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?

   

Church Abuse

I escaped from a cult.
Not the kind that kidnaps you, brainwashes you and demands a ransom from your family.  This one was far more sinister.

When my family moved back to Pennsylvania from Tennessee in 1999, we were broken.  Our marriage was in shambles, my husband was struggling at his job and our kids were young and needed a lot of attention.  We were living in his parent's house while we looked for our own, sampling churches along the way.

Once we knew the area we were going to live, we narrowed our church search to those close by.  In one church we went to, no one greeted us, or even acknowledged our presence.  In another, we just happened to be there the same day the pastor announced his resignation.  So, when we happened upon a small, overly-friendly congregation, it seemed like a great fit.  At least to my husband.  He went to the altar for prayer.  He cried and cried.  When we got home, he said being at that church made him "feel like he was home".

I didn't feel the same.
Something just seemed a little too good there.

I sat back and I watched.  That's what I do.  Size people up.  See if their walk matches their talk.  I hang back in the shadows, watching, trying to be unnoticeable.  I began to make friends on the fringe, but never quite considering it *my* church.

After we'd been there for about a year, I began to slowly let my guard down.  I became involved in things.  I attended women's bible studies and outings. I was assigned a mentor.  It seemed like the more I shared with her, the higher I rose in the church.  This brought jealous whispers behind my back and strange accusations.  It didn't make sense to me.  I was just being me, trying to improve myself.

I joined the prayer team.  I became the administrative assistant to the pastor.  I was in the inner circle. The whispers continued.  But I was confident in my position, knowing I was not doing anything wrong.  And as I felt more comfortable, I shared more and more of me.  My past, my hurts, my struggles.  The problem was, I was sharing those details with the wrong people.

The pastor was charismatic.  Fatherly.  Disarming. He seemed safe, maybe even trustworthy.  For me, that was a giant step.  The way he asked questions seemed caring, not probing.  I began to tell him more and more, thinking he was helping me deal with my past, sort out current issues, deal with people.  Instead he was grooming me.  Using my hurts, my quirks, my pasts to manipulate me, to further entrench me in their *system*.

Things were good there for a long time.
We established strong friendships.  Our house was often filled with people and laughter.
We experienced healing in our marriage, even having a ceremony there to renew our marriage vows.
I began to have healing in my life, starting to deal with scary, hurtful things from my past.
To let people *in*.

Then things got strange.  It began to fill uncomfortable.  We began to question things being said and done.  That was the beginning of the end.  I'd seen what happened to people who disagreed: how they were punished, ostracized, talked about, forced to leave.  Suddenly I was that person.  My worst nightmare was coming true.

The next 14 months were basically hell on earth for my family.  I watched my children's friends be torn away from them.  People quit talking to us.  I was forbidden to talk to the "pastor", and was assigned a handler who was supposed to be my liaison.  He took his job very seriously, using every opportunity to remind me of his place of power over me.

Fourteen months of pain and bewilderment.
Fourteen months of watching our friends drift away, choosing to sacrifice their relationships with us in order to maintain their position in the church.
Fourteen months of no one praying for us.
Fourteen months of crying every. single. day.

When we finally left there, I was totally broken.
My physical health deteriorated to the point that I had to stop working.  Some days I couldn't even get out of bed.  I was in constant physical pain.  The emotional pain was immeasurable.
I was diagnosed with complex PTSD.
I lived in constant fear of running into someone from that leadership team.  The few times i did see people at the grocery store, they made eye contact then turned and walked away.
I felt like a pariah.

We've been away from that for seven years now.
In some ways, I feel like I'm back to the broken woman I was when we first started attending there. The guard is so much stronger now, more impenetrable than it was before.
I'm more alert and cautious.
I'm slower to let people in, and quicker to let them out.
It's a lonely place to be.

I'm looking for the ways that I'm stronger now because of that experience.  Those are harder to find. I feel like the areas that I'm stronger in are negatives.
I'm more cynical.
I'm more guarded.
I'm even more untrusting.
But I'm alive.  I got out.
The cult, that man, did not break me.

Live with Purpose

Four weeks ago, I almost died.

I went to the ER thinking I was having a heart attack.  It turned out that I had a perforated ulcer on my intestine the size of a quarter.  It was leaking air into my abdominal cavity.  The doctor kept asking how long I'd been having symptoms, amazed that I'd felt nothing until that day. He said most of this type of perforation are the size of a dime, and patients are in excruciating pain.  Why didn't I feel it?   I was in emergency surgery within 2 hours of leaving work that day.  Had I waited one more day, the results would have been very different.

I have a freakishly high pain tolerance.
I've trained my body to not feel any thing.  Emotionally or physically.
Call it a coping mechanism.

I have complex PTSD.  To deal with all that "stuff", I learned how to just shut down.  That means blocking pain and emotion, good and bad.  As a kid, I actually forced myself to not be ticklish in order to avoid attention. I learned to deadpan, to not allow my face to show emotion.
Just absorb it.  Just get through.
Just don't feel pain until it almost kills you.

I spent a week in the hospital.
I have an incision from my sternum to belly button that needed 25 staples to close.
I've been home, recuperating, for 3 weeks and I still feel like a bus ran me over.
Sleep is my only escape, but that's becoming harder to do.
I'm malnourished and dehydrated.  All my plumbing has been re-routed and it's not happy about it.

Up til now I've been too busy trying to heal to even begin to deal with how close I came to dying. This week, feeling a little better, has given me more time for reflection.  I've come to believe that the excruciating pain I felt that night, the pain I could not ignore, was the finger of God.  Stay with me.  I know not everyone believes this way, but I do.  He could have let me just continue to ignore whatever was going on inside and die.  Or, as he did, put me in so much pain that I had to pay attention.

There has been many tearful moments this week, realizing how close I came to not being here.  I guess I've been kept here for a purpose.  Strangely, that brings a lot of pressure.  It also brings clarity.
No more just coasting through life, hiding from the hard things, believing the lies people told me just to hurt me, neglecting the gifts I have been given.  It's time to live with purpose.

It's time to feel again.

Make a choice already

I've spent the majority of my life deciding what I didn't want to be.

I didn't want to be a victim.
A victim like my mother, brutalized by someone she loved.  A victim like my grandmother who fought the demons but lost.  A victim like that lost little girl that men touched and kissed and based her worth on her looks.

I didn't want to be dependent on a man for... anything.
I didn't want a man to tell me if I could spend money or not.  Not like my mom.
I didn't want to need a man to fix things, open things, protect me from things.

I didn't want to be different.
Not the shy girl who couldn't meet your gaze.  Not the adopted girl who didn't look like the rest of the family..  Not the girl who scratched rashes or had non-stop cold sores. Not the girl with the past so scary that she couldn't talk about it.

I didn't want to be used.
Not by any one.  Least of all by a father who treated me like a possession. Or an uncle with disgusting motives. Or any one of the boys who tried to lure me away into dark rooms and wooded trails.

I didn't want to be afraid.
Afraid of an abusive father with a quick temper.  Afraid of turning out like my mother.  Afraid of being less than.  Afraid of not being able to protect myself and the ones I loved. Afraid of the dark.  Afraid of the silence.  Afraid of closed doors and unknown places.  Afraid of people and afraid of myself.  Afraid of making the wrong choice.  Afraid of losing everything... again.

I didn't want to be alone.

The problem is that while I was so focused on not being something, I didn't choose what I did want to be.  I just let my life morph me into someone hard, jaded, solitary, non-trusting, fierce, abrasive and wildly independent.    I built walls greater than the ones Trump has planned.  I learned to disconnect from my body, to not respond to touch.  I learned to free myself from external emotion, to pace my breathing and maintain control.  I learned to hide all emotion and project a blank canvas that didn't belie the turmoil just below the surface.

They say if it doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger.  I'm not sure that's the case.  I think it makes you harder.  People stop trying to get in, stop trying to penetrate the fortress that's been reinforced with fat and sarcasm on the outside, hurt and loneliness on the inside.  People pull away-- or are driven away-- and every fear about people is realized.

People suck.  People leave.  People hurt.  People disappoint.  People are... people.  And supposedly I need them.  Well, that's what I'm told.  I don't totally buy into that.  I'm skeptical.  But maybe I don't want to be.

Just stop it!

I hate to see my friends and loved ones hurting.  In emotional pain.  Being mistreated by those they know and love.  Maybe I'm naive, but I think love should not involve deliberate pain. I know we all do and say things that hurt our loved ones, mostly unintentionally.  It's the intentional ones that irk me.

I've heard it said "you always hurt the ones you love".  Why is that acceptable?  It sounds like an excuse to me.  It sounds to me like a cop out to not have to expect, demand, more from people.  To believe the lie we tell ourselves that maybe we really aren't worth being treated better.  How sad?  No, not sad.  It's maddening!

Ladies, take heart.  Be brave.  Be strong.  Focus on the good in you.  Realize how great you are.  Make a list of all the positive things you are and have accomplished.  Nothing is too small.  Surround yourself with people who lift you up, but are also honest with you.  Sometimes, a little smack to bring you out of a funk and back to reality is what you need.

Guy, grow a pair!  Stop making yourself feel "like a man" at the expense of the women who love you.  Make the hard choices.  Put your family first.  Put a filter on your mouth.  Just because something pops into your head does not mean it needs to come out of your mouth. Your words carry a heavy weight, building up and tearing down in mere minutes, leaving emotional scars, creating rifts in relationships, devastating lives.

Now before you go off on me, maybe you need to look inside and see what is really causing this to bother you.  Have I hit a nerve?