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!
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.
Remember that sentence handed down to me by a well-meaning elder? Eventually, that drove me to the point that the single’s minister at my new congregation in Dallas insisted that I go in for counseling. When he learned it had been three years since my divorce and that I was still grieving as though it had just happened, he decided counseling was definitely required. So it was that he arranged for me to see Dr. Timothy Young in Dallas. Dr. Young was a young Christian counselor who wore the yuppie look well. As I waited in his office for my first time, taking account of his furnishings and décor, I felt confident that my sessions with him would prove to be as futile as with all the other counselors I’d been sent to by the state as I had been passed from one foster home to another after the court had taken me from the woman who abused me. Cynical? Oh, definitely!
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.
