What Gifts Are You Giving?

      I love to give gifts.  I like the look on a loved one's face when they open a gift and realize I paid attention to something they said months ago.  It's even better when the gift isn't something they told me about, but I found something perfect. 

     I like the shopping process.  Going to the mall and perusing my options.  At times, things jump out at me and I just know.  Other times, it takes more thought.  I have to dig deep and really think about the person I'm shopping for.  But it's always a gift.

    In a "normal" Christmas season, I would have spent a day shopping with my daughter and daughter-in-law.  We'd leave early in the morning and drive down to Delaware.  It's nice to visit a mall that has different stores than we're used to seeing.  Delaware being a state with no sales tax is nice, too, because our money goes  just a little farther.

     We would spend the day shopping. Laughing.  Having fun.  Then I would buy lunch or dinner, and we would head home.  My heart would be full after spending that time with two of my favorite people, shopping for other favorite people.

     We didn't get to do that this year.   One more thing Covid stole this year.  I had to shop online, which I find so impersonal.  I found myself missing the shopping trip.  I missed spending time with "my girls".  I even missed my daughter-in-law teasing me: "we must be going shopping.  Regina's got on those ripped jeans".  So many little things that I took for granted.   As I cried, yes cried, about missing that trip and not being able to properly shop for Christmas presents, I began to think about the gifts we (my husband and I) have given to our children.

     We taught them the importance of hospitality.  Our doors were always open, and everyone was welcome.  I liked people, when they were in my home, to feel like they were at home.  People rooted through the fridge, and answered the door.  There was always a meal for whoever needed one.  Our kids knew our family was different from their friends' and were quick to invite them over.  We didn't know at the time what people were going through, but welcomed them in.

     We taught them the importance of eating together.  We always ate dinner together.  It didn't matter if there were sports or other activities.  Dinner together was a priority.  Phones weren't, and still aren't, allowed at the dinner table.  This made us pay attention to each other.  There definitely was some chaotic times, but what I remember is the laughter and just talking.  Even now, when we do get together for a meal, the kids and I linger at the table long after we've finished eating.  It's about connection.

     We were open with them about financial difficulties.  That doesn't mean we went over our bills and bank statements with them, but we didn't always have money for "extras".  We would have conversations with them, on their age level, about choices we had to make or why we couldn't buy the things their friends had. I think this helped them go into marriage with realistic expectations, not expecting to instantly have everything.

     We taught them that people are people.  Our children were exposed to people from all different cultures and walks of life.  Rich, poor.  White, brown, black.  Physically or mentally abled different from us.  We tried to treat everyone with dignity and respect.  I'll admit this was a challenge when our daughter came out, then started bringing her now wife around.  It was messy.  We could have done better.  Ultimately, I want to love people.  I want them to feel loved.  Period.  I think our kids got this.

     We taught them to be good humans.  We wanted them to know that their actions always impacted others, whether for good or bad.  To always leave people better than they found them.  To offer healing, peace, understanding in the midst of pain, hurt and confusion.  To love people.

     So, while my gift giving looks quite different this year, I know there is one very important gift I've given my kids.  They know I love  them.

     What gifts have you given? What are you going to start giving?

     

Have a Good Cry

      My heart hurts.

     Unbeknownst to me, my heart has silently been mourning all the things this stupid pandemic has cost me this year.  Mother's Day with my mom.  Father's Day with my dad.  My daughter's wedding reception.  My parents' birthdays and their anniversary.  A friend's wedding.  The annual festival in my home town.  My sister's birthday.  And, now, Thanksgiving.

     I've been robbed.  I took for granted the time I got to spend with my family, and now I don't have it.  This pandemic has created a fear of togetherness.  It's isolating.  Generally, I like to be alone, but I didn't expect this to affect me like it has.  I didn't expect it to last so long.

     My kids have lived apart from me for years.  Often in other states.  We've celebrated holidays together and apart before, but it's never felt like this.  We also had the ability to visit with each other whenever we wanted.  Now, I settle for sporadic visits and fleeting minutes in coffee shops and parking lots.  As I drove home from one of those meetings today, hot tears stung my eyes.  Slowly at first.  One hot tear at a time, burning my skin as it rolled down my cheek.

     If you know me, you know I don't cry.  I loathe it. Along with most other expressions of emotion; they make me uncomfortable.  But tears are the worst.  They make me feel weak.  Childish.  Exposed.  It feels like I'm betraying myself, especially when I can't control it.

     The tears came faster.  My heart felt heavy in my chest.  Every beat echoed in my ears like a drum.  Grief washed over me.  We won't get to spend Thanksgiving with our daughter and her wife.  The loss filled me with sadness.  The idea of them being alone, eating sandwiches, made me so sad.  One more thing stolen this year.

     I got home with red, swollen eyes.   My husband was concerned.  My crying makes him as uncomfortable as it makes me.  I assured him that I was just sad.  But as I went through the motions of making dinner, the tears fought to surface.  I thought about how isolated I am.  My autoimmune diseases put me at risk.  Those who love me want to keep me safe.  I get that, but how much longer will we have to be separated?  This is a lot, even for someone who appreciates solitude.  I'm sure as the week goes on, there will be more tears.  It won't just be me.  Our families, our neighbors, are all suffering the same loss.  

     Be kind.

... And I listened

      I've got a fire in my belly.  It's the kind that rises from deep within, when an ember of passion has been fanned. It had been squelched for quite some time, but it never went out.  It was dormant, tucked away for safe keeping, until a safe time to re-emerge.

     When I was in middle and high school, I wanted to be a social worker when I grew up.  I wanted to help people, like I had been helped.  However, somewhere along the way I was talked out of it.  I was told there was no money in it, getting a job would be hard, it would be too much emotionally.

     And I listened.

     I went to a year of college, taking gen-eds, before dropping out to go to Youth With A Mission (YWAM).  My time in YWAM stoked my fire.  During my time there, I was really able to work on myself.  I know that may sound like a cliche, but there was work to be done.  As I worked to reconcile my past experiences and who God was, I seemed to develop a magnetic field around me.  I was a magnet that attracted other abused women and children{it's so strange how we can sniff it out in others!}.  I had many ministry opportunities that allowed me to interact with other broken and abused women and children.  Their stories just poured out of them. 

     And I listened.

     As I have listened to so many stories of hurt, trauma, and victimization one thing has become clear.  We as a church do a really bad job of  helping these women, often to the point of revictimizing them.  We say "everyone welcome", which is true as long as you have it all together and look like us.  We say we want to help but they remain marginalized.  They sit in a corner alone.  You know why?   Because the modern church doesn't handle "messy" well, and messy is where these ladies and children reside.  Working through their "stuff" is a process.  A grimy, smelly, dirty process. 

     I've had periods in my life when I had more interactions with these women and children.  It was some of the most fulfilling times.  I felt a sense of purpose.  The fire burned bright. But then I went through some awful things.  I was revictimized by the church, by a pastor who knew my past and used it against me.  I was shaken to the core.  I began to question my calling, my ability to help, if I was even able to make a difference. 

     I shut down.

     For the past several years I have been in a "ministry desert".  I just didn't feel like I had anything extra to give.  But my magnet continued to pull injured women to me.  I gave what I had, though it didn't seem like enough.

     I listened.

    Over the last month, I have felt that ember fanned to flame.  I feel a passion burning deep in my belly.  I have a stirring that is pushing me forward.  I have to do something.  I just don't know what that looks like yet.  I just know that I, that we the church, need to do better.  It's time to reach out.  It's time our arms pull in rather than push away.    It's time I step out of my comfort zone and back into ministry.  I don't know what that looks like yet.

     But I'm listening.

Can you change a bully?

     There was a bully who lived in my neighborhood during most of my elementary and middle school years.  He was not just mean, he was cruel.  For a long time, I was actually afraid to leave my yard.

     I grew up in what some would consider an idyllic setting.  We had a house in the woods, surrounded by trees and hills.  There was a creek at the end of the lane where we spent most of our days in the summer.
     Our house was just a summer cottage when my parents bought it, as were most of the houses.  Five or six other families lived there year round.  My dad poured a ton of sweat into making that cottage a house we could live in.  He worked third shift at the post office, then he'd come home and work on the house.  What he didn't know, he learned.  He apprenticed anyone who would let him.
   
     When we first moved in there weren't other children my age, so it was a big deal when this family moved in down the lane.  They had a daughter and three sons, one my age and one my younger sister's age.
     This family put a mobile home on a large corner lot, and some time later added another mobile home, creating an "L" shape.  They then built a deck that filled in the space between the two. 

     Dennis was closest to my age, and the third child in his family.  He had a stay-at-home mom and a dad who worked long days.  His mom was nice enough, but his dad was terrifying.  The kids would stay away from the house as much as possible when he was home.  He drank, a lot, when he was home.  Then the yelling would begin.  I could hear it all the way up to my house.  Any minor incident would send him into a rage.  The older two boys were beaten on a regular basis, as was their mom.
     One day, Dennis's dad had an accident at work and he lost his eye.  Eventually, he was fitted with a glass eye.  This wasn't like the modern inventions we have now, the one you can't even tell are fake.  His was a full-on 1970's nightmare.  It was fixed in place, and totally resembled a marble.  I was both frightened and fascinated at the same time.
     After his accident, Dennis's dad became even angrier.  Ultimately, he had an affair and abandoned his family.

     Dennis was mean to me almost from the beginning.  He had found someone weaker than him.  Walking to and from the bus stop was torture!  We lived on a dirt road that was covered in gravel every summer.  All the way up the lane he pelted my feet and legs with stones while he yelled "dance".  I would pray for the bus to be there so I wouldn't have to wait with him.  Coming home was no better.  At one point, I remember the bus driver giving me a head start before he let Dennis off the bus.  I would run as fast as I could down that dirt road, praying that I wouldn't fall. (Don't get me started about how the bus driver handled this!)
     My younger sister was a scrapper.  She had brute strength and wasn't afraid of anything.  I remember a time when Dennis had been threatening to beat me up.  I was supposed to meet him behind the fire hall.  I was filled with dread.  I knew for sure I was dead meat.  When it was time for the fight, my sister stepped in.  She beat the daylights out of him!  He got in a few punches, but she won in the end, loudly demanding that he leave me alone.
     She bought my peace.

     There was a brief time between adolescence and puberty when we had a love/hate relationship.  We'd get along for a bit, but then he'd show up at my house with a sledgehammer, demanding I smash something with it (usually a frog), or he would smash my foot.  I don't remember ever smashing something myself, but I saw him do it plenty of times.  It was enough to keep me in fear of him.
     My parents didn't like me hanging around with him.  They had that parental spidey sense, the desire to protect their child.  They didn't know what he'd done to me in the past-- I never told them-- but they were determined to protect me in the future.

     Once we reached puberty the general taunting ended.  My body developed early, and soon both Dennis and his older brother were sniffing around.  I knew enough to stay away from his brother, but Dennis and I had a few make-out sessions, but nothing sexual.  My  boundaries were murky.  Mom and dad taught me to save my body for marriage, to not let men take advantage of me.  This contradicted with my early childhood experiences.  Grown men had already taken advantage of me.  It was all too confusing.  

     Ultimately, Dennis sexually assaulted me.  Twice.  I didn't tell anyone.

     I write these experiences all to get here:  how different would Dennis's life had been if another adult had intervened?  Would he have been a kinder, gentler, non-abusive person if he had received tenderness, acceptance and unconditional love?  I believe so.  I'm not excusing his behavior.  Not by any means.  But, now as an adult looking back, I can feel empathy for him.  

     How different would our world be if we all did what we can to bring healing?  What if we stopped turning a blind eye to abuse and neglect?  What if we saw beyond a persona, beyond their living situation, beyond the clothes they wear or if they're bathed?  What would happen if we all reached into those people's hearts?  That's what Jesus would do.  

     I want to be more like that.   

   

Mere Christianity

     I grew up in the church.  Well, from five-years-old on up.  I loved hearing Bible stories of how people in the church took care of each other.  The stories of Jesus ministering to people, where they were, were some of my favorites.

     As I got older, Sunday School lessons revolved around "being like Jesus";  we were to treat people with kindness, feed the poor, take care of the needy, visit the shut-ins. But I was also taught to "be of the world, but not like it".  People who weren't Christians were supposed to look at me and know that I was different, that I had something they didn't have.  It was supposed to make them want what I had.

     But where was the ministry? Who were we reaching out to?  It was the same group of people attending each week.  The same group of people attending weekly Bible studies and home groups.  Occasionally new people came.  For the most part, they appeared to already be Christians.  It was a homogenous group.

     I was a wounded child.  I had deep injuries from physical, sexual and emotional abuse.  I didn't feel like my church was a safe place to share that information, so I kept quiet.  But I loved going to church!  Jesus met me there.  He held me there.  He kept me close.  When I left church, I felt good.  As a child, I didn't know how to explain what I experienced.  Sometimes, I still struggle to explain my relationship with Jesus.  To me it sounds like the simplest thing, yet it sounds so trite (or so I think) when I hear the words come out of my mouth.

     When I was in Youth With a Mission, that was the first time that I felt like I was actually ministering to the world.  I felt like I was fulfilling my Sunday School command to be like Jesus.  Travelling to third world countries and inner-city areas in America exposed me to people, to opportunities very new to me.  My heart began to understand what it meant to serve the weak, bind up the brokenhearted and give what I had to the poor.

     It's interesting how all along the way I attracted women and children with experiences similar to mine.  There seemed to be a radar on me.  I admit, I was not far enough along in my own healing to really help.  But I was an ear, a shoulder, a beating heart who understood what they experienced.

     After my husband and I got married, we moved several times and attended a variety of churches.  Each of the pastors preached the same sermons of my childhood, but it seemed like the caring aspect of the church, the part that allows for healing, had not progressed.  It was still "churched" and "unchurched".  Often, old-school church vs. new Christians and wounded people.  There was no allowance for the messiness that comes along with people being real, the people who are struggling to heal from things no one wants to talk about.  I've heard so many stories along the way of injured people being further injured by the Church.  

     It hurts my heart.

     This past week has been a hard one for me as I've listened to people's stories.  I am glad to do it.  I understand what it feels like to have no one understand what you've been through.  But this week I heard things that both broke my heart and stirred an anger in my soul.  I listened to the story of woman who endured gut-wrenching abuse throughout her childhood and teen years.  She felt like it made her dirty, that her secret diminished her worth.  When she told me how the behavior, the judgments, of prominent leaders in the church reinforced her feelings of not being worthy of God's love, I broke into tears.  She told me she felt like if they couldn't accept her, let alone help her, then how could God? 

     I hear stories like this over and over again.  The broken, abandoned and marginalized seek solace, some semblance of comfort from we the church, and we turn them away.  Yes, we.  I am including myself.  I don't always respond the right way, and I've been through crap.  You'd think I, of all people, would understand.  But I struggle with messiness.  I like things tied up in neat little boxes.  Emotion is hard for me.  I don't like to show it.  It's equally hard for me to see it.  Yet that is what we are called to, those  are the very people who need  us, who need the touch of Jesus.  

     So that brings me to this:  when do we actually start being like Jesus instead of just talking about it?  When will we see our pews, chairs, auditoriums filled with people who aren't "members", but rather people who heard Jesus would be there so they showed up seeking an encounter with him?  When will women enduring domestic violence, or women whose husbands are molesting their children, feel safe enough to share that with their pastor and not feel shamed for needing out?  When will pastors stop demanding proof of the abuse before they show compassion?  When will those of us who suffered sexual abuse as children feel like it's a safe place to start unpacking all those boxes we have created deep inside in order to help us cope?  

     How would Jesus actually respond?

     The Jesus that I know, would weep at what He saw.  He never intended the church to be for the whole or those who have it all together.  Those He chose to follow him certainly weren't.  They were messy, unruly and decidedly un-Churchlike.  He would cradle those abused children, holding them to his heart.  I see him embracing those who fear that what's happened to them also defines them.  I think he'd be marching in the streets, fighting for those who just can't do it anymore.

     I see Him smiling, eyes warm, his arms open and welcoming.   Can you see him? 

     I've been convicted these past few days to love more.  If you know me, you've probably heard me say "I hate people".   It's a coping mechanism.  I actually love people, I just don't know how to deal with them.  But I'm convicted.  Jesus never would have said that he hated people.  If I'm to be like Jesus, I need to make some changes in my own thinking and behavior.

     How about you?

** I encourage you to check out these songs on Youtube or Spotify.  They stir my soul every time I hear them.

     "My Jesus", Todd Agnew

     "Truth be told", Mathew West

     "Preach", John

     

     

Cooking: Nature vs. Nurture

     For as long as I can remember, I have loved to be in the kitchen.  When I was in 1st grade, we lived in an old farmhouse that had an enormous kitchen.  I loved poached eggs, and I would often help my mom make them.  We had this nifty little insert that fit inside a saucepan, over boiling water.  The eggs went in the depressions in the insert.  You put on the lid and minutes later, perfectly poached eggs in the shape of little bowls.  I had watched my mom do it so many times that I was able to convince her to let me do it on my own. I put the insert in the pan.  I cracked the eggs into the openings.  I put on the lid and set the timer.  But when we took the lid off, they looked like they had spikes.  They wouldn't come out of the holder.  They smelled bad, almost burnt.
     "Did you follow all the steps", my mom asked.  I was sure that I had.
She removed the insert.  The bottom pan was dry.  Not one drop of water.  I had forgotten the water!  I destroyed the pan and ruined my breakfast, but it didn't keep me from trying to cook.

     My mom had shorthand for measurements in her recipes; tsp (small t) meant teaspoon, TBSP (capital T) for tablespoon.  I was pretty sure I knew the code.  I had been working side-by-side with my mom.  She taught me how to measure properly, making sure to level the tops of the measuring cups and spoons.
     When I was in 2nd grade, I persuaded her to let me make cookies by myself.  I wanted to make ginger snaps.  I pulled the recipe card and gathered all my ingredients.  I creamed the crisco and sugar until it was fluffy. I added the eggs, then the spices and flour.  My dough was beautiful!  I scooped it out onto the cookie sheets and baked them.
     I took the cookies out.  They smelled so good!  I put them on napkins and took them to my mom and dad.  My dad took a bite.  He said they were a little spicier than usual.  My mom took a bite.  Her face said it all!  I had dome something wrong.  She asked to see the recipe.  We went through each ingredient, with me telling her the measurement.  Then it happened.
     1 tsp ginger was written on the recipe card.  One tablespoon of ginger is what I said.  It looked like a capital T to me.  It was a teaching moment and I didn't give up.

     By the time I was in 4th grade I was making dinner for our family.  Not every night, but I cooked a lot.  I loved being in the kitchen.  The creating, not the cleaning.  But any mess I made was mine to clean up.  It was the rule.  I learned to clean up as I went.  That made it easier.
     My mom was a basic meat & potatoes and casserole cook.  She cooked out of the necessity of feeding her family.  She didn't like it.  She loved to work in the yard.  That was her happy place.  I would often get out of yard work by offering to cook dinner.  It was a win-win.  My dad liked when I cooked because I would try new things.  As long as I had a recipe, I had no limits.
      I have never had fear in cooking.  There have been times when the food didn't come out right.  I just took a breath and tried another time.

     Cooking and baking has become very therapeutic for me.  I describe it as being "mindless".  I'm able to immerse myself in thought while my hands go through the motions of creating. It's where I do some of my best processing, actually.  Kneading dough.  Mixing spices. Building my mis en place.  There's a safety, a security there.
     When I was raising my children, they wanted to be in the kitchen.  I was too much of a control freak to let them do much.  I taught them the basics of measuring and following recipes.  But I did all the cooking, because I liked it. 
     We ate as a family every night, which was how both my husband and I were raised.  I didn't realize how few of our kids' friends had that experience.  Our kids loved to have their friends over for dinner.  It kind of became my love language, feeding people.

     My daughter liked to cook, but she moved out when she was 17.  Most of her cooking refinement occurred when she didn't live with me.  She wanted my recipes but wondered why they didn't taste like when I made them.  I chalked it up to experience since I didn't have a better answer.
     My son and his friends had some serious cooking sessions.  They liked to experiment, to just see what would happen.  They made messes and had mishaps, but it didn't deter them.
     When my son was in high school, he got a job in a bakery.  He, too, found solace in dough.  His bread was perfection!  No holes and beautiful texture.

     After high school, my son went to pastry school.  My heart swelled with pride!  It was as if he was fulfilling my dream.  He brought home delicious desserts every night.  I was amazed at the delicate sugar and gum paste flowers he made with his big man hands.
     Then he attended the Culinary Institute of America.  Again, my heart swelled with pride.  He had found his niche, and it made him so happy.  When he'd come home to visit, my friends were amazed that I cooked for him instead of him showing us what he'd learned.  He wanted mom's cooking.  Sometimes things didn't go quite right, but he never criticized my cooking.  If I asked questions, he would offer advice, but he never bought into it when people tried to get him to talk about my negatively.
     My son is no longer in the food industry which, I'll admit, broke my heart a little bit.  But seeing him happy in his profession as a mason brings me peace.  His friends still love for him to cook for them, and so does his wife.
     My daughter works in a grocery store as a cooking coach.  She teaches people cooking techniques She can follow a recipe like nobody's business and has a great knack for putting flavors together. Feeding people is also her love language outside of work.

     My children have both surpassed me in their cooking ability.  It's a source of joy for me.  But are they good cooks because I taught them?  Am I a good cook because my mother taught me?  Or is it innate?  Did it flower just because we used it?  I believe that pretty much anyone can be taught to follow a recipe, but it will taste completely differently when it's made with heart.

My Path to Youth With A Mission (YWAM)

    I started going to church when I went into foster care.  I remember always feeling at peace there.  I couldn't explain it then, I just knew I loved to go.  That continued throughout my elementary and middle school years.  My friends were at church.  My sense of family came from church.  One time, my mom asked my why I liked going to church.  My answer?  It made me feel good.  To her, that was the wrong answer,  To me, it was the only answer.  You see, somewhere along the way, I met Jesus. He drew me to church.  He kept luring me back.

     When I was in ninth grade, our church split.  I didn't fully understand what happened. I just knew I lost my friends.  I lost many of the feelings I associated with church.  My safety. My comfort.  My peace.  But I still had Him.

     During my high school years we attended a small, non-denominational church.  I made new friends. None enduring like from my childhood, but I was accepted.  If the doors were open, we were there.  I loved going to the youth group and being with my friends, but by my senior year I had drifted away from Him.
     When I graduated I got a job in a grocery store where I was able to work on Sundays.  That was an acceptable, though not thrilling, excuse for my parents. 

     When summer ended, I started college.  I continued working at the grocery store.  God kept speaking, but I was becoming immune to His voice.  I no longer felt the weight of what was happening. I went to church and youth group when I didn't have to work, but I was essentially going through the motions.
     Our pastor was young and very outreach oriented.  He was always trying to keep the youth engaged.  One of those ideas was to invite  a group of young missionaries to visit  our church for a weekend.  Of course, my parents hosted two members of the team.
     It was like torture for me!  They exuded Christ.   I was rude to them.  They were kind to me.  I couldn't wait for it all to be over.
   
     Sunday morning finally rolled around.  I sat in the back rows with the rest of the youth group.  I had already decided nothing was going to stir me.  I sat there, arms firmly folded across my chest.  We talked and passed notes, not paying attention to the service.
     A huge ministry tool of YWAM is skits and drama.  They grabbed attention and shared simple truths.  I remember music and movement.  At one point, they were portraying the crucifixion.  My eyes were drawn to the stage.

     "You did that."  The voice was clear as day. I looked around.  No one else seemed to have heard it.

     "You did that",  He said, as the nails were driven into the actor's hands.

     I began to argue.  I wasn't even there.  How was I responsible?  I was a good person.  What about the person who molested me, or the father who abused me.  Why wasn't it their fault?

     "Even if you were the only one left on the planet, He still would have died for you."

     Those words pierced my heart.  Tears streamed down my cheeks.  I knew He was right.  That's who He is, regardless of who I was.
     I don't remember the wording of the altar call, but I do remember being propelled forward.  I felt as if someone was pushing me from behind.  I felt a hand on my back, but no one was there.

     "Come", He said.   I practically floated down the aisle.  The two girls who stayed at our house, the ones I had treated so poorly, prayed for me.  They hugged me tight!  I felt a closeness to God that I hadn't felt in quite some time.  I decided then and there that I wanted to be a part of this ministry.
     My pastor drove me from Ligonier to Titusville, Pa, to see the base and get more information .  I was hooked!  I needed to be part of it,  However, I  was in my spring term at college and needed to follow through with that commitment.  So I applied for the group starting in September, six months away.
     The school semester ended but I still hadn't received my acceptance into the program.  My pastor called their office.  No one seemed to know what was happening with my application.  I began to feel like they didn't want me.  Like God didn't want me.

      I was still working at the grocery store, but I also added a job in direct sales.  My powers of persuasion weren't great.  Selling wasn't my thing.  I was shy and insecure.  However, that job introduced me to a whole new realm of friends.  Drinking friends.  Buddies, if you will.
     Our sales meetings were on Wednesday nights.  Again, work, so I got out of church.  These "sales meetings" were just a reason to get together and drink ourselves into oblivion.  After which I would drive home.

      I was still praying, journaling, believing in Him.  I just didn't feel the connection with church anymore.  My new crowd was this work crew.  I may have been putting distance between the church and me, but He hadn't given up.
     God began to speak to me, audibly, in my car during the 30-minute drive home from those meetings.  Now, I know a lot of people don't believe God speaks audibly anymore.  And why would he choose to talk to a drunk girl driving on the highway?  I don't want to argue with you.  I'm just telling you my experience.
   
     I clearly remember the first time it happened.  I was rounding the curve near a dam, in the pitch dark, in the middle of the night.

       "Regina."

     I actually looked in the back seat, expecting one of my friends to be hiding back there.  No one.  That sobered me up pretty fast.  This became a weekly occurrence.  I'd get in my car to drive home and I'd hear it.

     "Regina".

     I began turning up my radio really loud, trying to drown out His voice.  It never worked.  He spoke my name so clearly.  So softly.

     I partied that whole summer, making one bad decision after another.  I put myself in situations that could have ended really badly, but He protected me.  Even when I felt like He didn't want me, He was there.
     I finally received my acceptance into YWAM in August, five weeks before the program started.  I was elated!  He did want me!  Then reality set in.  I suddenly felt very dirty.  Unworthy.

     "Come."  It was that familiar voice.  So calming, so reassuring.

     Those next few weeks flew by as I tied up loose ends and prepared to go.  Finally the day came when I was to move in.  My parents drove me the four hours to my new home.  They hadn't seen the base before.  I think they were expecting a more traditional setting.  Instead, there was an office building, another for meals and classes, and four run-down mobile homes.  Later, my mom told me how she cried on the way back home because she felt so bad leaving me there.
   
     I finally felt at home.

He Didn't Destroy Me

     I grew up in the church.  It wasn't part of my life with my biological family, but I loved it from the time I moved in with my foster/adoptive family.  I didn't understand it then, but I felt safe at church.  I just knew there was something different there.

     My parents were committed leaders. My dad was the worship leader and served on the church board for most of my formative years.  My mom was a Sunday school teacher.  She served in the nursery, taught some of the girl's groups and also cleaned the church.  We hosted weekly Bible study groups at our house.  Basically, if the church doors were open, we were there.  If there was a reason to meet up with others from the church, we were in.
     Those we some of the happiest times of my life.  Sure, there were some sad times.  When a beloved youth pastor and his wife moved away, I was devastated.  When the church split and we didn't go there anymore, I lost contact with friends.  But I formed new friendships at the next church, which lessened the blow.
     Church represented continuity for me.  The location, congregation might be different but my feeling of safety remained.  My soul was soothed.  It truly was a refuge for me.  None of my abuse, damage, brokenness mattered there.

     I hit a rough spot with church when I was in high school that lasted through the summer after graduation.  I was still in a relationship with Jesus.  We still talked-- all the time.  But I no longer felt like the church "fit", if you will.
     Fortunately a group from Youth With A Mission (YWAM) visited our church for a weekend.  I'll go into all the details about that in another post.  But I will say that that weekend was life-altering for me.  I finished out my first year of college, then went into full-time ministry with YWAM for the next 3 years.
     During those years I grew to understand why church had been so comforting for me-- I had experienced God.  I totally immersed myself in getting to know God, to really hear him and recognize his voice.  I begin to deal with my pain from the abuse and trauma in my early childhood.  Bit by bit, I was becoming healthy.  Whole.

     When I married my husband, we quickly rooted our little family in the local church.  And, like our parents, jumped in with both feet.  We taught boy's and girl's groups.  We attended Bible studies at other's homes, and hosted our own.
     My husband's job changed often during our early years of marriage, but we always found a church quickly.  It provided comfort and community, as well as allow us to continue to grow in our relationship with God.
     Naturally, when we had kids we wanted them to have the same church experience we did as children.  As toddlers they loved it.

     My husband's job took us out of state for a bit.  When we moved back here to Pennsylvania, finding a church was suddenly difficult.  We had never experienced that before!   He'd like one, I'd like another.  We visited a church where not one person spoke to us, and another on the same day the pastor resigned.  When we finally visited the church that would be our home for the next 10 years, we were ripe for the picking.  However, our experiences on that first visit were vastly different.  He felt like he was finally home.  I felt like my spidey sense had been activated.  I watched from the sidelines, for a year, as my husband became involved and our children made friends.  I watched until they wore me down.  I overrode my gut instincts and jumped right in.

     During the first 7 years, we were honeymooners.  Our lives revolved around the church, to the point that we sacrificed relationships with our own families.  We were given subtle suggestions that all our friends should be from our church.
     We joined teams.  We led groups.  We hosted Bible studies in our home.  I became the pastor's administrative assistant.  We enjoyed a favor that stirred jealousy in people who were working so hard for it.  We became part of the pastor's family.  They helped us through some really tough times in our life, and we opened up to them.  Me, especially.  I told them all about my trauma and abuse.  I showed them the broken pieces of me that I was trying so desperately to hold together.

     All the while, we were being manipulated.  Coaxed to behave a certain way.  Groomed.  They knew all my secrets, so they knew just what buttons to push.

     The pastor was a narcissistic control freak.  He would joke that he could "punish people without them even knowing it".  At some point that became directed at us, especially me.  But in my blind trust, I didn't see it until it was far too late.  Even when he made inappropriate sexual advances towards me, TWICE, I dismissed it as being in my head.  When my daughter was being punished as a way to control me, I dismissed it as she was being overly sensitive.  When my husband started to feel like something was incredibly wrong going on, I still refused to see it.  I had overridden my gut instinct years before; now I didn't trust it anymore.  They had broken me.

     But it would become much worse.

     One of the greatest offenses one could do at that church was to ask "why" about anything.  Blind obedience was demanded.  Anyone who questioned was quickly discounted and driven out.  His tag line was "if this isn't the church for you, we're happy for you to find another one".
     Well, I committed that greatest sin.  I dared to question.  I dared to compare one of my character issues with his.  They decided I needed to go.  They launched an all-out character assassination of me.  They froze us out.  Shunned, if you will.  We lost friends, but it was so much worse for our kids.  They didn't know why any of it was happening, and I didn't know how to explain.
     By the time we left there, I was broken.  I spent the next year in mourning.  I cried every single day.  My body just shut down.  I developed complex PTSD.  I watched my children fall away from the church because of what we'd all been through.

     I clung to God for my very existence.  We found another church, a place that gave us the space to begin to heal.  You see, a man hurt us, not the church.  A man attacked us, not God.  If there is one thing I know about God, it's that He has to be better than any man.

     It's been almost 10 years since we escaped what I now have come to understand was a cult.  It's been a rough road dealing with all that damage.  Unpacking those boxes, all the little compartments I had to stuff those memories into just to survive, is both freeing and terrifying.  I'm definitely not the person I was then, but my relationship with the church has not changed.  Mainly because it's not based on man.
   
     God has not changed. That gives me hope.  That gives me strength.




   

What's Your Versatility?

     Today's writing prompt asked what is most versatile about me.  Hands down, the answer is my hair.  The color changes one a pretty regular basis, between reds, blondes and pastels.  I used to think the cuts changed a lot, too, but as I look through pictures, it appears that I cycle through the same  three or four.  It never goes longer than a chin-length bob, but shorter is better for me.

 
   I was born bald, and they say I didn't really grow hair until I was two.  Even then it was wispy, blonde cotton.  It tangled easily, and I often woke in the mornings with what my mom called a bird's nest in the back.  As a result, it was kept pretty short when I was young.
     My hair was white blonde until I got into high school.  Hormones.  It slowly turned into that dishwater blonde that no one really likes or chooses. Still, it was blonde.  There is a certain amount of attention that blonde hair attracts.  That is both a positive and a negative.  It's particularly hard for a shy child.

     After I got married, I went to cosmetology school.  It was a great place to learn, experiment and be inspired.  Yet, I clung to my blonde hair.  So many women were paying me money to get what I had naturally. However, my blonde continued to darken.  When I finally added blonde highlights, I felt reborn.  And I was hooked.  I stayed blonde and I continued to lighten it more and more until it was platinum.  It stayed that way for years.

     The first time I changed to red was completely by accident.  All it takes is a few drops of red dye left in a color bottle to make a real mess of porous, white hair.  It was an adjustment, but when I looked in the mirror, I felt "natural".  My biological aunt and uncle have red hair.  When I looked at me, I saw them looking back.

    That first time that I colored my hair red, I felt like a different person.  It felt like I stepped into a new life.  My make-up was different.  My clothes changed.  People responded to me differently.  I felt like I was more able to "blend in".  For years I was content to be red during the fall & winter, then be blonde for the spring & summer.
   When I discovered fashion colors - neons, pastels, silvers and brights- my world changed.  I was able to express myself, my creativity, through my hair.  I no longer felt the need to conform to what had so long been expected of me.  I didn't choose these colors to attract attention, as some believe.  I just felt like I was finally able to show who I really was.

     Over the past couple years it has become increasingly more difficult for me to return to blonde.  I've come to realize through a lot of therapy, that I associate all the bad things that happened in my life (child abuse, molestation, sexual assault) with being blonde.  That makes it hard for me to want to go there.  However, being blonde also feels the most comfortable, the most like home.  It turns out that the versatility of my hair, it's chameleon-like adaptation, has been a source of healing for me.  It allows me to work through painful events without looking it in the face every time I look into the mirror.
    I'm platinum right now.  Of course, it's summer so that makes sense.  But I'm content to be this way.

   
   
    That's my versatility.  What's yours?

Breathing Emotions

     I don't deal well with emotions.  Not mine, not others.  And especially not external displays.  As a small child, I learned that crying made things worse.  Laughter and happiness also seemed to have the same negative effect with my father.  He considered it all to be "noise".
     When I went into foster care, even as a 5 year old, I felt like I needed to be strong.  I didn't want anyone to be upset with me.  I didn't want to give anyone a reason to hurt me (this was due to my earlier experiences, not because I was being harmed in my new home).  I became silent, invisible.  Emotions attracted attention.  I didn't want that.
     By the time I was in middle school I had learned to stuff my emotions.  I pushed them so far down, all in an attempt to avoid feeling them.  After all, if everything looked ok on the outside, then it must be, right?
     The older I got, the more determined I became to hide my emotions.  All of them, but especially fear, anger, uncertainty.  I grew to associate these with weakness, and I was anything but that.  I became stoic, leading people to think I didn't care, which was so untrue.  But it was my wall, my protective reflex.
     All of this stuffing of my emotions, however, seemed to heighten my ability to read other people's emotions.  This skill allowed me time to read the situation and prepare accordingly, either to physically or psychologically escape before they emoted.
     As I have worked through the maze that is my life's story, I have gradually learned to add emotions back into my life.  Mostly the "safe ones". Happiness.  Joy.  A semblance of peace.  Sadness.  But, rarely, do I cry.  That is my last piece of strength.  I cry so infrequently that it freaks my husband and kids out when I do.  They flip into a mix of discomfort and concern.  See, the problem with not dealing with your emotions means other people don't know how to deal with your emotions.  People want to share the burden, the joy, the emotion.

     Fast-forward to yesterday.  My husband was out working in the garden.  I bathed, then I put a load of laundry in to wash.  I changed the bed.  As I was pulling up the comforter, I felt my chest seize.  I couldn't breathe.  I began to panic!  I leaned on the bed, gasping for breath.  Every inhale seared through my lungs.

     "I have covid", I thought.

     I made my way through the house and across the yard.  By the time I reached the garden, my chest was on fire.  Tears were trickling down my cheeks.  My husband saw my tears and was instantly on alert.  When I said I couldn't breathe, he flew down the hill and got me back into the house.  After a quick call to my doctor, we headed to the emergency room.
     The hospital is less than 10 minutes from my house, but each minute seemed to make it even harder for me to breathe.  I tried all the coping skills I knew, trying to steady my breaths and stop the pain.  Nothing worked.  By the time we pulled in, tears were freely streaming down my cheeks.  I wasn't even going to try to hold them back.
     My husband ran to the make-shift intake station to tell them what was happening.  The lady took one look at me and quickly appeared with a wheelchair.  I heard my husband tell me they weren't going to let him go in with me.  It made me full out cry which made it even harder to breathe, especially with a mask on.
     In that moment of fear, not knowing if I was going to live or die, emotional control went out the window. I sat in that room all alone, crying as I struggled to breathe.

     A flurry of nurses came into my room, each one wearing multiple layers of gloves, plus masks and gowns.  Blood was drawn.  A chest x-ray was taken.  Telling me to "take a deep breath and hold it" seemed like a cruel joke.  Next came the covid test.  The nurse pushed the swab so far up my nose that I kept wondering if it would come out my tear duct.

     Again, they left me alone in my fear.

     As I waited for the next steps, I texted my kids.  I needed them to hear from me, just in case.  I fought to put that out of my mind.  It upset me, making it too hard to catch my breath,  As I sat there in the solitude, I could hear the man in the room next to me.  He was upset because his caregiver hadn't been allowed to come back with him.  He just didn't understand what was happening.  I could also hear the nurses describing certain rooms as "air borne".  It made me sad to think what they were going through, in their rooms all alone.
     Eventually I was given a breathing treatment.  The nurse said it should work in about  minutes.  Well, my body doesn't do anything "typical", so it was an hour til I started feeling relief.  I was released with an inhaler, being treated for viral bronchitis.  I later learned the covid test was negative.
     After a long day, both physically and emotionally, my breathing eased.  The pain remained in my chest, caused by the exertion of my gasping and coughing.  It serves as a metaphor for my emotions.  Working through an incident doesn't take the pain away.  Knowing what caused an emotional response allows me to learn more about myself.  Showing an emotion allows me to learn about both myself and others who care for me.  While it makes me uncomfortable, is it really fair for me to have others shut down their own emotions or not allow them to share in mine? 
   
     I don't think so.
   

What If This Is the End

     I was raised in a Pentecostal, Assembly of God church.  Pastors preached fire and brimstone, and it felt like I needed to be more afraid of going to hell than of loving God.  Traveling evangelists would visit the church and hold special meetings, each one proclaiming we were living in "the end times" and that the "rapture" was near.  Although I knew I was a Christian and that Jesus "lived in my heart", I went to bed fearful most nights.

     I remember there was a movie making it's rounds through the churches.  It was called Thief in the Night.  It basically told the story of people who didn't choose to follow God and the horrible things they endured after the Rapture (when God calls the Christians to Heaven).  It was a Bible-based movie straight out of Revelation but, again, focused on fear rather than love.  It haunted me for years!  Again, I knew I was a Christian but I still felt like I needed to ask Christ into my heart almost daily.  If I awoke during the night and the house was silent, I would panic.  I would listen to hear my dad snoring.  He was the best Christian I knew, so God wouldn't leave him behind.  His snoring was a comfort to me.

     As I matured in my walk with God, I learned His focus is on having a relationship with me.  He wants to love me, not punish me.  Don't get me wrong.  I still believe in sin, and the punishment of sin.  I still believe there will be a rapturing of those in relationship with Him.  I believe there will be a time of tribulation as outlined in Revelation, and that this will provide yet another opportunity for people to turn to God.

     I believe that time is near.

     The Bible talks about wars and rumors of wars; our world is flooded with that right now.  It talks about the seasons being confused, and floods, famine and pestilence.  Today we're dealing with global warming, food shortages and murder hornets.  The Bible says that man will rise against man-- this has never been truer than today (but I'll save that for another post).

     I think because I grew up in such fear of the end times that I neglected to talk to my kids about it.  I think I assumed that they just "knew".  After all we went to church whenever the doors were open.  We attended a Bible-based church, so I just assumed they understood.  I did them a great disservice.   My greatest fear as we speed along this trajectory is not for myself.  I no longer doubt where I will spend eternity.  It's for my kids, my extended family, my friends.  Have I presented them with all the information they need s they can make an informed choice?  Have I been the example they needed to see?  Will they be drawn to God because of the relationship they see I have with Him?  That is my burden.

     So, as all this craziness unfolds in our world I urge you to check your heart.  Is it right with Him?  Talk to your loved ones.  What is their relationship with God like? Speak to your friends and extended family.  Spread the word.  If you believe the Gospel is good news, share it!  To you I may sound like those old evangelists, and maybe there's still time.

     But what if there isn't?

My Adoption Heartbreak

     I wanted to adopt children for as long as I can remember.  Maybe it's because I'm adopted.  I wanted to give kids in bad situations a safe home.  I understood where they were coming from and wanted to help.  I thought about it often and made many plans in my mind.  I also wanted to be a social worker to help even more children.
     When my husband and I were dating, I told him of my desire to adopt.  Fortunately, he was on board.  I wouldn't have married someone without the same vision.  After we married, it took a back burner as we started our family.  We agreed that we wanted our biological children to be older than those we adopted.  We also didn't want babies.  With that timeline in mind, I was content to wait.
   
     When our children were 13 and 16, we started the process of becoming foster parents.  To be clear, we never wanted to foster.  We wanted straight up adoption; kids whose parents had already had their rights terminated.
     We went to all the classes and we got our clearances.  We had all the home inspections.  We began working with a social worker to find the children who would best fit in our home.  My heart was full!  My life-long dream was coming true.

     On July 15, 2008 we met Krista and Carlie, who were 10 and 7.  They were beautiful girls who looked like they were our own children.  They had been living in another foster home.  This was the third time they had been removed from their biological family.  They had been out of their home for a year.  It looked like a smooth adoption process was ahead.
     As with any transition, there was some bumps.  Krista had been treated as an adult by both her mother and previous foster mom.  She had difficulty just being a kid.   She also had nightmares, so she fought sleeping.   Due to previous issues, we were told the girls could not share a bedroom.  Our 16 year old daughter gladly gave up her own room to share one with Krista.  Carlie just wanted to feel safe.  At seven, she had already experienced things most adults haven't. Yet she was the most loving, lovable little girl.  She made friends quickly and laughed easily.
     We continued to have home visits.  We also had to take the girls to supervised visits with their parents every week.  There were some behavior issues leading up to and following  these visits, but I expected that.

     Our children did a remarkable job of accepting Krista and Carlie into our family.  As my oldest sister did when I was a foster child, Ellysa doted on them and treated them like little dolls.  She played games with them and helped with homework.  Ben was a proud big brother. He loved the girls and even shared his most-prized possession, his gaming system, with them.  I am beyond proud of how open-hearted they both were.  Adoption had always been my dream, but they fully bought into it.
   
     Then the system failed us.

     At parental visits the girls were being told by their mother that they were going home.  This thrilled Krista.  It terrified Carlie.
     Our case worker tried to reassure us.  Everything was on our side.  But it wasn't.  The parents' rights still had not been terminated.  There started to be rumblings that they were actually trying to get the girls, and two other siblings, back.

     My dream was falling apart.

     In February 2009 we attended a hearing to determine if the parents could have the girls back.  It was the longest, most gut-wrenching hours of my life.  We listened as the previous foster mom made the parents looks like nurturing, functioning parents instead of the jobless addicts that they were.  We listened as their lawyer attempted to malign my character.  We listened as their lawyer questioned the therapist we'd been taking the girls to see, implying that seeing a private therapist rather than one through the government was somehow a negative.  There is so much more, but it's not mine to share.
     The court ruled that the girls be returned to their parents at the end of the school year.  I felt like I had been punched in the gut.  Tears stung my cheeks.  I held them in as best I could, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.  Once my husband and I were out of the courthouse, I couldn't hold them in anymore.  By the time we got to the car I was sobbing uncontrollably.  The pain in my heart was unbearable.
     Now, I had to tell these two sweet girls what was going to happen.  I dreaded that conversation.  When we got home we sat down with all four kids.  We told them what the judge decided.  Krista smiled, happy to be going home even if it was months away.  Carlie fell into my arms, lip trembling and eyes full of tears, begging me to not make her go.  It was heart-breaking!    Ben and Ellysa's responses were equally sad.  Our world, our family, was never going to be the same.

     I'll admit that I began to pull back from the girls once I knew they were leaving.  I was trying to protect my heart from further pain.  I'm not proud of that.   I didn't know how else to keep from hurting more.  The system that saved me as a child was destroying me as an adult.  It was hurting my children and my potential children.
     After the girls went back to their parents, their mother refused to let us have any contact with them.  She wanted to act like the 10 months they were with us had never happened.  I floundered around for a while.  I was left asking "why".  We had done everything we were supposed to do and it still turned out badly.  How could my dream be such a nightmare?
    People meant well, but didn't really understand.  So many asked us when we were "getting more kids".  We never intended to be foster parents.  We never wanted to have a revolving door.  I couldn't put Ben and Ellysa through that.  I couldn't handle that.  My husband saw how wrecked I was.  I know he was in pain, too.  He just hid it better than I did.

     It's been 11 years.  The nerve is no longer raw, but the pain lingers.  Healing is happening.  It's a process, but I know it's happening.  You know how?  I recently hung a family picture that we had taken when the girls were with us.  It had been in the basement for 7 years.  I no longer cry when I look at it.  I've also had some limited interaction with the girls on social media.  I cherish those.
     My dream didn't turn out how I wanted it to, but I would still choose the time I did have with the girls over not feeling all that pain.  They contributed to our family, and I like to think that we had a positive impact on them.  Do I hate how the system screwed us over?  Absolutely!  There is no acceptable reason for the bungling that took place.  But, like the Grinch, my heart grew three sizes by having those girls in my life.

My Life: Before and After

     This picture was taken when my sister and I were first placed with our foster (and later adoptive) family in 1973.  I was five years old, and terrified.  The previous year of my life had been more chaotic than usual.  Our mother had died, our father was in prison, we'd been removed from our grandmother's home and were now living with a family we didn't know.  So, I have a lot of conflicting emotions when I look at this picture.

     Sometimes I wonder what my life would have been like had my mother lived.  Would I even be alive?  The abuse my father inflicted on us would, no doubtedly, have continued and, most likely, increased.  Would that have made me a fighter or would it have broken me?  Would I have followed the generations before me and become a teen mother, seeking love and safety outside my family?
     To be honest, I really don't think I would be alive today.  I like to think that the inner strength I have now existed then, but I  suspect it would have gotten me into trouble with my father.  His temper would have been my end.  I am so thankful I was rescued from that.
     However,  I weep for the time I lost with my Grandmother.  We stayed in contact through letters and phone calls, but it wasn't the same as having access to her.  I can remember nights I cried myself to sleep because I missed her so much.

   
The picture also brings joy, knowing my life after this went uphill.  I had safety and security that I never felt before.  There was laughter instead of yelling, hugs instead of hitting, peace instead of chaos.  I had a family.
     I'm not saying it was a life free from conflict.  I had so many things to deal with in my mind.  I tended to overthink, to have both sides of a conversation in my mind, to think I wasn't worthy of anything.  And I had secrets which I fought all the time, which made it hard for me to open up or to receive love.  All these things made me "the odd girl out".

     While I didn't always fit in, I always had a place.  The parents I had lost were replaced, plus I gained more siblings.  The picture at the top makes me sad.  This last picture makes me happy.  My second family wasn't perfect but it provided what I needed to heal, and I am forever grateful for that.

What Does Healing Look Like?

     Five years ago my guts exploded.  I had a cyst on my intestine that burst, allowing grossness to flow into my abdominal cavity.  I had an extensive surgery and spent 10 days in the hospital.  Several times the surgeon  told me that he didn't know how I was alive.
     When I returned home, I spent another eight weeks in a recliner because I could barely move.  The pain in my abdomen was excruciating.  Every movement felt like I was being punched in the stomach.
     Two weeks after I got home they removed the staples.  All 22 of them.  They were in various stages of healing and it felt a little cruel to be yanking them out, causing me more pain.  The surgeon assured me that it was healed enough to stay together on it's own.  He could see that the healing had begun. A scar was forming.
   
     Where there is a scar, it's a reminder that an injury occurred but has healed.  But how do you know when an emotional wound has healed?

     A couple weeks ago I wrote a post about my sexual assaults, and many people responded with "now your healing can begin" or "I hope this brings you healing".  Honestly, the healing began long ago.  I wouldn't have been able to write that post if it hadn't.  Emotional healing happens much like physical healing: in phases.  It takes time.  There are levels.  God cares too much to force it all at once.

     My first level of healing began when I was placed in foster care.  Just being in a place where I was no longer being harmed allowed my emotions to begin to reset.  I was still hyper-vigilant, but I was finally in a place where I could just be a kid.  It wasn't always easy.  I had nightmares and was easily frightened.  I had memories that I didn't know what to do with, so I learned how to compartmentalize them, to tuck them away in their individual boxes to deal with at a later time.
     For several years I left those boxes untouched, stowed away like Christmas decorations in the attic.  Occasionally memories would pop up and I would stash them back into their boxes, unwilling or unable to deal with them at that time.  Their appearance stirred up too many emotions, too much pain.

     The next level of healing came during my time in Youth With A Mission.  When I was there I learned so much about God's character.  That, coupled with an accepting environment, allowed some more of the layers to be pulled back and dealt with.  This was where I really began to work through forgiving my biological father.  He had much to be forgiven!  As I struggled through some of these, God began to revel to me where He was during those times, holding me in His arms.
     In YWAM I became friends with guys for the first time in my life.  It was a safe environment, with low expectations.  It was more a commune of brothers and sisters than an episode of The Bachelor, which allowed me to unpack some of the boxes of sexual assault.  This was sometimes a raw experience.
     My husband was one of those guy friends.  He tells the story of how a group of us were playing LIFE.  One of the outdated parts of LIFE is where it forced you to get married.  Well, when it was my time to get married I made the male peg ride in the far backseat of my car.  This was very disturbing for him.  He had his first glimpse into what my life was like, but wasn't bad enough to chase him off.       Our 30th anniversary is in a few weeks.  During those years there have been pockets of healing.  Again, not easy times.  I often felt like I was ripping off scabs.  Healing meant finding my voice.  It meant standing up for myself.  It meant knowing that whatever lay ahead of me had to be better than what I was leaving behind.  It meant that my husband and I weren't always in sync.  It hurt.

     For 10 years we were heavily involved in a local church.  I, we, experienced much healing there.  However, a lot of additional injury occurred, too.  I'm still working through that, so I'm choosing to not include those years in this post.

     I started attending a trauma support group eight years ago.  For the first 2 years I went I didn't speak.  I always sat in the same place, where I could see the door and everyone else that was there.  I observed.  But there was a stirring inside me.  It was the need to unpack some of the heavier boxes. 
     I began seeing a therapist, who was also the leader of the support group.  A few sessions in, it felt like she reached right in and yanked out the boxes.  They felt like balls now, bouncing all over the place.  They didn't fit back together, neatly, anymore.
   
     That process started five years ago.  Am I healed?  No, but I am healing.  It's similar to when my guts exploded.  Even though there was healing taking place on the outside -- evidenced by a scar-- there was still healing that needed to happen on the inside.  Emotional traumas are the same.  At times, I feel like I'm totally normal, whole, complete.  Then there are days when I feel like I'm just holding on by a thread, my emotions bubbling just below the surface. Both of those are okay.

     What about you?  Do you have boxes or bouncy balls?  Healing can start in either place  are you ready to see what yours looks like?

   

Would you go back....

     I'll admit it.  I'm on facebook.  A lot.  I'm able to have contact with people from different periods in my life.  I like that.  It's interesting, even fun, to see how people's lives have changed.  I enjoy seeing the cheerleaders wrinkled and gray-haired.  I like seeing the football players fat and bald.  Is this childish?  Perhaps.  But admit it.  You like it, too.

     One thing I see on facebook often is people wanting to go back to an earlier time in their life, whether it be to a simpler time or to have the opportunity to do things differently.  I see the questions of "wouldn't it be great to be a kid again?" Nope.  Or "wouldn't it be fun to be in high school again?"  Never in a million years would I go back there.  If you've read my earlier posts, you know exactly why.  I am completely happy with where I am now.  I'm more whole than I have been in my entire life.

     My  Youth With A Mission (YWAM) days are different.  Those years were some of the best of my life, and ones I wouldn't mind revisiting. That's where I met my best friend of 32 years (she's the one in the hat in the photo).  It's also where I met my husband of almost 30 years.  I loved that time in my life!

     YWAM was the first place I was allowed to be an individual, as evidenced by the above photo.  No one cared that I didn't fit the mold.   No one cared that I wore make-up different from theirs.  I was able to dress like Molly Ringwald in "Pretty in Pink" and nobody made a big deal about it.  My individuality had been discouraged most of my life.  It was nice to finally be me.

     YWAM is also where my healing began.  I discovered that I could actually be friends with a guy and there be no expectations.  This was such a foreign concept to me.  I'll be honest, it took a little while for this to sink in.  But I was in a safe place that allowed me room to grow.
     It was during this time that I began to unpack the trauma from my childhood.  Everything from that time had been neatly packed away, emotions and all.  I had believed that once I could tell my story without feeling it, without tears, that it meant I was healed.  Yeah, that's not really how it works.

    The nice thing about the YWAM days was basically living in a commune with only limited interactions with the outside world.  We spent 6-7 hours a day in classes, learning who God was and why He mattered to our lives.  The more I learned about Him, the more I changed.

    Grew.

    Healed.

It softened my edges and gave me hope.  Those were some of the best years of my life.
 
     I was watching a church service last night and they were really stressing the importance of taking the time to remember.  Remember where you have come from.  Remember how far you have come.  Remember the things God has done in your life.
 
     Remember.  But don't get stuck back there.  Not when so much is pressing you forward.