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.