... 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.

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

     

     

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?

   

13 Reasons Why

   

      I watch "13 Reasons Why".  There.  I said it.  I know it's controversial, and that it really stirred up a lot of conversation, good and bad, when it debuted a few years back.  I think conversation is important, especially when it allows people to have a voice that they may not have had before.  My adult children do not like that I watch it, and actually advised me against it.  However, I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame.  I could identify with so much of the plot line.  It was much of my own high school experience.  Some feared I would be triggered by watching; actually it was very cathartic.  It's strange for a 52-year-old woman to identify with a group of high school students, but watching transported me right back to high school years.

     I recently binge-watched season 3.  It's the best season so far.  I will warn you, it was often difficult to watch and the f-bombs fall like rain.  But this is the season that the characters find their voices, and finally tell their stories.  It was good to see how they supported each other and helped them understand each person's story could be told in the time frame that was best for them. 

     Sexual assault is never easy to talk about.  As hard as it is for women, it's even harder for men to talk about.  The statistics say that 1 in 4 women and 1 in 5 men will experience sexual assault before they graduate from high school.  Most of them will never tell anyone what happened and will live with that secret all of their lives.  I think "13 Reasons Why" will  help some of them to find their voice and tell their story.

     Here is mine.

     My early, early childhood was rough.  My father was physically and emotionally abusive to all of us, culminating in my mother's murder when I was 4.  He also made me shower with him, and touch him while we were in there.  This might seem mild, but it's still sexual abuse.

     After our mother's death, my younger sister and I ended up at our maternal grandmother's house.  She loved us with all of her heart.  My teen-aged uncles were still living at home, and my grandmother worked very hard to support all of us.  Unfortunately, that meant our older uncle babysat us sometimes.
     He came out of the bathroom wearing just a towel, and sat down beside me on the couch.  He said his girlfriend was coming over and he needed me to help him get ready for her.  He stood me on the floor in front of him and he opened his towel.  He put his penis into my tiny mouth, making me gag and try to escape.  He held my head there until he was done, again causing me to choke on his ejaculate.  He yelled at me for spitting it out.  Then, with his face close to mine, he hissed that I was to never tell anyone what happened.  He said my grandmother would punish me if she knew.

     So began my life of keeping secrets.

     My sister and I were eventually placed into foster care and then adopted.  My sexual abuse didn't appear on any paperwork, and I didn't feel safe to tell.  Plus I was so conflicted inside.  Our new family were Christians who taught us our bodies were our own, to not have sex before marriage, to not put ourselves in bad situations.  None of this meshed with what I had already experienced in my life.  And, my new family didn't know about it.  I felt like if I told them that they would see me differently and, maybe, not want me anymore. 
     I had a lot of trouble reconciling what they were trying to teach me about boundaries with how badly my boundaries had already been trampled on.  I entered my middle school years trying to figure this all out.

     Dennis was our neighbor, and we had a love/hate relationship.  His home life was super-brutal, he and his siblings were beaten on a regular basis by their father so I felt a bit of empathy towards them.  There were times when we got along really well, and there were times when he was just cruel to me. My parents didn't like us hanging out with them, for a number of reasons, but you know what they say about forbidden fruit.
     There were times when Dennis and I would kiss.  We got caught one time, and I was grounded because of the big hickey he left on my neck.  My parents and older sister made me feel so ashamed!  This only caused more conflict for me.  This was nothing compared to what I had already been through in my life.  But their reaction reinforced that it wasn't safe to tell my story.

     I was 12 when Dennis sexually assaulted me.  His family has an empty mobile home on their property that the kids would hang out in.  My parents has strictly forbidden my sister and I from going in there.  One summer day we were all hanging out, when Dennis and his younger brother asked us if we wanted a tour of the trailer.  They said they were making it into some sort fort.  My sister and I decided it was ok, so we went in.
     It started out innocently.  We walked from room to room as a group.  At one point Dennis told my sister and his brother to stay in a room where they had a bunch of games.  He said he wanted to show me something in another room.  I followed him.  There was a mattress on the floor. I looked at him, expecting there to be more.  He quickly pushed me onto the mattress, covering my mouth to stifle my screams.  Just as fast he was on top of me, pushing his tongue inside my mouth.  It was so slimy and his breath was bad.  He was dry humping me while he fumbled to unbutton my pants.  I tried reasoning with him, forcing myself to be calm while everything on my inside was frantic.  He ignored what I was saying, instead putting his hand up inside my shorts and underwear.  My mind was racing!  I knew it wouldn't be long til he won.  In my desperation, I broke into tears.  It caught him off guard and I was able to knock him off balance.  I ran through the trailer, grabbed my sister and leaped out the door.  We took a few minutes to regroup, then we headed back to our house.  When our mom asked where we'd been, we lied and said we'd been playing in the woods. 
     I never told anyone what happened because I was somewhere I knew I should not have been.  That made it my fault, right?

     I developed early, which caught the eyes of the older boys in our neighborhood.  They would appear in the yard while I was doing chores and ask me to go for a walk with them.  After my experience with Dennis, I knew that was bad news.  I made up plenty of excuses to make them leave.
     One night there was a group of us running around in the neighbor's yard.  Dennis's older brother and another neighbor showed up.  The three guys separated me from the group.  They held me on the ground and pulled my pants down.  I was fighting them with everything in me!  They were grabbing my breasts and crotch, laughing as they told me to be still.  I continued to struggle.  Then we I heard it... my dad whistling.  Everyone knew that meant we had to go home.  The guys released me, still laughing.  I pulled up my pants and ran home.  My mom asked why I had leaves in my hair.  I lied and said we had been throwing them in the air and some must have landed on me.
     Again, I kept it secret.  I felt like I would be blamed, so I told no one.

     All of this served to strengthen my introvert tendencies.  In high school I had friends, but no one close and definitely not close enough to tell them these kind of secrets.  I went to parties with friends but I had a heightened sense of needing to be in control, which meant I often stood out for not "relaxing".
     Dennis and his family had moved away while I was in middle school and, for a little while, mostly girls ruled our neighborhood.  One of the three guys involved in the earlier assault still lived with his parents, but he basically avoided us.
     My junior and senior years of high school I worked as a life guard at an amusement park near our house.  By best friend lived right next door to me, and worked at the pool, too.  She had way more freedom than me, with none of the fear.  Sometimes I'd go to parties with her or we would hang out at whichever house had no parents.
     One of those times my parents and sister were away for vacation.  My friend and I invited several of her guy friends to hang at my house.  Someone brought beer and some harder stuff.  We played games, listened to music and all of us ended up falling asleep on my living room floor.  I woke up laying on my stomach with someone's hand under me, a hand inside my pants.  I felt the familiar terror rising up in me. I pushed my body hard into the floor.  He growled, and pushed in his hand harder. The pain was horrible!  I was starting to panic when I realized other people were waking up.  He removed his hand, but I pretended to be asleep until he left because I didn't want him to know I knew.
     Once more I kept the secret and carried the shame.  My parents were away and I broke the rules by having people over.  So this was my fault, too, right?

     After high school I got a job direct-selling cutlery.  The company I worked for had weekly meetings and, occasionally, conferences requiring hotel stays.  Both were just excuses to do a whole lot of drinking.  I remember one of those conferences well.  We had spent the day touring the factory and meeting the bigwigs.  We also discovered that when you're part of a convention at the hotel, the liquor store didn't card you.  What could go wrong with a couple of hundred drunk teens to early-20 year-olds in a hotel?  We danced.  We watched movies.  We sat in the halls and drank. 
     I woke up in a chair, a guys was pulling on my arms, trying to get me to stand.  He said he wanted to help me back to my room.  I didn't know who he was, and I also couldn't see him very clearly.  He stood in front of me and tried to lift me by putting his arms under my armpits.  Once he got me up, he pulled my body tight up against his.  He was kissing me and groping my breast.  He tried to get me to walk saying he was trying to help me, but even stone cold drunk I knew he wasn't.  I acted like I passed out and slumped back down into the chair.  He called me a slut and whore, but he left me there.
     I didn't tell anybody.  I was drunk.  I was passed out where anyone could have harmed me.  This was my fault, right?

     All of these events served to create some pretty hostile thoughts towards men.  It became evident to me that men were only interested in me for what my body could do for them.  I was so disinterested in men that my dad asked me if I was "funny" (his term for gay).  No, not at all.  I was just harmed, damaged and nobody knew.  I was starting to take back control of my own body.
     This has created many obstacles in my soon-to-be 30-year marriage.  When my husband first began to show romantic interest in me, I would vomit most of this to him in an attempt to scare him off.  But he didn't run.  He has not always understood what I've been through or how it continues to shape who I am, but he has provided space for my story.

     If statistics prove true, there will be several people reading this who have experienced sexual assault.  It's time to start unpacking your story.  There are safe places and safe people who can help.  Your voice will come.  Don't let anyone force you to speak.  But remember these things:

• you are brave
• you are strong
• it's not your fault

When you're ready:

• info@joyfulheartfoundation.org
• www.13reasonswhy.info
• www.nomore.org