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)

 

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.

Love wins

There's just no understanding loss, or how it will affect you.  Life is full of winning and losing, making choices and taking responsibility, living life together and alone.

I'm a fairly cautious person.  I like things that are reliable and stable.  That works for some things. Unfortunately, not for things that involve people.  People are the "wild card" in our lives.  For the most part, you can't train them.  You can't force them to stay with you.  Or make them love you.  Or trust them to never hurt you.

My family is suffering the loss of someone we love.  No one died.  She just chose to move on.  There was no warning.  No precipitous fight or obvious breakdown of relationship.  Just blind-sided.

I feel lost.

I feel the loss of her as though she were my own child.  I'm lost as to how to process these feelings. I'm lost as a parent.  How do I help my child through this?  This is so out of my realm of experience.  I tend to be more of a burn-the-bridge kind of person.  You know the type.  Just cut and run.

But I can't do that this time.

I know she's in pain, too.  Deep down inside.  Perhaps too deep right now for her to even acknowledge. She needs stability and reliability, to know people who love her will stay, even when she tries her hardest to drive them away.

So, here I stand, in the middle of all the insults being hurled at me, trying to keep being an adult.  Trying not to lash out when accusations fly.  Trying to maintain my calm instead of going Rambo on the person causing my child so much pain.

Love wins.  Always.

I'm not talking romantic love.  Genuine love.  The kind that wants better for the other person.  The kind that looks beyond the hurt to see the pain.  The kind that makes all efforts to understand what is going on on the inside, and not judge by outward actions.   That kind of love WILL win.

It has to.