wounds or have suffered some infraction that has left us insecure, doubtful, lacking in confidence and therefore, hesitant to reach out to others to one degree or another. It is not selfish to allow yourself to be healed and your leaks repaired. In fact, to do so opens you up to be a better servant - or if you prefer, a better child of God. Because, think about it, how can one not help but be loving, giving, gracious, forgiving, or a blessing to others when his or her cup is overflowing!
I am excited about the recent repair in my reservoir - or my cup! I don't know if I am completely leak-free, but I believe that the recent repair was on a major leak! Already I feel the excitement and anticipation building of what's next! Already I feel the desire building to give to others of what The Father has so lavishly given to me! My reservoir filling up to overflowing is already drowning my fear, reservation and hesitation to take a risk and reach out to others!
I typically go home for lunch everyday where my Daughter is typically home with her four children during the summer, one during the school year. Today, they were watching a cartoon where a dragon was guarding a red ring. The mission of the main character was to get passed the dragon and his snares, enter his lair, and retrieve the red ring.
When this was accomplished, the main character put on the ring and the lair transformed into a palace and the dragon transformed into a prince - who then told the adventurer that a spell had been put on him that transformed him into a dragon and he was forced to guard the red ring.
Immediately I thought about all that had transpired this past week - which I have chronicled in my blog - and how that story epitomized what really took place in my life. In my particular situation, the dragon represents me. The ring represents the curse - all that held me captive and kept me from living a full life. The main character, the adventurer in pursuit of the ring, represents Jesus - and whomever He chose to use as a vehicle, a tool, to reach the ultimate goal, to transform me back into who I was created to be and live according to how He created me to live. In His hands, the curse was transformed into blessing, setting me free from the voice in my head - her voice - that demoralized me for most of my life.
Isn't it fascinating... sad, but fascinating how we become the dragons in our lives who tenaciously guard that which holds us prisoners! Just look at how the events played out this past week. Even after I was convinced that God wanted me to go to Jean to bless her, I still experienced anger and guarded that which held me prisoner, resisting my rescuer... resisting my Savior, and my healing. Once the events played out, however, it all became clear to me how I was the one standing guard over my own prison!
I am awed by the love of Him who fought His way into my prison lair to bestow the blessing on me - robbing me of the red ring and restoring me. My life has come full circle so that I may learn to be a blessing for Him to others. He may choose to use me to help get passed some other dragon that he or she may be restored to what he or she was created to be and to live how he or she was created to live. Perhaps, even Jean.
My Daughter and I went to see... Jean. She was sitting in her carport when we drove up. I almost didn't recognize her! I've never seen her so dark, her hair so a mess, her nails so un-manicured, her clothes so dirty. But as soon as she spoke, I recognized her voice. It had not changed in all these years.
My Daughter stayed in the car while I got out and walked up to her to determine if it was indeed her. Not knowing how to address, I decided to call her what I last called her over 30 years ago, "Mother".
She leaned forward and scowled at me and said, "What?"
I repeated my inquiry, "Mother?"
She said, "Mother! No. No, I'm no body's mother."
I asked if she recognized me and she said she did not. I asked if she knew who I was and she shook her head no and said that she did not.
We then focused on getting her dog to stop barking at me and I asked if it was Gretchen (she typically named her red females, Gretchen or Sugie and the black male dachshunds, Blackie or Junior). She said no, that her boy dog was Punkin. I looked at her and she at me. Then I said, "I'm JeNene" (long story, not for now). She asked who and I repeated the name. She repeated it after me and slowly I saw recognition come in her eyes. She remembered the name, but looked at me doubtfully as to whether I could be her. After eyeing me suspiciously, she rocked back in her chair and laughed saying, "JeNene! I was just talking about her yesterday to ol' Punkin, here, wasn't I boy. JeNene and ol'... ol'..." she snapped her fingers to help her memory, I offered, "Eddie."
"Yes! That's it, Eddie! I was telling ol' Punkin, here that I wonder what ever became of ol' JeNene and Eddie."
She kept apologizing for having no chair to offer me. I assured her that it was okay, I'd be fine without one. Then I approached her, put my arm around her stooped shoulders (I remember she used to always say, "Stand up straight, JeNene! Do you want people to think you're ignorant? Only ignorant people slump their shoulders.") and said, "I need to tell you that I am sorry that I have shut you out of my life for so long. I was wrong to do that."
She looked a little uncomfortable and said, "Yes. It has been a long time."
Then she told me about her dog, Punkin, again. I asked her if she wanted to meet my Daughter and returned to the car to invite her to get out. She and I stood around in Jean's carport for an hour hearing about Punkin, she bragged about how much money she had in the bank, and told the story of her carport being built several times during that hour. I'm not sure she was ever completely convinced that I was JeNene because when I referred to Grandpa, she seemed confused as to who I was talking about and finally asked me if I was talking about her Daddy.
She seemed very impressed with fountain drinks but doesn't seem to know that that's what they are called. Because when I asked her if she ever got out much she told me she pays her neighbor $20 to take her to town for groceries then they drive clear across town to a little place that serves the best drinks in a cup, 'yeah tall' (gesturing with her fingers the size of the cup) that has crushed ice, a lid and a straw - but with each item, struggled for what to call it. I say she seemed impressed with those because she told us about those drinks more than anything else she repeated in that hour.
On the ride home, my Daughter said that she felt it was a blessing that Jean doesn't seem to remember much - maybe it means she doesn't remember any of the bad stuff. And I'm okay with that. I don't need for her to know how much damage she did to me... I've forgiven her... and today, though I tried to bless her, I'm not sure I really did. I reminded her of the things I knew about her like her ballroom dancing, western dancing, expert marksmanship for shooting, etc. She seemed to blush like a little girl and giggled.
Before leaving I asked if she would allow me to write to her. She said she would like that. I think I would like that, too.
Hopefully today will be the blessing. It is my plan to go to her house today, this afternoon. It is my plan to offer her the blessing - no strings attached. It is my plan to only bless her. It will not be a time for confrontation, for accusation, or to criticize. It will be a time for her to be blessed. It is my hope and my prayer that she may find some peace because of the blessing. It is my hope and prayer that I stay solely focused on her and blessing her - nothing more, nothing less.
My Daughter wants to accompany me. I will take her but she will remain outside to give us time to be alone together for this occasion. Hopefully, it will go well and I can ask her to come in to meet the grandmother she's never met. It's about an hour drive, one way, and VBS starts tonight, so I will have to keep an eye on the clock. I hope we have enough time. I also have ironing to do that I promised would be ready to deliver Monday - I forgot to do it yesterday. Still, I don't want to put this off if I can keep from it. So, hopefully, today is the day I will bless the woman who raised me for 8 years.
At the onset, let me just say, you need to read this one to the end because there's something you need to know that I will withhold until the end of this post. Before I get to that, I had another memory surface this morning... it's not a good one but I'm going to share it anyway, and then I'll tell you why.
I don't remember what age I was other than to say, I was quite young. I think I must have been between 6 and 7 years old... it's possible I could have been 5, but I think I was at least 6.
Ed and Norma Jean (Ed was Norma Jean's husband... yes, that would make him my... dad... as much as it made Norma Jean my... mother) took a trip to Englewood, CO for two events - Ed, being an electronics engineer with so much intelligence that I with my buckets of ignorance would never be able to 'shake a stick at' was very into building and flying model airplanes. He was also in the Air Force. The first event was an all day affair pertaining to his model airplanes, therefore it was outdoors. I had to stay in the car so I would not get, 'dark as a nigger' along with her four precious dogs. After spending all day in the car, I got to wait in the car with the dogs again while Ed and Norma Jean joined someone from his job to attend the stock car races. The time eventually came that I really needed to relieve myself. The dogs, when made to wait too long simply went in the floor board of the back of the car. I felt resentful of their freedom to do so and not get in trouble for it. After a time, I did as the dogs, hoping that she would not be able to tell it was me and blame it on the dogs. It couldn't have been 10 minutes later that she showed up to take me to a gas station so I could use the restroom. She pulled up to a pump and sent me to the ladies room only to burst in minutes later, yelling hysterically about what I had done. She asked if I had done it and I admitted to it. She left and returned with an umbrella, still yelling hysterically. She began beating me with the umbrella, not stopping even when it broke into pieces with sharp metal rods poking out every direction. The gas station attendant burst in telling her that he had called the police. She drug me by my hair and threw me in the car and sped back to the races parking lot.
I don't remember how Ed was on the scene, I mean I don't remember if he was there waiting or if she went after him, but he was there. She told him what I had done and sounded as though she would hyperventilate.
He managed to get her calmed and they were preparing to return to their seats at the races when Norma Jean put her face to the partially opened window, glaring and growling at me, "If you know what's good for you, you will not be here when I get back".
I layed in the back seat and cried for a while. I slept. When I awoke my heart began beating hard, fearing I'd waited too long. I listened to the sounds from the loud speakers and the race cars. I decided that if I was going to leave, I'd better do it soon so I would not be there when she got back. I rolled the windows up more so that I could not get my hand in to unlock the doors once I'd locked myself out of the car, but leaving them open enough so the dogs could get air. Then I walked away.
I had no idea where to go, what to do. I decided to head for the highway, I could see an overpass from the parking lot. It was dark and cars were whizzing by. There were houses along the highway and I decided that I was very hungry and should probably find food before getting up on the highway. I picked a nice looking house and knocked on the door. A grandmotherly looking woman answered and I requested some cookies. She looked around and asked where I'd come from. I told her that I was traveling. She invited me in and sat me on the counter, producing a glass of milk and a plate of cookies. She left me with my snack but returned shortly to keep me talking and offering more cookies while she waited for the police to arrive. Every time I said I needed to get started she would find another way to delay me.
When the police arrived, they questioned me and after hearing my story decided to take me back to the parking lot to locate the car. I was able to take them right to the car, but they could not reopen the doors because I had rolled the windows almost all the way up. One went in and paged for Ed and Norma Jean, but it turned out that the speaker in their area was out and they never heard the page. Therefore, they had to pick me up at the police station.
Once at the station, I was questioned again. As I considered what to say I remembered Norma Jean's strict rule of no lying, so I answered all of their questions honestly. When Ed and Norma Jean arrived, they were questioned together, then separately. I was surprised when Norma Jean seemed to get hysterical with them and even more surprised when it seemed to me that she got her way. I was able to determine that they were discussing sending me somewhere else to live and Norma Jean was against it. We rode home in a very heavy silence.
The next morning, I begged Ed to take me to work with him. He told me that he didn't want to be in my shoes and that he could not take me to work with him. When he returned home that evening he checked in on me. He looked at my two black eyes, my swollen face and body covered in bruises, the dried blood on my scalp from having my hair yanked out by the handfuls and said, "I told you it was going to be a rough day for you." and left my room. She had stayed drunk and passed out most of the day. I said most of the day. Every time she woke up the beatings would start again until she exhausted herself - meaning she couldn't swing her arm any more and told me that if she died of a heart attack, I would go to prison for her murder. Then she would drink herself back to sleep again. I was kept in my room until all my bruises had healed. It took 2 days for me to work up the courage to knock on my door and request permission to use the bathroom. I scooped handfuls of water from the toilet bowl to drink having learned from a previous experience that she checked the bathroom sink and tub for moisture and the towels for dampness in case I used them to dry the sink or tub after getting myself a drink. I don't know how many days passed before she decided I would be allowed to eat again.
Such memories fed my resentment and anger towards her for most of my life... until yesterday. This memory hurts, I would be lying if I said it didn't cause me pain. But I do not feel the resentment and anger along with that pain as I felt before yesterday. God has put something new in my heart. I wonder about her life. What did she endure growing up that molded her into who and what she was? What pain did she carry? What was she hiding deep inside? And is it possible that she seeks relief from that old monster and perhaps, if I am able to bless her, she will finally be free of it?
I don't want to have grandiose expectations of our next encounter. I don't want it to sound as though I am trying to set myself up as her savior. She has a Savior and it's not me! And I must confess to you that it is such a relief to be free of the anger and resentment! The pain, I can live with, the anger and resentment was heavy to bear! Pain is not always a bad thing. Gary Smalley and John Trent stated that C.S. Lewis observed that the only safe place to be free of the pain love can bring is in hell. The memory this many years after such an event is not physically painful. The memory is painful because I loved her and wanted her to love me. But I can forgive her because I recognize that she must have been a tormented woman. Being around 85 now, she must know she is nearing the end of her life. Memories of what ever was done to her, if not healed, most likely still plague her... and possibly memories of what she has done to others most likely burden her.
God is not lacking in compassion regarding my feelings about such memories. He did not request this of me 20 years ago when I first embarked on my journey of healing. He's worked on me and in me to heal me for 20 years before asking me. If this seems very fast to you, from the first posting on this issue until today's, believe me, it has not been fast and easy. Twenty years is a long time to work on one project. He asks me now, because He knows I'm ready now. What you witnessed in my previous postings was Him working to convince me that I am ready. If I'd had the eyes to see, I might have seen this coming when I posted about the white car! But as my wise Daughter told me, if I had seen it coming then, I might have missed the healing I was meant to experience then. I didn't see it coming and I did heal more, as He intended. It is an honor to be asked to be a part of her healing - even if I don't get to witness the results or if the results appear negative. I am just now seeing the results of what He's been doing in my heart for 20 years! How amazing is He! Now, after 20 years of healing, He invites me to return to those old memories with Him... safe by His side, together we walk through so that He may complete what He started in me 20 years ago!
Well, after yesterday's emotionally intense tossing of the waves, I was surprised to crawl in bed last night with a new attitude... a fresh new perspective. I praised and thanked The Father for His great love... awed and amazed at, who am I that He should love me so much? I know that giving His Son, His One and Only Son to die for me is beyond marvelous. Not to sound selfish or to devalue that demonstration of such amazing love in any way, that was not just for me but for the whole world. By that, I know I am loved... but the feel is, from a distance. My question for years was, but did He know me? Did He care about me?
I may have mentioned him in an earlier post, but Dr. Timothy Young in the Dallas area was the catalyst on my long journey to healing. Four one-hour sessions with him equipped me with the necessary tools to continue that journey, not alone, but with The Father! With the help of the Holy Spirit I have come such a very long way and you have just witnessed yet another major step on this amazing journey of mine! I went to bed two nights ago truly believing that I did not love, need or want Norma Jean in my life and awoke the next day struggling with the fact that I do love her. I went to bed last night with the desire to do as The Spirit urges my heart to bless her! This is very personal. This is for me, this blessing of being a blessing to someone - and being called to be so by a truly loving, compassionate, generous, gracious, merciful and personal Father!
I do not know how all of this will play out. But I know in my heart that I must do as He moves me in my heart to do - somehow, I must be a blessing to her. Not to go to her to make her realize, admit or even acknowledge what she did to me, but to go to her to truly bless her. At this point, I have no clue how I will go about it, I only know it needs to be done and that The Spirit has filled me with the desire to do it.
How can I look at all of this and not see how deeply He cares for me! He sees me! He knows me! I am not just a single unit in a giant mass of humanity. I am known and loved... cherished by The Father Who sends His Spirit to remold me to be all that He intended for me when He purposed my birth into Christ!
What an amazing God Who loves us!
I left you hanging in my previous post, partly because I was hanging. I also didn't want to take away from the feeling left from the memory of my favorite Christmas with Norma Jean. It was the first time in more years than I can remember that I have admitted to loving her. As I shared that with my Son-in-law during lunch, again my eyes welled with emotion.
In a flash, that sense of longing was replaced by resentment, anger, frustration over the pain that that woman caused me. Memories of fear, confusion, humiliation, and physical pain resurfaced. Then a vivid memory of me as a trembling little girl, standing before her answering her question as to why I was shaking, "I'm afraid of you." and then hearing her laugh and proclaim, "Good! You're supposed to be afraid of me!" and my anger felt completely justified. My sandwich seemed to lodge in my throat which suddenly seemed two sizes too small.
I have a very small memory that gives me little clue as to when the event occurred, but it lives and resurfaces as though it has full right - an embrace. I suspect the embrace took place sometime after I was an adult because of what I said. She was wearing a red corduroy house robe with 3/4 length sleeves. I laid my head on her shoulder as we embraced and turned my nose into her robe, inhaling deeply. I said, "I recognize you!" She seemed surprised by this proclamation and a little amused, which made me realize I had said it aloud. Feeling the need to explain I said, "Your smell. I recognize that smell from when I was a little girl. You always smelled like that."
Sometime later while shopping for cosmetics, I stumbled across the smell again. Turned out she wore Revlon Face Powder. Does it proclaim an unspoken longing that I now wear Revlon Face Powder? Now, every morning as I put on my make up, I smell that familiar aroma and while I may not allow it consciously, I remember her and have a part of her always with me. Why? Gary Smalley and John Trent would say it is because, even though I am 54 years old, I still long to receive The Blessing from her.
The Blessing, according the Gary Smalley and John Trent, consists of five essential elements:
Meaningful Touch
Spoken Message
Highly Valuing the intended recipient
Providing a word picture of a positive future for the intended recipient
Commitment to the intended recipient to follow through, assuring he or she receives the blessing
It is difficult for me to embrace the notion of blessing her. But I have to be honest... obviously, a part of me longs for what the authors stated at the beginning of chapter 11 to be true. I want that to be our story, NJ's.... Norma Jean's and mine. She's probably around 85 now. I 'googled' her address last night - interestingly, for years when I tried to look up her address on the Internet, I remembered it incorrectly and it confused and frustrated me that I could not locate her house. Twice I've been in the town where she resides and even though I had the street right, the house number was wrong - little matter though as I could not even find the street she lived on! But last night, I suddenly remembered the correct address. I've looked up many addresses on the Internet and have looked at many houses and locations. When the image of her house came up I was stunned to see her standing in her front yard - actually, in her carport, obviously walking toward her front door but looking at the vehicle taking the images. Her image is rather blurry, but I recognized her. I haven't seen her since before the birth of my Daughter, who is now 32, but I recognized her.
Before I leave off to go read more of the book and pray about this... about the possibility of contacting her again, I must also tell you about some other thoughts that have been intermingled with the ones I have shared. I have been this route many times before, all ending in failure. This is the first time I have entertained the notion of trying again, this time with the knowledge that He will never leave me nor will He forsake me. I may feel as though I'm bobbing around in tossing waves - but this is the first time in those waves while wearing a life preserver! Emotions are high and intense, but I feel safe, secure, loved all the same.
I honestly don't know where to begin with this post. Typically, when I write a post, it's almost completely written in my mind before I ever begin typing. I feel compelled to write, the need to write. And, of course, I know the topic... but it's all muddled in my mind.
As I've posted previously, I am currently reading, "The Gift of The Blessing" by Gary Smalley and John Trent, PH.D. Last night, I finished chapter 11 and began chapter 12. The opening of chapter 11 contains, "...At seminars, we have heard countless stories of men and women who went back to a father or mother who hadn't blessed them. They gave that parent the blessing, and saw their life radically transformed. Many were 'deathbed' conversions, where in the last days, weeks, or months of their life, parents not only turned around and gave their children the blessing, but also asked forgiveness from them, and sought salvation from Christ." In the margin, along side this excerpt I wrote, "Oh Lord, Please don't be talking about NJ. Are You talking about NJ?"
"NJ" stands for "Norma Jean", the name of the woman who raised me for 8 years - from the age of 4 to the age of 12, at which point I entered into the state system and was passed from one foster home to the next until at the age of 16 I was sent to live in a church sponsored children's home. I began referring to her as "Norma Jean" as a way of seeking revenge on her - she hated the name, "Norma" and went by "Jean". Over the years, "Norma Jean" was shortened to "NJ"... further disrespecting her, devaluing her, diminishing her to just a set of initials.
There are a select few in my life who are aware of many of the things I suffered at the hands and whims of this woman, primarily family (I found my biological family in the '80's and a couple of my sisters know as well as my ex-husband and grown children) and a few friends. I had someone to go to when something would trigger a memory and I had to cope with another "haunting" of my past. Their response was very compassionate, tender and understanding towards me and they joined me in my 'rebellion' against her. I would not have to explain the meaning of "NJ" to any of them.
After reading chapter 11, I went in shock to my Daughter and her husband - but more to my Daughter. We discussed, at length, my response to my sense that God wants me to bless this woman. It was agreed that I should not react in haste but pray about this revelation. Perhaps my response was the natural response common to anyone reading the book and since both of my biological parents have long since died, the only parental figure I have would be... her. But, what if it truly was a message to me to go to her? I felt confident and secure as I assured my Daughter that I no longer felt the need for a blessing from her. I no longer felt the need to hear her ask for forgiveness. I no longer felt the need to have her approval or acceptance of any part of me or my life. As I went to bed last night, I truly believed those statements to be 100% accurate. I fell asleep praying. I awoke with the feeling of troubled dreams and immediately resumed praying.
As I was preparing for work, different scenarios went through my mind of a potential reunion with this woman - none of which, could I picture with a positive outcome. But something else continued going through my mind this morning as well... memories. Some from my childhood, some from the attempts I made as an adult to have a good relationship with her. The sum of those scenarios and memories concluded with me entertaining the notion that perhaps... somewhere hidden deep inside me, I do want resolution with her. The tears in my eyes as I confess that possibility indicate that the conclusion is accurate.
Today, the onslaught of emotions flow through me. During the pause you were unaware of between the last paragraph and this one, I felt anger. I asked myself, "Why would you want a relationship with a woman guilty of the things she did to you?!" more of an accusation than a question. Earlier this morning the questions were, "What if it could be true, what if it could happen?" Last night my Daughter posed the question, "What if God has been working on her heart as well as on yours?"
I told my Daughter, again because I've told her this before, why I celebrate Christmas the way I do. It's because of... her. Despite all the negative, horrific, things she did that continued to cause me pain way into my adult years, her redeeming quality to me was the way she kept Christmas! She made Christmas wonderful, magical. Christmas meant love to me as I grew up with her. She was an amazing cook and always prepared the traditional feast with all the trimmings and then some. She decorated every room in the house. Our only 'disagreement' over Christmas was her choice of Christmas trees. I wanted a live, traditionally decorated tree. Her favorite tree that she put up year after year was aluminum with blue bulbs, under which she put a color wheel which slowly rotated and turned the tree from yellow to green to blue to red. I would wait for the green to illuminate the tree green and delighted in imagining a traditionally decorated live tree.
My favorite Christmas was one of many we celebrated in Colorado. It was already dark out and she came to my room to tell me to put on my boots. My first struggle was trying to decide whether that meant to fully dress or simply to throw on my robe and put on my boots. Knowing I had to make a quick decision and hoping it would be the right one, I fully dressed then put on my boots. A shiver of fear and concern washed over me, wondering what may be coming. When I walked into the living room, she had on her overcoat and boots and was standing by the front door. She urged me to come along and out we stepped into the cold but glistening night. Without another word we walked down the steps, out the walk and into the street. My heart was beating hard as the questions and concerns flooded my mind. Was she going to take me out somewhere to leave me alone in the night? Was she angry? Was she drunk? Did I do something to make her mad? After we'd walked passed a few houses she did sound angry, "If you're not going to look at the houses we can go back right now!" It seemed as though they appeared at the sound of her words, I truly had not noticed before, but the houses were beautifully decorated with colorful Christmas lights. It felt as though my whole body filled with joy and delight - perhaps because I wasn't in trouble, perhaps because of the Christmas decorations and she wanted to share them with me. But we walked along admiring the decorations, the glistening of the snow and the crunch that it made under our warmly, booted feet. I was so filled to overflowing with love, joy and delight that I overcame my fear to reach over and take her hand. She accepted my hand, looked down at me and smiled and then turned her attention back to the beautiful lights. I think I watched her more than I looked at the lights. We even spied the sky for a sneak glimpse of Rudolph as a plane passed so high overhead, though I strained, I could not hear evidence of it being a plane and she was able to convince me that it truly was the light of Rudolph's nose! Her smile was beautiful, warm, radiant and in that moment, I loved her more than anyone else on earth!
