Brown-eyed Boy

     "It looks like you're having a boy."  I was 5 months pregnant with my second child, whom I was certain was going to be another girl.  I couldn't believe what the ultrasound technician was saying.  

"A boy."

     When we got home I said to my husband "what am I going to do with a boy? I don't know how to raise a boy."  I was more than surprised. I was scared. 

    I hadn't had a lot of positive male relationships in my life.  I wasn't used to being around them in a safe way.  Plus, I was primarily raised with my three sisters.  My brother is 12 years older than me.  He was out of the house not long after I was placed in it.  Living with a boy just didn't feel natural to me.

Fortunately, I had five more ultrasounds where I heard the same words.  "It's a boy."  I needed that time to adjust to the news, to allow the love to grow.

     It wasn't an easy pregnancy.  I was nauseous most of the time.  My pelvis separated, making it difficult to walk, and care for our two year old daughter.  He was breach, with his head poking out between my rib cage.  It made for quite the profile, especially in a swim suit.

     I had a scheduled cesarean section on August 3, 1994, ten days before my due date.  The delivery itself was a little rough.  At some point I lost consciousness and they ushered my husband out of the room.  Once they revived me, they let him back in.  The meds they gave me to wake up made me feel like I had ants running all over my body.  Couple that with the baby being butt first and I felt like I had been put through the wringer.  But that all faded when they placed that chubby, hairy, perfect baby boy in my arms.  

     Benjamin had been born.

     Ben was such a beautiful baby.  He had dark hair and eyes, and smiled so easily.  I would lay him in my lap and just stare at him.  He melted my heart from the first time I laid eyes on him.  I often prayed that I would be a good mother to him.  During one of those times, God clearly spoke to me that Ben was going to be a mighty man of God.  What mother doesn't want to hear that?  I envisioned him evangelizing, speaking to crowds, leading groups to Jesus. I thought he would be like Samuel and serve God from early childhood.  I thought it meant life would be easy for him, that he wouldn't have struggles with porn or ever turn away from God.  

     I didn't realize that "mighty men of God" become that way because they have been through some tough stuff.

     We moved several times when Ben was young.  With each move, he became more and more attached to me.  He wasn't in school yet, so I was his world.  He spent a lot of days with me in kitchens, both at home and work.  Ben loved to make things, and he was naturally hospitable from a young age.

     When Ben was three, we were frustrated that he wasn't potty training.  He just didn't seem able to make the connection.  We took him to a specialist where we were told that his bladder was underdeveloped. He was urinating 6-8 times in an hour.  Basically, once liquid entered his bladder it immediately was eliminated. The good news was they gave us medicine that increased the size of his bladder.  The bad news was it caused a years-long issue with constipation.

     This became a power struggle in our house.  Ben discovered that he was (somewhat) in control of if he went to the bathroom or not.  Usually, not.  This didn't end well for any of us, and I (we) didn't always handle it as best as I could.  Add in alphabet diagnoses of ADHD, ODD and Bi-polar NOS, and then medications, services, therapy and hospitalizations and we had a few really tough years.  

It wasn't easy being Ben's mom.  It wasn't easy being Ben.

     I tried so hard to be Ben's advocate, his safe place.  But because I was his person, he aimed it all at me. The good, the bad, the ugly.  One moment he would be in full-out rage, screaming at the top of his lungs (which he could do for hours) and throwing things.  The next he would be curled up in my lap, seemingly with no memory of his previous behavior.  This was so confusing to me.

     By the time he entered high school, Ben was medication-free.  He had learned coping skills that enabled him to process and deal with things in a positive way.

     Through it all, Ben had a smile that was easy, that lit up a room.  His laugh came from deep in his gut, and infected everyone who heard it.   It's still one of my favorite sounds. 

     We always attended church as a family.  We were involved in many activities, and most of our friendships  were with others who attended our church.  We had a village.  That all came crashing down when Ben was 12. We went through an excruciating separation from that church.  The torture we endured at the hands of that leadership team left indelible marks on both of our children.  Our daughter physically fled the state.  Ben seemed to turn off his Spiritual side.  He didn't want to get involved in our new church.  Eventually he stopped going all together.

          

     

     In high school, Ben had a girlfriend who was his life.  They were inseparable for nearly 5 years.  But she wasn't interested in Godly things.  I could see her pulling Ben in an unhealthy direction.  Sometimes I'd pray "But God, you promised".  Ultimately, she ripped his heart out.  Watching my son go through that broke this mother's heart.  I didn't know how to comfort him.  I wanted to solve the problem.  I wanted to confront her.  I wanted to be his defender, protector.  

He didn't want me to be that.

     Ben's next relationship was equally distressing for me.  She was interested in the dark side of  spirituality, which was a dangerous place to play.  It was at odds with everything we believed.   Then came the betrayal, the trouncing on my son's heart.  Again my heart ached for all that he was going through.  I remember one tearful phone call when he wanted to know what was wrong with him that made women treat him like that.  What was wrong with him?  I was angered, irate that he was made to doubt himself because of their behavior.

    When Ben moved back home, he was a broken man.  Both heart and spirit.  He needed time to heal. To process.  To reconnect. 

     Where once there was anger, there was a quiet strength.  Peace replaced opposition.  Laughter replaced mourning.  He became happy again.

     Ben began attending church again, and reconnecting with old friends who encouraged him spiritually.  I know I have written a lot about God, church and spirituality in this post, but it's integral to Ben's story.  I fully believe God's hand was on him  through it all, even when it didn't seem like it.

     

     Then Ben met Julia.  In her he found a kindred spirit.  She was someone who both challenged and complimented him.  Early on, I knew she was "the one".  I remember his startled expression when I asked him if he could see himself marrying her.  He quickly said he could.  My heart swelled with the joy I saw in him.  When I looked back at the long, arduous path it took for him to get to that point, I fought back tears. 

     I am so proud of the man Ben has become.  He is a Godly leader of his household.  He teaches, and challenges, people he encounters along his path.  My vision of what I thought he'd be might have been a little off.  He's not a televangelist or foreign missionary, but he has a story. He can look through his life and see God in the midst of his hard stuff.   I see it, too, and whisper  "thank you".

(Disclaimer: I have permission to share these things)

 

It's a Good Black Friday

  

    This morning I said "it's black Friday".  My husband gave me side-eye.  I take a lot of meds, so sometimes I mess things up or say the wrong word.  It happens more than I care to admit.  He usually knows what I mean, but I still get "the look".  Anyhow, after we established that it was Good Friday, it got me thinking.

     To the early Christians this was indeed a black Friday.  The week leading up to today had been a tumultuous one.  Jesus started the week, victoriously riding into town to the praise of the townspeople.  I can only imagine what it must have been like to be in that crowd.  The throngs of people waving palm branches and laying their cloaks on the road before Him.  The roar of the crowd as they called out to him, each one hoping to get his attention.

     By mid-week they weren't cheering for him anymore.  Lies.  Riots,  Sham trials.  A bogus death sentence.  All that in a span of 6 days.  Humans are fickle.  My heart hurts to think of it all.  As a mother, I can only imagine the anguish she felt to see her son treated so maliciously.  I can see her as she followed behind the crowds, desperately wanting to help him.

     As afternoon came on, he had hauled his cross through the town and up that crazy hill.  He was exhausted and dehydrated.  Every muscle ached.  Blood ran down his face, dripping from where they shoved the crown of thorns into his head.  His back was shredded from the beating he received.  I'm sure the pain was immeasurable.  By the time they hoisted that cross into the hole in the ground, he'd gone from media darling to tabloid fodder.

     When he breathed his last breath, the world shuddered.  I'm sure the disciples thought it was over.  Their leader was dead.  That was the cold, hard truth.  They had watched him die.  They knew he was moved to a tomb.  Suddenly, they were scared. Confused. Alone.  To them, it was a very black Friday.  They didn't know that Sunday was coming.  They didn't know what a gift had been given to them.  The resurrection of Jesus is what made this Friday good.

     This Easter weekend, I will reflect on this.  Perhaps, I'll watch "The Passion of the Christ".  It helps me, sometimes, when I have a visual example to see how Black Friday turned into Good Friday.  It makes my heart sing! Down the Via Dollorosa, all the way, to Calvary.

     Happy Easter everyone!

*credit: Sandi Patti

     

In '92 a Baby Girl Brought Heaven to the World

     When my daughter was born, it was one of the happiest days of my life.  She was my rainbow baby, born following an early miscarriage the year before.  Hers was an easy, uneventful pregnancy.  I found joy in how my body changed in order to give her exactly what she needed.  I had so much fun shopping for all her frilly, little baby dresses and headbands. I was so excited for her to arrive, to have something totally dependent on me.  But come delivery time, she wasn't at all interested in being born.  She was 10 days late, but more than content to stay where she was.  I could just picture her grabbing onto whatever she could hold onto!  After a 29-hour labor, she finally made her appearance. All 7lbs 11oz and 21 inches of her, with so much hair that people thought she was wearing a wig (I know, people are weird!).

     From the day Ellysa was born I knew I would do whatever was in my power to always protect her.  I would raise her in a "normal" family where she would always feel loved and safe.  No one would do to her what had been done to me.

     I endured severe trauma in my early childhood (birth - 4 years), the effects of which I am only just beginning to understand.  It destroyed my trust, and damaged my ability to form emotional attachments.  Affection became a scary thing for me.  People were unsafe, even the people in your own family.

     When  my younger sister and I entered foster care, we were placed with an extremely affectionate family.  We were hugged, and held, and kissed.  Our parents hugged and kissed in front of us.  Even today, our family greets each other with a hug and a kiss.  It's still really hard for me.  It doesn't come naturally.  

     At some point, I fell into the routine.  The kisses before bedtime.  The hugging of pretty much every person I knew, whether it was family, extended family or church.  It's what was expected, so it was what I did.  I never really felt like I had a choice.  My body was still not my own.  I wasn't allowed to refuse, even when it made me quite uncomfortable.  (I'll save that for another post.) 

          During that time I really harbored a general dislike of men.  I didn't link that to the events of my early childhood because I just didn't understand it then.  I had snippets of memory, but it was all so compartmentalized.  I didn't allow the memories of abuse into my conscious thoughts.  It was too scary, too painful.  Still, I understood that babies needed affection and touch in order to develop, so I set out to do something that was unnatural to me.  It came easier than I thought.  She was so peaceful and looked like a baby doll.  I loved to hold her, to look at her, to dress her up.  Olan Mills (I'm really aging myself) made a lot of money off of us.

     All the while I was coddling Ellysa, I was teaching her what I knew about the world.  Both good and bad.  I taught her that men were scary and the world wasn't to be trusted.  I taught her that her body was hers and no one-- even her grandparents-- could not force her into hugs or kisses if she felt uncomfortable.  That ruffled feathers.  I taught her to always be aware of her environment.  Don't go places alone, and if she did to exude all the confidence she could muster.  Don't be distracted by her phone when she was walking through a store or a parking lot.

     I thought I was helping her, preparing her to protect herself.  Instead, I was scaring her.  Creating fear, increasing anxiety.  I thought I was teaching her that I would always be her protector, all she had to do was tell me.  Instead, she heard that if she wasn't like me she was weak.

     When Ellysa was 17 she left for Youth With A Mission.  Our family had been seriously harmed by an abusive pastor.  Fleeing the state was her way of dealing with that pain.  We drove her from Pennsylvania to Texas to drop her off.  I didn't realize that she wouldn't live at home again for several years.

     Following her time in YWAM, she moved to North Carolina to live with her roommate.  She was young, naive and far from home.  My ability to protect her was so limited.  I could only hope she was being safe.  Sadly, her roommate became involved with drugs.  She ransacked Ellysa's room and mail. Living with her became a scary thing.  When I visited, the roommate was conveniently never there, so I wasn't able to size her up, to have a clear picture of what Ellysa was dealing with.  I didn't have a way to help.  I would have liked for my daughter to move home.  She wanted to prove that she could make it on her own.

     During this time Ellysa met Mike.  We loved him!  He cooked. He was into computers.  He looked like Ryan Reynolds!  We spent time with him while we visited, and he was always charming and polite.  Behind the curtain, however, he was destroying her credit, emotionally controlling and sexually assaulting her. I still don't know all that happened, but I don't need to know.  I can't be mad at her for "letting it happen", when Mike was able to bypass MY radar systems, too.

     Eventually Ellysa called and asked us to move her back home.  She was broken, sad and angry.  I was, too.  I had trusted that man with my most valued possession, and he had treated her like she was a raggedy old doll.  With time she began to heal and settle into life here.

     After much coaxing, I persuaded Ellysa to get a job working at JCPenney's, where I worked.  She was still living with us, but working together brought a different level of closeness.  She was competent and capable, enabling her to quickly rise to management positions.  It did this mama's heart good to see her succeeding, healing, moving on.

     After Ellysa met her wife, Alli, and moved out our working together became even more important to me.  We made sure to see each other each shift.  Our offices were close together, and she usually stopped by before she'd head out for the day.  

     All along Ellysa had been dealing with increasing levels of anxiety.  It has been a constant for most of her life.  She's medicated.  She's professionally treated.  Still, it can overwhelm and envelop her.

     Nearly 2 years ago I got a phone call no parent wants to get.  They were headed to the hospital.  My daughter wanted to hurt herself.  It's all she could think about.  They would let me know more later.  My heart was racing.  My mind swirled with all the scary thoughts of what she could have done.

     I went to work, going through the motions of my day, waiting for news. (On a side note: this is when we learned how incredibly broken the mental health care system is.  Despite Ellysa's critical state, no in-take was available to her for 5 days.  I don't know what people without support systems do.)

     Alli called with the update.  They were home.  She had taken Ellysa's car keys and hidden all the sharp objects.  People would need to stay with Ellysa until she could get into a program the next week.  I had never felt more helpless.  There was literally nothing I could do to protect her.

      Ellysa ended up being out of work for several weeks while she was in treatment.  I would walk into her office and begin to cry thinking about what I almost lost.  She had left a sweater hanging on her chair.  Sometimes, I would stop and touch it.  Smell it.  I would pray for her, thanking God for sparing her life.

     Tomorrow, Ellysa turns 29.  It's not lost on me how this could have been a birth remembrance instead of a birthday celebration.  I haven't always been able to protect her like I have wanted, but I hope she always feels protected how I could.

*Are you in a mental health crisis? 

 www.nami.org

 www.nimh.nih.gov

 www.thetrevorproject.org

     

     

Leaning

 

     I stood at the kitchen sink, staring out the window into my backyard.  I've been having a tough time lately.  So many things are weighing heavy on my heart.  A judge who disbelieves my doctors' diagnoses, and denied me disability.  A  global pandemic that keeps me isolated even more than usual, robbing me of time with friends and family.  The torturous process of scheduling a Covid vaccine.  The added stress of these things (and more!) increasing the amount of pain I experience daily. 

     As I stood there I started humming.  It was a song from my childhood that I haven't heard in years.  "What have I to dread, what have I to fear leaning on the everlasting arms?"   I struggled to remember the words.  They didn't come to me, but the tune did.  By the time I got to the chorus, "leaning, leaning safe and secure from all alarm, leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms", I was in tears.

     Leaning.  It sounds so easy.  I picture someone leaning up against a tree, peacefully watching what is going on.  That didn't really describe how I was feeling.

     Leaning.  No, more like desperately clinging.  I picture someone clinging to a palm tree in a hurricane, holding on with all his might because that's his only hope.

     Over the next few days, the song stayed in my mind.  I finally googled it just to find out what the lyrics were. I found myself humming it throughout the day.  It was on my mind when I fell asleep, and there when I woke. "What a fellowship, what a joy divine, leaning on the everlasting arms; what a blessedness, what a peace is mine, leaning on the everlasting arms."  Sometimes it brought tears.  Always it brought peace. 

     One time, I had a flashback and I heard my dad's tenor voice, leading this song in church.  I closed my eyes, wet with tears, and listened as he sang.  I was back in my childhood church.  I heard the others singing, but my dad's voice rang out, "leaning, leaning, leaning on Jesus, leaning on the everlasting arms".  Peace washed over me.

     I started leaning on God when I was a very little girl.  He was the palm tree in what was the hurricane called my life.  He was safety and strength.  He rescued me from a horrible situation, and gave me a new family.  He was peace and calm in the midst of fear and chaos.  And He continues to be.

    The first time I saw him, I saw a grandfatherly figure.  His eyes were tender, and his arms  outstretched to me.  He stood on a porch, with a big rocking chair.  He reached out to me, and I leaned into him.  

     I often go to this place when I am afraid.  

     Frustrated. Overwhelmed.  Disheartened.

Sometimes I lean, sometimes I cling. But I am always comforted.     As this song continues to play in my heart, I'm reminded to lean, to find comfort, to allow Him to handle it all. 

"what a fellowship, what a joy divine, leaning on the everlasting arms

what a blessedness, what a peace is mine, leaning on the everlasting arms;

leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms,

leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.

What have I to dread, what have I to fear, leaning on the everlasting arms?

I have blessed peace with my Lord so near, leaning on the everlasting arms"

     https://youtu.be/FBJgFa4MZLg

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?