By the title, I'm guessing you already understand that I disagree with something. Maybe it should be labeled lack of understanding or even "How Could You God?"
Looking at today's page in Grace for the Moment, I felt a firm disagreement and lack of understanding coming over me.
Yesterday was my birthday. A tough day for me that is always filled with reminders that my parents did not want me and definitely did not deserve me. And yesterday's devotional was so appropriate for the day. All you who put your hope in the Lord be strong and brave. Psalm 31:24
But today, the day after my birthday, this is what I found.
You made my whole being; you formed me in my mother's body. Psalm 139:13
Here's where the WHY God? kicks in for me.
A struggle...no full on fist fight....with the idea that God knew my parent's and knew me before I was born, yet chose to create me for them anyway. How can I possibly accept that I was not an accident when I have been told over and over and over by my own parents that I wasn't only an accident but not wanted?
There are many things I have learned from the bible. There are a good portion of them that I have wrestled with and a good portion of those, God has showed that His word is powerful, good and right.
But this is one of those first questions I asked and probably the one I struggle with the most.
My own inability to have a child has kept me from truly knowing and grasping the fullness of God's gift when he gives a child to a mother. I can only imagine that the size of the gift is immeasurable. I can also only imagine the desire I would have in me to love and protect such a gift.
It is my own parent's inability to love and protect that led to my infertility.
Through only a short explanation, I come full circle back to my original thought. WHY GOD?
No matter how hard I try to understand the purpose behind God's choice for me, I cannot.
I have learned that some people become very uncomfortable with the idea of questioning God's choices. Just as I have learned that those same people get squirmy uncomfortable the second I mention that I strongly disagree with the idea that God doesn't make mistakes.
While I struggle with this often, there is one thing I am positive of all the time. It will ONLY be God who will change my heart on this. When that day comes, it will be a powerful work in my life. The day God finally wins this struggle will change my life. It will be a day when the value of my entire life changes. I don't know how that will happen or when. But if it is supposed to happen, God will make it happen.
Just as I can explain the decisions I make even when others feel they are a mistake, God can too!
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Quiet----ly
(I often read the daily devotions from Grace for the Moment by Max Lucado. Lately, I have found myself being more and more drawn to dive deeper into what I think or how I feel about the scripture being discussed. It has inspired me to examine, consider and reexamine my spiritual life.)
Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed. Luke 5:16
Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Mark 1:35
Both verses present this idea that Jesus used quiet time alone to communicate with God.
Just since I sat down with my book, I have lost focus at least a dozen times. Four text messages, three songs, two conversations and one facebook session later, I can finally concentrate on what the scripture is saying.
Quiet and alone are not two things I do well with at any time. When I create quiet, I still tend to lose focus when the wind blows or the bugs jump.
I believe the scripture emphasizes the importance of spending time alone with God.
How many of you willy nilly pray? When I say willy nilly, I mean walking through a store or driving down the road, you say a quick prayer when something pops into your mind.
I think until the past several months, I have been a willy nilly prayer. I would do the quick obligatory praying as things popped into my head or someone presented a request.
Not sleeping for months on end, opened a window of time every night for me to sit alone. In a quiet house, everyone sleeping, I was able to have an honest time of prayer everyday.
It was in those times that I learned deep, thoughtful prayer was more powerful than willy nilly. I could think about those around me and pray for every need I knew and even those I did not.
As crazy as it sounds, I used facebook as a prayer tool. Going through the list of needs expressed every day and listening to the cries of the hurting, I was able to spend time praying for each of them. It was a very powerful experience for me.
I think it’s easy for me to be distracted and get caught in the hurriedness of life, but I can hold onto my experience. Being alone, praying and communicating without distraction with God is and can be a life changing experience.
Jesus often withdrew to lonely places and prayed. Luke 5:16
Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed. Mark 1:35
Both verses present this idea that Jesus used quiet time alone to communicate with God.
Just since I sat down with my book, I have lost focus at least a dozen times. Four text messages, three songs, two conversations and one facebook session later, I can finally concentrate on what the scripture is saying.
Quiet and alone are not two things I do well with at any time. When I create quiet, I still tend to lose focus when the wind blows or the bugs jump.
I believe the scripture emphasizes the importance of spending time alone with God.
How many of you willy nilly pray? When I say willy nilly, I mean walking through a store or driving down the road, you say a quick prayer when something pops into your mind.
I think until the past several months, I have been a willy nilly prayer. I would do the quick obligatory praying as things popped into my head or someone presented a request.
Not sleeping for months on end, opened a window of time every night for me to sit alone. In a quiet house, everyone sleeping, I was able to have an honest time of prayer everyday.
It was in those times that I learned deep, thoughtful prayer was more powerful than willy nilly. I could think about those around me and pray for every need I knew and even those I did not.
As crazy as it sounds, I used facebook as a prayer tool. Going through the list of needs expressed every day and listening to the cries of the hurting, I was able to spend time praying for each of them. It was a very powerful experience for me.
I think it’s easy for me to be distracted and get caught in the hurriedness of life, but I can hold onto my experience. Being alone, praying and communicating without distraction with God is and can be a life changing experience.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
The Fire of My Heart
My God, I want to do what you want. Your teachings are in my heart. Psalm 40:8
For over eight years, I worked at an eye clinic. During most of my time there, I never had much of a desire to really examine my life and my goals.
Going on medical leave would open my eyes and heart to entertain the idea that God’s plan for my life is more than sitting behind a desk all day crunching numbers.
In Grace for the Moment, Max Lucado challenges with this question: Want to know God’s will for your life? Then answer this question: What ignites your heart?
What does ignite my heart? What ignites my heart for God?
The first thing that comes to mind is music. I can spend hours letting true Christian music penetrate my heart and soul. Not only can I identify with the words, but it feeds me. The end result is always the same regardless of whether I am listening or singing. It directs me back to God and fills me with hope that I may have somehow thought was lost.
But what truly lights a fire in me and gives me a desire to draw nearer to God? And, what will I do with it when I find that fire?
This is where I find myself many times a day since leaving my job.
A truth in my life is that I am a survivor of many horrific events. Even though I survived, God has chosen to take me through yet another fire. I constantly remind myself that there must be a reason. There must be a purpose for my life, something that God plans to use for His glory.
There is a stirring inside me. What is God’s will for my life? What fire will burn so great inside my heart that the plans He has for me will be fulfilled?
I have no idea what that is right now, but my heart is open.
There is no doubt that I have a tender heart for orphans and the hurting. I have spent countless nights praying for the spoken and unspoken needs of those around me. I have watched prayers be answered and I have watched many people learn to wait on the Lord.
Learning of my own need for salvation only a short time ago, I have a heart for the lost. How could I pass up the opportunity to share the need for salvation to those who do not know?
Whatever the plan is for my life, I pray that my eyes and heart will remain open to every opportunity. I pray continuously for God to ignite that fire in my heart and lead me to fulfill His plan for my life.
For over eight years, I worked at an eye clinic. During most of my time there, I never had much of a desire to really examine my life and my goals.
Going on medical leave would open my eyes and heart to entertain the idea that God’s plan for my life is more than sitting behind a desk all day crunching numbers.
In Grace for the Moment, Max Lucado challenges with this question: Want to know God’s will for your life? Then answer this question: What ignites your heart?
What does ignite my heart? What ignites my heart for God?
The first thing that comes to mind is music. I can spend hours letting true Christian music penetrate my heart and soul. Not only can I identify with the words, but it feeds me. The end result is always the same regardless of whether I am listening or singing. It directs me back to God and fills me with hope that I may have somehow thought was lost.
But what truly lights a fire in me and gives me a desire to draw nearer to God? And, what will I do with it when I find that fire?
This is where I find myself many times a day since leaving my job.
A truth in my life is that I am a survivor of many horrific events. Even though I survived, God has chosen to take me through yet another fire. I constantly remind myself that there must be a reason. There must be a purpose for my life, something that God plans to use for His glory.
There is a stirring inside me. What is God’s will for my life? What fire will burn so great inside my heart that the plans He has for me will be fulfilled?
I have no idea what that is right now, but my heart is open.
There is no doubt that I have a tender heart for orphans and the hurting. I have spent countless nights praying for the spoken and unspoken needs of those around me. I have watched prayers be answered and I have watched many people learn to wait on the Lord.
Learning of my own need for salvation only a short time ago, I have a heart for the lost. How could I pass up the opportunity to share the need for salvation to those who do not know?
Whatever the plan is for my life, I pray that my eyes and heart will remain open to every opportunity. I pray continuously for God to ignite that fire in my heart and lead me to fulfill His plan for my life.
Monday, April 19, 2010
My Wedding Day....It was a God designed circus!
As I looked at a photo this morning of my wedding bouquet, I was reminded of how God works even before we know Him.
I have often joked about how the story of my wedding and all events leading up to and afterwards would make a tragic comedy if every recreated.
There can only be one explanation of why my wedding happened and how my marriage has lasted this long…by His design, God made my husband specifically for me and has been the glue that has held us together through every trial.
The calamity of the wedding day cannot be fully appreciated without the background of the four years leading up to the big day. I do offering a warning that even though it is a story still in progress, that today I find laughter and tears in it all.
My husband and I met in January 1994. I will spare everyone the details of my dysfunctional 18 year-old ways. To be honest, I met him and his best friend. Kent was quiet and showed no interest. Well, the honest part is that I thought he was a jerk and way too old for me.
Over the next six months, I would date his best friend from who he was inseparable. My roommate would date Kent. It was, for all intentions, a great way to spend time with my roomie and the guy I was dating…oh yea, and that old, jerky guy too.
Towards summer, both relationships began to drift apart. Yes, that is a nice way of saying dramatically in all teenage fashion, breaking-up.
On a very strange, but fateful night, all four of us would begin to follow the paths that God had set for us.
That night began a new and lifelong journey for each of us. While the new paths would strain and eventually separate the relationships amongst friends, we each knew there was a reason.
I am happy to tell you today that the other two are still married today and have two beautiful children.
It did not take long to learn that Kent, even at 28 years-old, was in no hurry to get married. He was ready, but only to wait. And wait we did.
Over the next 3 ½ years, we would date get to know each other and date via long distance relationship. He lived in Wichita and I lived in Humboldt. We would talk on the phone every night. It’s amazing the amount of life you can share on the phone. It did create huge phone bills and he was all too happy to help pay for them.
Kent drove home on the weekends and we would be together for most of it. The saddest part of the week would be at 3 p.m. on Sunday when he would load his truck up and head back to Wichita. I would watch his truck until it was out of sight with a tear in my eye and the anticipation of his return on the following Friday.
Without fail, that’s how we lived our lives for several years. During that time, Kent had moved to Lee’s Summit but the routine was the same. In the summer of 1997, I would begin to feel what I call the “3 years together and I’m ready to get married” itch.
I believe God used several events to bring us closer together and push us in the direction of marriage.
In September 1997, Kent left me a message on my home answering machine that without a doubt stays with me today. “My apartment caught on fire and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to call you.”
His neighbor below him had caused a fire that completely destroyed the entire quad. With Kent’s parents, I went the next day and tried to help him salvage all that he had gathered in his adult life. Loads and loads of laundry, lots of smoke saturated furniture and what little was salvaged was moved into another apartment. This was the point when Kent decided it was time to look for a home.
Leaving him after his fire was the absolute hardest time I ever had not being with him. It was the desire to be more to him than a weekend girlfriend that drove me to take the ultimate risk in our relationship. I told him in the fall that it was time to either get married or go our separate ways.
Saying he was reluctant is an understatement. We shopped for an engagement ring together. He shopped quality, I shopped hurriedly. I only wanted to get the ring on my finger before he decided again he wasn’t ready.
Once we had the ring, it was decided that Christmas would be when we would be “officially” engaged. Upon my persistence that he get on with it and give me the ring, my proposal consisted of this…”Here, put the ring on and tell everyone we are engaged.” Of course then, I was just happy to be engaged. Now, I realized that a little patience may have resulted in a much more romantic proposal and one I would be much happier to tell.
Now, the hunt was on for a house. The fire and impending nuptials pushed Kent into taking another huge leap into adulthood. In March 1998, he purchased and moved into the house where we still live.
All that was left was to plan the wedding of my dreams and begin my life of wedded bliss…or so I thought.
My contract with the school was up in May, so May would be the perfect time for a wedding. Kent, still dragging his feet, would have preferred to plan for a later summer wedding and of a different year. We finally agreed on August 1, 1998.
While not surprising yet completely heartbreaking, my dad would offer to help with $100. I was so fortunate to not only be living with my grandparents but have a grandmother who would do what she could to make my wedding as close to my dream as possible.
As a young girl, I may have dreamed of getting married but never fantasized much about the wedding. I had no illusions that my mother would finally behave like a mother and be a part of the planning of my big day. So, it was my grandmother, not my mother who gave me support during the planning.
My grandmother was the one who drove me an hour to buy the dress I had fallen in love with in a magazine. I never thought I could have something out of a magazine, but she made it happen. My grandma also drove me two hours to a bridal fair one Saturday, where we met the lady who would make the cake I had also fallen in love with in a magazine.
It was my grandma who would sit with me for hours looking through magazines, books and samples of wedding invitations. While Kent was interested, he was not big into the planning. For the most part, he was good just knowing the date and time.
During the planning of the wedding, I watched my grandma’s health begin to decline rapidly. She began having breathing problems in January of that year. As I sat across from her while making a final decision on my wedding invitations, I watched her excited for me fade quickly as she struggled to catch a breath between words.
Towards early summer, most of the plans for the wedding were set in place. We had a location, decorations, flowers ordered, invitations ready to be mailed, dress purchased, cake ordered, photographer, wedding registries completed and a flurry of other details wrapped up.
I would begin a summer of packing, slowly moving to Lee’s Summit and enjoying the wedding showers. My mom was sewing the dresses for the three candle lighters and I was hand sewing beadwork on my veil. There was one small detail that kept me from feeling as though I was ready for the big day.
I had bought my mother’s dress for the wedding, but my grandma had not yet gotten one. By then, she was in and out of the hospital often with little to no explanation of why she was having problems breathing. Each time I encouraged her to get her dress, she assured me that she would not need one.
Once the wedding plans were set, I spent time helping Kent and his parents getting the house ready for the big change that was coming. In mid-July, Kent’s parents tangled with brush and trees in our backyard. Little did we know that they were tangling with tons of poison ivy. It isn’t the poison ivy that will later cause a problem for our wedding day, but it is the steroids they were on that would.
It was well into mid-July before I began to count down the days. I didn’t have the kind of friends who were big on bachelorette parties, which was fine by me. As a last fun trip for me, I went with a friend and her kids to Kansas City for the day. The same day, my grandma was to have testing done on her lungs in Wichita.
While we were at a pizza place, I used the pay phone to call home. I was calling to let my mom know that I would be home late and to find out about my grandma’s test. When I heard the voice of my estranged cousin answering the phone, I knew something was wrong.
What she said to me would kick me in the chest and take me minutes, maybe days, maybe years to recover from. She said, “Grandma has cancer. She is on life support and she is going to die.”
The next few hours is still fuzzy to me. I called Kent and he met me in Humboldt. From there, we drove two more hours to Wichita. At 4 a.m., we arrived at the hospital in Wichita where we tried to sleep for a couple hours in the waiting room before my mom would find us waiting. This was before the time when cell phones were prevalent.
While the details are a blur, I spent the next six days living in a hotel room and sitting with my grandma during the day. One by one, most of the family came, visited, said goodbye and left. With four days until my wedding, my mom finally made me leave.
In the first few days on the vent, my grandma communicated with nods, blinking eyes and writing half legible notes. By the time I left, she was barely able to blink when we asked her questions. I leaned down close to her and told her I would see her again soon. With tears in her eyes, she shook her head and grabbed my hand.
As much as I wanted to believe there would be a miracle, I knew that was the last communication I would have with her.
I got out of bed the next day in my grandparents house, completely alone. The first thing on the agenda was to put together a memory locket for my bouquet. What I had planned was to have a photo of my great-grandpa who had passed away my senior year. Now, I was adding a photo of my grandma.
Next on the agenda was making hundreds of tiny mints for the reception. As I pressed and molded my last mint, my grandpa, mom and uncle walked through the door. I knew, they didn’t have to say anything, I just knew.
Three days before my wedding, the wedding my grandma had helped plan and pay for, my grandma passed away.
If it weren’t for my ability to go numb when emotions were threatening to overwhelm me, I don’t think I would have survived the next 10 days. The wedding I had dreamed about and planned for would quickly turn into a circus.
First up would be funeral planning. Because of my dysfunctional family, the date and time of the funeral would become a battle of wills between my family and my uncle’s family. My wedding was planned for 2 p.m. on Saturday. My uncle, who was more interested in not missing any time from work, was insistent that the funeral be held on Saturday.
His idea of not interfering with the wedding would be to have the funeral at 10 a.m. I was having absolutely none of his theoretical plan to have me wear my wedding dress to the funeral. His plan may have been spoiled merely by what could have possible been my only known childish, kicking and screaming fit in all my life.
Because of other funerals, it was set that my grandma’s funeral would be Monday morning.
Kent and I had not planned an extravagant honeymoon, but our reservation was not refundable or moveable within one week of check-in. In true dysfunctional fashion, it was the same uncle I fought tooth and nail on the date with who called and paid for the honeymoon to be moved by one day.
Next hurdle for me was with my soon-to-be in-laws. The day my grandma passed away, I was to help clean the church for our wedding. Keeping in mind that my in-laws were saturated with poison ivy and a heavy dose of steroids, you can only imagine the misunderstanding we had over the church cleaning. It would not take long for me to learn that I would probably hear about this for a while.
I know you may be thinking there is nothing comedic about this so far. But, it’s coming. Even if it wasn’t funny at the time, I can laugh about it now.
As you may remember, my mom was in charge of making three candle lighters dresses. Earlier in the summer, I purchased all the material and patterns for the three dresses. My mother, as would be her normal, had waited until the last minute to make the dresses. And, where was she at the last minute? She was with my grandma at the hospital, two hours away from the material and a sewing machine. With four days left until the wedding, I frantically and thankfully found a family member who made the dresses.
It was the same family member who made last minute alterations to my wedding dress. After a long week of stress and not eating right, my arms were very swollen. I had lost weight from not eating, but the stress had caused major fluid retention. The dress fit perfectly, except a small issue. I could not move my arms. The dress was let out in the arms only and nobody knew any different.
For 18 months prior to getting married, I lived with my grandparents. My plan was to finish packing my things during my last few days there. That task became nearly impossible with the steady stream of family and well wishers passing through the house.
The funeral arrangements were made and I had nothing to focus on but my wedding. The rehearsal and rehearsal dinner is but a foggy memory to me. I believe the stress everyone was under put a cloud of negativity over the entire event. I think a rehearsal dinner is probably the first indication of the true colors of the family you are about to marry into.
The Friday night rehearsal did lead to some interesting activity to say the least.
Kent had asked his best friend to be his best man and his brothers to be groomsmen. Not being close to many women at the time, I asked a co-worker to be my matron-of-honor and a good friend to be a bridesmaid. My second bridesmaid was originally a former school mate and girlfriend of one of Kent’s brothers. One month before the wedding, the brother and girlfriend broke up. Leaving me short a bridesmaid, I asked my oldest brother’s girlfriend. I would have liked to have chosen someone I knew better, but it worked and that’s all that mattered.
All three of the ladies agreed on a simple navy blue dress that truly could be worn again. I purchased the dresses and all three said they would pay for them. The night of the rehearsal, one of my bridesmaids gave me a check for her dress and shoes. It was two weeks later that I learned that the check had bounced and I was out the $85 for the dress and shoes. A small price to pay for not having to find another replacement at the last minute.
I had asked my two brothers to be ushers at the wedding and asked the oldest of the two to do the music. We were married in a Church of Christ. This Church of Christ does not believe in having musical instruments in the church. It did, however, have a sounds system and cd player.
The night before the wedding, my oldest brother’s girlfriend and bridesmaid, informed me that because my brother couldn’t be in the wedding and stand opposite of her, he would not be helping anywhere else with the wedding.
During the rehearsal, I had to find an usher and someone to play the music we had chosen. Kent’s brother-in-law would be an usher and my cousin would take care of music.
It was also during rehearsal when I realized I would have a problem with a cousin. She was, much to my disbelief, taking on a role as personal attendant to the bride. She boldly stood in my place during the rehearsal and made herself at home giving orders to everyone. In all fairness to her, she did keep things in order during the wedding with the music. But imagine my fear as I saw her taking over, knowing that she was not always the most trustworthy person.
That night was the moment I also learned that my soon-to-be mother-in-law and sister-in-law would be wearing the exact same dress. They both were aware that they had chosen the same dress. Being strong-willed mother and daughter, neither of them would agree to exchange for a different dress. No way to avoid this catastrophe only hours away from the wedding.
The fact that Kent and I barely said a word to each other through the four days prior to the wedding might have led everyone to wonder why we were even getting married.
Finally, the morning of the wedding and I bet you think this story is about to reach it’s beautiful ending. Not yet, it’s just beginning!
That morning, I awoke to rain pounding on the roof. I know everyone says it’s good luck. But I needed a miracle and rain wasn’t part of that plan.
With everything I needed in hand, I headed for the church in the rain. Each of the ladies in my wedding party would get their hair done by a friend of the family at the church. And, one by one, each of them would leave in the rain or August post-rain humidity. One might think that a mature woman would understand why that was a bad idea.
I soon learned it wouldn’t matter anyway. Once my hair was done, we began taking group photos. I didn’t see Kent prior to the wedding, but we did all photos possible beforehand.
Our photographer was a friend of Kent’s family and was a complete amateur. You’ll hear more about the wedding photos later, but they are awful to say the least. She took all of us out in the hot, humid August weather to have photos taken. All hairdos were hair-undoes by the time we were finished.
Flat hair didn’t matter to me, this wedding was about to happen and be done.
As I continued to dress in the small cry room of the church, I got hit with one issue after another.
The cry room was in the lobby of the church. Each time someone came to ask a question or give me bad news, the door opened and every one walking through at the moment could see me getting ready.
We had sent 100 invitations and had 89 people RSVP. The church has a capacity of 212 people. Because of my grandma’s death, we had family and friends who decided to show up. People who weren’t invited and people who hadn’t sent an RSVP walked through the door, filling this small church. With over 15 minutes left until the wedding, we already had people standing at the back of the sanctuary.
The first visit to my dressing room was my future mother-in-law. Her only comment to me was about my dress or maybe more so about me. She said without pause that if I had lost weight, my dress would have been beautiful on me. She turned and left before I had a chance to pick my chin up off the floor.
She was followed by a stream of older women from both sides of the family who were insistent on talking about losing my grandma.
Minutes to go, nothing else can go wrong. Right?
Wrong!
I get a very upset relative coming in stating there are not enough corsages to give to all the females in the wedding party. How could I be two short? I planned the flowers with precision and with one spare of everything. With my grandma gone, there should have been two extra. I told the family member to make sure mothers and grandmothers had flowers and someone would have to go without.
It was only long after the wedding was over that I would learn where the extra flowers had gone. My cousin, a.k.a. my uninvited personal attendant, had taken one corsage for herself. I’ll explain more later, but she gave her mother one as well and she kept one.
I can hear the music as the next person runs to me with a problem. It is Kent’s niece, one of our candle lighters. With all the men in place, Kent’s nephew Zack was our ring bearer. Sticking to tradition, I did put our wedding rings on the pillow. Zack, who was 5, had gotten a few steps down the aisle only to get scared and run with the ring pillow to the bathroom.
One of Kent’s brothers left the alter to get Zack out of the bathroom. He was carried down the aisle and yet another catastrophe was avoided.
One by one, everyone got down the aisle. The only one left was me. I stood there with my dad. The only reason my dad was allowed to walk me down the aisle was to keep with tradition and to avoid questions. While waiting our turn, my dad turned to me and in all honesty said that he felt sorry for Kent. He truly did and does believe that Kent could have done better than me for a wife.
Being a bit of a controlling person, I wrote and scripted our entire wedding. I felt as though it was important for both sets of parents to come to the alter once I arrived. The pastor asked each set of parents if they not only gave their child into this marriage but accepted the other as part of their family. As it was time for my in-laws to do their part, there was a sickening silence and an obviously reluctant agreement.
They all returned to their seats and the candle lighters came forward. I should have guessed that with three 9 year-old girls there would be some kind of problem. My two cousins lit their candles and all was fine. Kent’s niece could not keep her lighter going and her candles lit. Very loudly, she yelled to her mom that it wasn’t working. She stopped trying, started crying and finally ran off the stage. Another crisis, over.
The rest of the wedding went as planned.
Thinking again that it must be over? You would be wrong, again!
Everyone headed to the reception. Kent and I were still barely speaking to each other. I wasn’t even sure if I would be riding with him to the reception.
I had planned the reception and made changes when I knew there would be additional guests. I had chosen some friends to cut the cake and handle the gifts and guestbook.
Remember the missing flower that was given to my aunt? At the reception, my aunt informed one of my friends that they were no longer needed at the cake table. She took over and had no idea what my plans were. She started to cut cake before we arrived. Thankfully one of my stronger willed friends kept her from cutting our smallest cake that we had planned to freeze.
For the most part, our reception went as planned. When we lined up for the receiving line, my mom threw a childish fit. She wanted to be the last person in line. My mom isn’t an emotional or gracious person. As people would pass through the line, she would barely look at them and refused to shake a hand.
By this time, most of the photos had been taken and my mother-in-law was already angry. Even though it was her friend who took the photos and she had met with her, someone had overlooked the fact that she wanted a photo of her family. When I say her family, I mean without me! Hadn’t we just gone over that whole “united as one” thing? At least with her pouting, she was out of my hair for the time being.
As we got ready to leave, we were prepared for the traditional throwing of bird seed. In true redneck fashion, my family was ready to pelt us and they did. We both got bird seed in the mouth and nose. I not only got bird seed in my eyes, but I got a corneal abrasion that would cause a blurry, watery eye for days.
Now, it was time to clean up. I headed in to change out of my dress, which was a relief. The wedding was over, the dress was off and all the catastrophes were over.
As I began to clean up, I realized that most of our centerpieces were missing. My all too helpful cousin had been giving them away to her friends. There were two left, all was good.
We couldn’t leave as planned for our honeymoon because of the funeral. Both sides of the family met at my grandparents house that evening. There is nothing quite like spending your wedding night with all of your family, right?
Everyone fed on the many, many meals that people had dropped off. We were exhausted, but everyone insisted that we open our wedding gifts.
I think it must have been our exhaustion that kept us from noticing at the time, but some of our gifts were disappearing. I remember unwrapping some beautiful candlestick holders, placemats, crystal vase, photo albums and cookware that were never found. When I found them in the list that was made as we opened gifts, I knew I hadn’t imagined those wonderful gifts. Someone in one of our families had taken our wedding gifts when nobody was looking. It was odd sending thank you cards for gifts I never got!
We spent our wedding night at my grandparents house listening to a relative snore on the couch in the next room.
The next day was the visitation for my grandma. I had stayed busy enough that I missed most of the many weird trips to the funeral home to visit my grandma’s body. During those times, my family left notes, games, and other obscure things in the casket with her. As I walked in, I saw the last missing corsage. My cousin and aunt had made a decision to take one of them from the wedding and pin it on my grandma.
That Sunday and Monday are foggy at best and went fast.
Because of the timing of the funeral, Kent was unable to return the tuxes on time. He had to pay an additional day on all of them. Oh, did I mention my dad refused to pay for his tux and Kent paid for it?
Thinking it must be over? No, there’s one more thing!
We arrived in Eureka Springs, AR on Monday afternoon. Finally, we were beginning our married life with our honeymoon. After checking into our room, we ate at a restaurant that was recommended to us by the desk clerk at the hotel.
Just a few hours after eating, Kent became very sick. We are almost positive that he was the recipient of food poisoning because he spent the rest of the honeymoon sick.
We obviously survived each and every hurdle. But to say the odds were stacked against us getting a good start in married life would be an understatement.
Yes, I have to laugh when I think of the chain of events.
Yes, Kent and I could have given up and walked away at any time.
I have to believe that it was God’s plan for us to be married. Even though I didn’t grasp what it meant to believe in God then, I believe God was working on me. I think God knew I would need a reminder for the rest of my life that when He plans something, He will make it happen.
I have often joked about how the story of my wedding and all events leading up to and afterwards would make a tragic comedy if every recreated.
There can only be one explanation of why my wedding happened and how my marriage has lasted this long…by His design, God made my husband specifically for me and has been the glue that has held us together through every trial.
The calamity of the wedding day cannot be fully appreciated without the background of the four years leading up to the big day. I do offering a warning that even though it is a story still in progress, that today I find laughter and tears in it all.
My husband and I met in January 1994. I will spare everyone the details of my dysfunctional 18 year-old ways. To be honest, I met him and his best friend. Kent was quiet and showed no interest. Well, the honest part is that I thought he was a jerk and way too old for me.
Over the next six months, I would date his best friend from who he was inseparable. My roommate would date Kent. It was, for all intentions, a great way to spend time with my roomie and the guy I was dating…oh yea, and that old, jerky guy too.
Towards summer, both relationships began to drift apart. Yes, that is a nice way of saying dramatically in all teenage fashion, breaking-up.
On a very strange, but fateful night, all four of us would begin to follow the paths that God had set for us.
That night began a new and lifelong journey for each of us. While the new paths would strain and eventually separate the relationships amongst friends, we each knew there was a reason.
I am happy to tell you today that the other two are still married today and have two beautiful children.
It did not take long to learn that Kent, even at 28 years-old, was in no hurry to get married. He was ready, but only to wait. And wait we did.
Over the next 3 ½ years, we would date get to know each other and date via long distance relationship. He lived in Wichita and I lived in Humboldt. We would talk on the phone every night. It’s amazing the amount of life you can share on the phone. It did create huge phone bills and he was all too happy to help pay for them.
Kent drove home on the weekends and we would be together for most of it. The saddest part of the week would be at 3 p.m. on Sunday when he would load his truck up and head back to Wichita. I would watch his truck until it was out of sight with a tear in my eye and the anticipation of his return on the following Friday.
Without fail, that’s how we lived our lives for several years. During that time, Kent had moved to Lee’s Summit but the routine was the same. In the summer of 1997, I would begin to feel what I call the “3 years together and I’m ready to get married” itch.
I believe God used several events to bring us closer together and push us in the direction of marriage.
In September 1997, Kent left me a message on my home answering machine that without a doubt stays with me today. “My apartment caught on fire and I’m not sure when I’ll be able to call you.”
His neighbor below him had caused a fire that completely destroyed the entire quad. With Kent’s parents, I went the next day and tried to help him salvage all that he had gathered in his adult life. Loads and loads of laundry, lots of smoke saturated furniture and what little was salvaged was moved into another apartment. This was the point when Kent decided it was time to look for a home.
Leaving him after his fire was the absolute hardest time I ever had not being with him. It was the desire to be more to him than a weekend girlfriend that drove me to take the ultimate risk in our relationship. I told him in the fall that it was time to either get married or go our separate ways.
Saying he was reluctant is an understatement. We shopped for an engagement ring together. He shopped quality, I shopped hurriedly. I only wanted to get the ring on my finger before he decided again he wasn’t ready.
Once we had the ring, it was decided that Christmas would be when we would be “officially” engaged. Upon my persistence that he get on with it and give me the ring, my proposal consisted of this…”Here, put the ring on and tell everyone we are engaged.” Of course then, I was just happy to be engaged. Now, I realized that a little patience may have resulted in a much more romantic proposal and one I would be much happier to tell.
Now, the hunt was on for a house. The fire and impending nuptials pushed Kent into taking another huge leap into adulthood. In March 1998, he purchased and moved into the house where we still live.
All that was left was to plan the wedding of my dreams and begin my life of wedded bliss…or so I thought.
My contract with the school was up in May, so May would be the perfect time for a wedding. Kent, still dragging his feet, would have preferred to plan for a later summer wedding and of a different year. We finally agreed on August 1, 1998.
While not surprising yet completely heartbreaking, my dad would offer to help with $100. I was so fortunate to not only be living with my grandparents but have a grandmother who would do what she could to make my wedding as close to my dream as possible.
As a young girl, I may have dreamed of getting married but never fantasized much about the wedding. I had no illusions that my mother would finally behave like a mother and be a part of the planning of my big day. So, it was my grandmother, not my mother who gave me support during the planning.
My grandmother was the one who drove me an hour to buy the dress I had fallen in love with in a magazine. I never thought I could have something out of a magazine, but she made it happen. My grandma also drove me two hours to a bridal fair one Saturday, where we met the lady who would make the cake I had also fallen in love with in a magazine.
It was my grandma who would sit with me for hours looking through magazines, books and samples of wedding invitations. While Kent was interested, he was not big into the planning. For the most part, he was good just knowing the date and time.
During the planning of the wedding, I watched my grandma’s health begin to decline rapidly. She began having breathing problems in January of that year. As I sat across from her while making a final decision on my wedding invitations, I watched her excited for me fade quickly as she struggled to catch a breath between words.
Towards early summer, most of the plans for the wedding were set in place. We had a location, decorations, flowers ordered, invitations ready to be mailed, dress purchased, cake ordered, photographer, wedding registries completed and a flurry of other details wrapped up.
I would begin a summer of packing, slowly moving to Lee’s Summit and enjoying the wedding showers. My mom was sewing the dresses for the three candle lighters and I was hand sewing beadwork on my veil. There was one small detail that kept me from feeling as though I was ready for the big day.
I had bought my mother’s dress for the wedding, but my grandma had not yet gotten one. By then, she was in and out of the hospital often with little to no explanation of why she was having problems breathing. Each time I encouraged her to get her dress, she assured me that she would not need one.
Once the wedding plans were set, I spent time helping Kent and his parents getting the house ready for the big change that was coming. In mid-July, Kent’s parents tangled with brush and trees in our backyard. Little did we know that they were tangling with tons of poison ivy. It isn’t the poison ivy that will later cause a problem for our wedding day, but it is the steroids they were on that would.
It was well into mid-July before I began to count down the days. I didn’t have the kind of friends who were big on bachelorette parties, which was fine by me. As a last fun trip for me, I went with a friend and her kids to Kansas City for the day. The same day, my grandma was to have testing done on her lungs in Wichita.
While we were at a pizza place, I used the pay phone to call home. I was calling to let my mom know that I would be home late and to find out about my grandma’s test. When I heard the voice of my estranged cousin answering the phone, I knew something was wrong.
What she said to me would kick me in the chest and take me minutes, maybe days, maybe years to recover from. She said, “Grandma has cancer. She is on life support and she is going to die.”
The next few hours is still fuzzy to me. I called Kent and he met me in Humboldt. From there, we drove two more hours to Wichita. At 4 a.m., we arrived at the hospital in Wichita where we tried to sleep for a couple hours in the waiting room before my mom would find us waiting. This was before the time when cell phones were prevalent.
While the details are a blur, I spent the next six days living in a hotel room and sitting with my grandma during the day. One by one, most of the family came, visited, said goodbye and left. With four days until my wedding, my mom finally made me leave.
In the first few days on the vent, my grandma communicated with nods, blinking eyes and writing half legible notes. By the time I left, she was barely able to blink when we asked her questions. I leaned down close to her and told her I would see her again soon. With tears in her eyes, she shook her head and grabbed my hand.
As much as I wanted to believe there would be a miracle, I knew that was the last communication I would have with her.
I got out of bed the next day in my grandparents house, completely alone. The first thing on the agenda was to put together a memory locket for my bouquet. What I had planned was to have a photo of my great-grandpa who had passed away my senior year. Now, I was adding a photo of my grandma.
Next on the agenda was making hundreds of tiny mints for the reception. As I pressed and molded my last mint, my grandpa, mom and uncle walked through the door. I knew, they didn’t have to say anything, I just knew.
Three days before my wedding, the wedding my grandma had helped plan and pay for, my grandma passed away.
If it weren’t for my ability to go numb when emotions were threatening to overwhelm me, I don’t think I would have survived the next 10 days. The wedding I had dreamed about and planned for would quickly turn into a circus.
First up would be funeral planning. Because of my dysfunctional family, the date and time of the funeral would become a battle of wills between my family and my uncle’s family. My wedding was planned for 2 p.m. on Saturday. My uncle, who was more interested in not missing any time from work, was insistent that the funeral be held on Saturday.
His idea of not interfering with the wedding would be to have the funeral at 10 a.m. I was having absolutely none of his theoretical plan to have me wear my wedding dress to the funeral. His plan may have been spoiled merely by what could have possible been my only known childish, kicking and screaming fit in all my life.
Because of other funerals, it was set that my grandma’s funeral would be Monday morning.
Kent and I had not planned an extravagant honeymoon, but our reservation was not refundable or moveable within one week of check-in. In true dysfunctional fashion, it was the same uncle I fought tooth and nail on the date with who called and paid for the honeymoon to be moved by one day.
Next hurdle for me was with my soon-to-be in-laws. The day my grandma passed away, I was to help clean the church for our wedding. Keeping in mind that my in-laws were saturated with poison ivy and a heavy dose of steroids, you can only imagine the misunderstanding we had over the church cleaning. It would not take long for me to learn that I would probably hear about this for a while.
I know you may be thinking there is nothing comedic about this so far. But, it’s coming. Even if it wasn’t funny at the time, I can laugh about it now.
As you may remember, my mom was in charge of making three candle lighters dresses. Earlier in the summer, I purchased all the material and patterns for the three dresses. My mother, as would be her normal, had waited until the last minute to make the dresses. And, where was she at the last minute? She was with my grandma at the hospital, two hours away from the material and a sewing machine. With four days left until the wedding, I frantically and thankfully found a family member who made the dresses.
It was the same family member who made last minute alterations to my wedding dress. After a long week of stress and not eating right, my arms were very swollen. I had lost weight from not eating, but the stress had caused major fluid retention. The dress fit perfectly, except a small issue. I could not move my arms. The dress was let out in the arms only and nobody knew any different.
For 18 months prior to getting married, I lived with my grandparents. My plan was to finish packing my things during my last few days there. That task became nearly impossible with the steady stream of family and well wishers passing through the house.
The funeral arrangements were made and I had nothing to focus on but my wedding. The rehearsal and rehearsal dinner is but a foggy memory to me. I believe the stress everyone was under put a cloud of negativity over the entire event. I think a rehearsal dinner is probably the first indication of the true colors of the family you are about to marry into.
The Friday night rehearsal did lead to some interesting activity to say the least.
Kent had asked his best friend to be his best man and his brothers to be groomsmen. Not being close to many women at the time, I asked a co-worker to be my matron-of-honor and a good friend to be a bridesmaid. My second bridesmaid was originally a former school mate and girlfriend of one of Kent’s brothers. One month before the wedding, the brother and girlfriend broke up. Leaving me short a bridesmaid, I asked my oldest brother’s girlfriend. I would have liked to have chosen someone I knew better, but it worked and that’s all that mattered.
All three of the ladies agreed on a simple navy blue dress that truly could be worn again. I purchased the dresses and all three said they would pay for them. The night of the rehearsal, one of my bridesmaids gave me a check for her dress and shoes. It was two weeks later that I learned that the check had bounced and I was out the $85 for the dress and shoes. A small price to pay for not having to find another replacement at the last minute.
I had asked my two brothers to be ushers at the wedding and asked the oldest of the two to do the music. We were married in a Church of Christ. This Church of Christ does not believe in having musical instruments in the church. It did, however, have a sounds system and cd player.
The night before the wedding, my oldest brother’s girlfriend and bridesmaid, informed me that because my brother couldn’t be in the wedding and stand opposite of her, he would not be helping anywhere else with the wedding.
During the rehearsal, I had to find an usher and someone to play the music we had chosen. Kent’s brother-in-law would be an usher and my cousin would take care of music.
It was also during rehearsal when I realized I would have a problem with a cousin. She was, much to my disbelief, taking on a role as personal attendant to the bride. She boldly stood in my place during the rehearsal and made herself at home giving orders to everyone. In all fairness to her, she did keep things in order during the wedding with the music. But imagine my fear as I saw her taking over, knowing that she was not always the most trustworthy person.
That night was the moment I also learned that my soon-to-be mother-in-law and sister-in-law would be wearing the exact same dress. They both were aware that they had chosen the same dress. Being strong-willed mother and daughter, neither of them would agree to exchange for a different dress. No way to avoid this catastrophe only hours away from the wedding.
The fact that Kent and I barely said a word to each other through the four days prior to the wedding might have led everyone to wonder why we were even getting married.
Finally, the morning of the wedding and I bet you think this story is about to reach it’s beautiful ending. Not yet, it’s just beginning!
That morning, I awoke to rain pounding on the roof. I know everyone says it’s good luck. But I needed a miracle and rain wasn’t part of that plan.
With everything I needed in hand, I headed for the church in the rain. Each of the ladies in my wedding party would get their hair done by a friend of the family at the church. And, one by one, each of them would leave in the rain or August post-rain humidity. One might think that a mature woman would understand why that was a bad idea.
I soon learned it wouldn’t matter anyway. Once my hair was done, we began taking group photos. I didn’t see Kent prior to the wedding, but we did all photos possible beforehand.
Our photographer was a friend of Kent’s family and was a complete amateur. You’ll hear more about the wedding photos later, but they are awful to say the least. She took all of us out in the hot, humid August weather to have photos taken. All hairdos were hair-undoes by the time we were finished.
Flat hair didn’t matter to me, this wedding was about to happen and be done.
As I continued to dress in the small cry room of the church, I got hit with one issue after another.
The cry room was in the lobby of the church. Each time someone came to ask a question or give me bad news, the door opened and every one walking through at the moment could see me getting ready.
We had sent 100 invitations and had 89 people RSVP. The church has a capacity of 212 people. Because of my grandma’s death, we had family and friends who decided to show up. People who weren’t invited and people who hadn’t sent an RSVP walked through the door, filling this small church. With over 15 minutes left until the wedding, we already had people standing at the back of the sanctuary.
The first visit to my dressing room was my future mother-in-law. Her only comment to me was about my dress or maybe more so about me. She said without pause that if I had lost weight, my dress would have been beautiful on me. She turned and left before I had a chance to pick my chin up off the floor.
She was followed by a stream of older women from both sides of the family who were insistent on talking about losing my grandma.
Minutes to go, nothing else can go wrong. Right?
Wrong!
I get a very upset relative coming in stating there are not enough corsages to give to all the females in the wedding party. How could I be two short? I planned the flowers with precision and with one spare of everything. With my grandma gone, there should have been two extra. I told the family member to make sure mothers and grandmothers had flowers and someone would have to go without.
It was only long after the wedding was over that I would learn where the extra flowers had gone. My cousin, a.k.a. my uninvited personal attendant, had taken one corsage for herself. I’ll explain more later, but she gave her mother one as well and she kept one.
I can hear the music as the next person runs to me with a problem. It is Kent’s niece, one of our candle lighters. With all the men in place, Kent’s nephew Zack was our ring bearer. Sticking to tradition, I did put our wedding rings on the pillow. Zack, who was 5, had gotten a few steps down the aisle only to get scared and run with the ring pillow to the bathroom.
One of Kent’s brothers left the alter to get Zack out of the bathroom. He was carried down the aisle and yet another catastrophe was avoided.
One by one, everyone got down the aisle. The only one left was me. I stood there with my dad. The only reason my dad was allowed to walk me down the aisle was to keep with tradition and to avoid questions. While waiting our turn, my dad turned to me and in all honesty said that he felt sorry for Kent. He truly did and does believe that Kent could have done better than me for a wife.
Being a bit of a controlling person, I wrote and scripted our entire wedding. I felt as though it was important for both sets of parents to come to the alter once I arrived. The pastor asked each set of parents if they not only gave their child into this marriage but accepted the other as part of their family. As it was time for my in-laws to do their part, there was a sickening silence and an obviously reluctant agreement.
They all returned to their seats and the candle lighters came forward. I should have guessed that with three 9 year-old girls there would be some kind of problem. My two cousins lit their candles and all was fine. Kent’s niece could not keep her lighter going and her candles lit. Very loudly, she yelled to her mom that it wasn’t working. She stopped trying, started crying and finally ran off the stage. Another crisis, over.
The rest of the wedding went as planned.
Thinking again that it must be over? You would be wrong, again!
Everyone headed to the reception. Kent and I were still barely speaking to each other. I wasn’t even sure if I would be riding with him to the reception.
I had planned the reception and made changes when I knew there would be additional guests. I had chosen some friends to cut the cake and handle the gifts and guestbook.
Remember the missing flower that was given to my aunt? At the reception, my aunt informed one of my friends that they were no longer needed at the cake table. She took over and had no idea what my plans were. She started to cut cake before we arrived. Thankfully one of my stronger willed friends kept her from cutting our smallest cake that we had planned to freeze.
For the most part, our reception went as planned. When we lined up for the receiving line, my mom threw a childish fit. She wanted to be the last person in line. My mom isn’t an emotional or gracious person. As people would pass through the line, she would barely look at them and refused to shake a hand.
By this time, most of the photos had been taken and my mother-in-law was already angry. Even though it was her friend who took the photos and she had met with her, someone had overlooked the fact that she wanted a photo of her family. When I say her family, I mean without me! Hadn’t we just gone over that whole “united as one” thing? At least with her pouting, she was out of my hair for the time being.
As we got ready to leave, we were prepared for the traditional throwing of bird seed. In true redneck fashion, my family was ready to pelt us and they did. We both got bird seed in the mouth and nose. I not only got bird seed in my eyes, but I got a corneal abrasion that would cause a blurry, watery eye for days.
Now, it was time to clean up. I headed in to change out of my dress, which was a relief. The wedding was over, the dress was off and all the catastrophes were over.
As I began to clean up, I realized that most of our centerpieces were missing. My all too helpful cousin had been giving them away to her friends. There were two left, all was good.
We couldn’t leave as planned for our honeymoon because of the funeral. Both sides of the family met at my grandparents house that evening. There is nothing quite like spending your wedding night with all of your family, right?
Everyone fed on the many, many meals that people had dropped off. We were exhausted, but everyone insisted that we open our wedding gifts.
I think it must have been our exhaustion that kept us from noticing at the time, but some of our gifts were disappearing. I remember unwrapping some beautiful candlestick holders, placemats, crystal vase, photo albums and cookware that were never found. When I found them in the list that was made as we opened gifts, I knew I hadn’t imagined those wonderful gifts. Someone in one of our families had taken our wedding gifts when nobody was looking. It was odd sending thank you cards for gifts I never got!
We spent our wedding night at my grandparents house listening to a relative snore on the couch in the next room.
The next day was the visitation for my grandma. I had stayed busy enough that I missed most of the many weird trips to the funeral home to visit my grandma’s body. During those times, my family left notes, games, and other obscure things in the casket with her. As I walked in, I saw the last missing corsage. My cousin and aunt had made a decision to take one of them from the wedding and pin it on my grandma.
That Sunday and Monday are foggy at best and went fast.
Because of the timing of the funeral, Kent was unable to return the tuxes on time. He had to pay an additional day on all of them. Oh, did I mention my dad refused to pay for his tux and Kent paid for it?
Thinking it must be over? No, there’s one more thing!
We arrived in Eureka Springs, AR on Monday afternoon. Finally, we were beginning our married life with our honeymoon. After checking into our room, we ate at a restaurant that was recommended to us by the desk clerk at the hotel.
Just a few hours after eating, Kent became very sick. We are almost positive that he was the recipient of food poisoning because he spent the rest of the honeymoon sick.
We obviously survived each and every hurdle. But to say the odds were stacked against us getting a good start in married life would be an understatement.
Yes, I have to laugh when I think of the chain of events.
Yes, Kent and I could have given up and walked away at any time.
I have to believe that it was God’s plan for us to be married. Even though I didn’t grasp what it meant to believe in God then, I believe God was working on me. I think God knew I would need a reminder for the rest of my life that when He plans something, He will make it happen.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Even the Dogs
For reasons I cannot yet explain, we have created a routine where Kent takes the dogs with him when he goes to bed.
The lab is unphased by the whole event and is willing to change her sleeping location at whatever time. But the two little ones are beginning to remind me of children.
Each night when Kent gets ready for bed, they both run to me, crawl on my lap and cling to me. Even when Kent picks them up to carry them to the bedroom, they fight to get back to me.
Tonight was especially hard. I fought back tears as I began to understand the big picture.
Gizmo, the smallest, is around a year old. Since we adopted him last October, he has always been particularly attached to me.
Since we've had him, he spends most nights and sometimes all night sitting up with me. He never leaves my side and it aware of every move I make.
He has a desire, if not need, to be near me. I am his safety, his provider and his protector. When he is afraid of thunder, he runs to me. When he wants something, he comes to me.
I realized that even my dog has an inherant need to be cared for and loved.
It is during this time of him being a puppy, that he will learn that I am happy to love him and meet all his needs. For a dog, I'm sure now is the time when the loyalty to an owner is developed. Meeting his needs now, may very well lead to him being a loving dog when he is older.
As I lost the fought with the tears, I understood how important it is for an infant, tolder and child of every age to be loved and have their needs met.
A parent's failure to meet a child's needs or love them can and will damage the child and the relationship.
Lucky for Gizmo, I will never intentionally fail to meet his needs. And, I don't think I could ever stop loving him.
Although I struggle to always remember this, I do know God will never fail to love us. I don't think we ever have to worry the He will forget to love us or feed us or want us or meet our needs.
God, please remind me to run to you when I'm scared. Please remind me to come to you when I am in need. And, please, oh please, remind me that You are everything and will give me everything I need.
The lab is unphased by the whole event and is willing to change her sleeping location at whatever time. But the two little ones are beginning to remind me of children.
Each night when Kent gets ready for bed, they both run to me, crawl on my lap and cling to me. Even when Kent picks them up to carry them to the bedroom, they fight to get back to me.
Tonight was especially hard. I fought back tears as I began to understand the big picture.
Gizmo, the smallest, is around a year old. Since we adopted him last October, he has always been particularly attached to me.
Since we've had him, he spends most nights and sometimes all night sitting up with me. He never leaves my side and it aware of every move I make.
He has a desire, if not need, to be near me. I am his safety, his provider and his protector. When he is afraid of thunder, he runs to me. When he wants something, he comes to me.
I realized that even my dog has an inherant need to be cared for and loved.
It is during this time of him being a puppy, that he will learn that I am happy to love him and meet all his needs. For a dog, I'm sure now is the time when the loyalty to an owner is developed. Meeting his needs now, may very well lead to him being a loving dog when he is older.
As I lost the fought with the tears, I understood how important it is for an infant, tolder and child of every age to be loved and have their needs met.
A parent's failure to meet a child's needs or love them can and will damage the child and the relationship.
Lucky for Gizmo, I will never intentionally fail to meet his needs. And, I don't think I could ever stop loving him.
Although I struggle to always remember this, I do know God will never fail to love us. I don't think we ever have to worry the He will forget to love us or feed us or want us or meet our needs.
God, please remind me to run to you when I'm scared. Please remind me to come to you when I am in need. And, please, oh please, remind me that You are everything and will give me everything I need.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Road to Salvation, Part 9
Yes!
The pastor spent the next hour sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ with me.
God had loved me that much. He had sent his one and only son to die on the cross for me.
Before leaving the pastor’s office that day, I prayed along with the pastor and accepted Christ as my savior.
While I have spent the past few years trying to understand the enormity of the gift God has given us, I have never doubted what the pastor said to me that day.
Once God had used this pastor to help break the chains and soften my heart, my checklist became a real working document for me to learn from and allowed me to introduce a new truth to my life.
Never will I tell you that finding salvation has made my life easier. In fact, in many ways, it has become more difficult. I have learned that once you become a follower of Christ, Satan begins an intricate plan to draw you back.
Once I realized God grieved all that had happened to me, I had to begin the painful process of applying God’s truth to every one of those things and many more I was unaware of at the time.
I will be forever thankful that a wonderful pastor with no hidden agenda, no preconceived notions of changing me, followed a divine plan set for me by God and allowed himself to be used on my road to salvation.
"For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved." (Romans 10:13)
The pastor spent the next hour sharing the gospel of Jesus Christ with me.
God had loved me that much. He had sent his one and only son to die on the cross for me.
Before leaving the pastor’s office that day, I prayed along with the pastor and accepted Christ as my savior.
While I have spent the past few years trying to understand the enormity of the gift God has given us, I have never doubted what the pastor said to me that day.
Once God had used this pastor to help break the chains and soften my heart, my checklist became a real working document for me to learn from and allowed me to introduce a new truth to my life.
Never will I tell you that finding salvation has made my life easier. In fact, in many ways, it has become more difficult. I have learned that once you become a follower of Christ, Satan begins an intricate plan to draw you back.
Once I realized God grieved all that had happened to me, I had to begin the painful process of applying God’s truth to every one of those things and many more I was unaware of at the time.
I will be forever thankful that a wonderful pastor with no hidden agenda, no preconceived notions of changing me, followed a divine plan set for me by God and allowed himself to be used on my road to salvation.
"For whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved." (Romans 10:13)
Road to Salvation, Part 8
The pastor looked at me and without any hesitation asked, “Did you ever wonder where God was during those times?” He followed by saying that I must have.
What a simple, yet profound question. Of course I had wondered where God was during those times. Especially over the past several months in hearing week after week how good God was. Even if I hadn’t wondered then, I was wondering now.
Yes, where had God been? Again, without any hesitation or without me even asking, he offered an explanation to me. What he gave me would not answer the question, but it would break the chains that were wrapped tightly around my heart. I had no reason to trust a stranger, let alone a male. But, I’m convinced God had prepared me to hear what was about to be said by giving me an overwhelming sense that what was about to be said was truth.
The pastor said to me that he knew those things that had happened had broken God’s heart. He said he knew that God grieved over those things that had happened.
My exterior may have held a look of disbelief. But, inside I was shedding tears of joy. I remember today the thoughts that swirled in my head.
God really cared so much that it hurt Him to see me hurt? Could God really love me that much? Could the same God who I had read created the earth really care about me and what happened to me?
What a simple, yet profound question. Of course I had wondered where God was during those times. Especially over the past several months in hearing week after week how good God was. Even if I hadn’t wondered then, I was wondering now.
Yes, where had God been? Again, without any hesitation or without me even asking, he offered an explanation to me. What he gave me would not answer the question, but it would break the chains that were wrapped tightly around my heart. I had no reason to trust a stranger, let alone a male. But, I’m convinced God had prepared me to hear what was about to be said by giving me an overwhelming sense that what was about to be said was truth.
The pastor said to me that he knew those things that had happened had broken God’s heart. He said he knew that God grieved over those things that had happened.
My exterior may have held a look of disbelief. But, inside I was shedding tears of joy. I remember today the thoughts that swirled in my head.
God really cared so much that it hurt Him to see me hurt? Could God really love me that much? Could the same God who I had read created the earth really care about me and what happened to me?
Road to Salvation, Part 7
On August 3, 2007, I walked into the church with my checklist but many questions that muddied the waters floating in my head.
My first thought upon meeting the pastor was that he was even less intimidating standing face to face and not at the pulpit. The pulpit seemed to have a power with it that was missing face to face. I knew this would be easy. He would confirm that I was right and I would walk out.
As I sat down in his office, I shared with him that his sermons had caused me to start to think about Christianity.
Before I realized it and before he could even begin to explain, I boldly shared with him the surface of the reasons I could never believe what I knew he would try to tell me.
His puzzled look shifted to one of concern. He was a pastor, so I was sure he must be used to showing concern. And, I knew after I was finished sharing, he would be ready for me to leave.
Once I gave him a chance to talk, the pastor asked me a question which would change my life.
My first thought upon meeting the pastor was that he was even less intimidating standing face to face and not at the pulpit. The pulpit seemed to have a power with it that was missing face to face. I knew this would be easy. He would confirm that I was right and I would walk out.
As I sat down in his office, I shared with him that his sermons had caused me to start to think about Christianity.
Before I realized it and before he could even begin to explain, I boldly shared with him the surface of the reasons I could never believe what I knew he would try to tell me.
His puzzled look shifted to one of concern. He was a pastor, so I was sure he must be used to showing concern. And, I knew after I was finished sharing, he would be ready for me to leave.
Once I gave him a chance to talk, the pastor asked me a question which would change my life.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Road to Salvation, Part 6
Never going back to church again would remain true for me until I began the process of getting married. I chose to take as much God out of my wedding vows and was never comfortable with being married in a church. Being married in a church was again something I did only to appease my future husband and his parents.
Each of these experiences were on my checklist of reasons why I would never believe in God. Yes, it was a checklist that I firmly believed kept me safe from ever having to change the way I thought about God or church.
The sermons on Proverbs came to an end, but the stirring inside of me was just beginning. The pastor talked directly to me from the pulpit every week, but I knew he could never get me to change my thoughts on God. Even though it was completely out of character for me to meet with a strange man, I had the need to meet with the pastor. I wanted an opportunity to explain why I could never believe in God.
I scheduled a time to meet with him and was ready to tell him why I felt God didn’t fit in my life. I was willing to listen to what he had to say, but was prepared to stand my ground. I had a solid case to not believe in God, so what could he ever say to change my mind?
Nothing!
Each of these experiences were on my checklist of reasons why I would never believe in God. Yes, it was a checklist that I firmly believed kept me safe from ever having to change the way I thought about God or church.
The sermons on Proverbs came to an end, but the stirring inside of me was just beginning. The pastor talked directly to me from the pulpit every week, but I knew he could never get me to change my thoughts on God. Even though it was completely out of character for me to meet with a strange man, I had the need to meet with the pastor. I wanted an opportunity to explain why I could never believe in God.
I scheduled a time to meet with him and was ready to tell him why I felt God didn’t fit in my life. I was willing to listen to what he had to say, but was prepared to stand my ground. I had a solid case to not believe in God, so what could he ever say to change my mind?
Nothing!
Road to Salvation, Part 5
In upper elementary years, I became very curious about church. All of the kids at school talked about church. It was another way that I knew I did not fit in with everyone around me. Although I don’t remember the details, a friend of my mom’s took me to a Baptist church with her.
I wore the best clothes I had, which were stained shirts, pants with holes in them and shoes that had tape holding them together. I sat and listened, even though I didn’t understand anything that was said. When I returned home with activity sheets and bibles, my dad always took them away from me or made me throw them away. Every time, he warned me to not go again.
The last time I went to that church was Easter Sunday. The lady who picked me up gave me a purple dress and white shoes. I got to change before church started. I sat and listened to a story about Jesus. I didn’t know who that was, but I felt good in my pretty new dress. For one of the only times I can remember, I felt like somebody cared about me. Church was merely a background thought that day. The beauty of the day ended the minute I walked back in the door of my house. In his anger, my dad punished me for disobeying him. He destroyed the dress and threw the shoes away. My fear of being punished again would swallow any desire I had to go back to church.
During the same year, I developed my extreme distrust of people in church. My grandparents lived across the street from a Catholic church, where a Priest and Nun lived in a small house. My cousin, who had molested me for many years, often took me to a secluded area of trees in the church yard. The trees would hide the awful things he would do to me.
As he followed his normal routine on one day when I was nine at the church yard, I looked at the house that was only a few feet away. There my eyes were met by the Priest who was standing in the window watching every moment of what was happening. Only after our eyes met did he close the blind. As a nine year-old child, I never understood why an adult would not have stopped my cousin. My first and only thought, people in churches did not care about me.
It was an easy decision to make that day with all of my nine years of life experience that I would never go back in a church again.
I wore the best clothes I had, which were stained shirts, pants with holes in them and shoes that had tape holding them together. I sat and listened, even though I didn’t understand anything that was said. When I returned home with activity sheets and bibles, my dad always took them away from me or made me throw them away. Every time, he warned me to not go again.
The last time I went to that church was Easter Sunday. The lady who picked me up gave me a purple dress and white shoes. I got to change before church started. I sat and listened to a story about Jesus. I didn’t know who that was, but I felt good in my pretty new dress. For one of the only times I can remember, I felt like somebody cared about me. Church was merely a background thought that day. The beauty of the day ended the minute I walked back in the door of my house. In his anger, my dad punished me for disobeying him. He destroyed the dress and threw the shoes away. My fear of being punished again would swallow any desire I had to go back to church.
During the same year, I developed my extreme distrust of people in church. My grandparents lived across the street from a Catholic church, where a Priest and Nun lived in a small house. My cousin, who had molested me for many years, often took me to a secluded area of trees in the church yard. The trees would hide the awful things he would do to me.
As he followed his normal routine on one day when I was nine at the church yard, I looked at the house that was only a few feet away. There my eyes were met by the Priest who was standing in the window watching every moment of what was happening. Only after our eyes met did he close the blind. As a nine year-old child, I never understood why an adult would not have stopped my cousin. My first and only thought, people in churches did not care about me.
It was an easy decision to make that day with all of my nine years of life experience that I would never go back in a church again.
Road to Salvation, Part 4
Through the next month, I would begin to ask Kent about his own faith and start my mental checklist of all the reasons why I would never believe in God.
My entire life was filled with time after time of learning that the word God was bad, churches were awful and people in the church were better than me. While I know that seems extreme, I think it was a normal perception for anyone who had endured a life like mine.
As a young child, my dad was very outspoken against God. The seed he planted with me was, first and foremost, that there was not a God. If there was a God, then bad things wouldn’t have to happen to me. Even if there was a God somewhere in this big world, then he would never care about a little girl whose parents didn’t love her. Yes, those were the seeds he planted through his words and his actions. He was not afraid to prove his theory to me over and over.
It was not uncommon for people from “the church” to visit our house on the weekend. I would later learn that they were Jehovah Witness and Seventh Day Adventist, mostly. I grew up in a very church oriented town who boasts one of the oldest religious parades and celebrations each year. When the church people would knock on the door, we were all forced to hide in the stairway and remain quiet until they were long gone. If any of us didn’t move to the hiding place fast enough or dare to make a noise, we faced the wrath of my dad once the coast was clear.
In my early elementary years, we received New Testaments at school. To prove his point that bibles, religion and God were not allowed in the door of our house, my dad would take the small bibles from us as soon as he found them. He would take them and the bibles left by the church people to his shop and burn them. If he saw that any of us were particularly attached to the small book, he would force us to throw the book into the fire.
Neither my brothers nor myself saw the small bibles as anything more than a gift that someone had given us. My dad, however, saw them as a threat. It was difficult for any of us to understand how something that was given as a gift could arouse such hatred in my dad. But, we would follow his rules on this. It was rare that any gift would be worth the punishment of fighting for with my dad.
My entire life was filled with time after time of learning that the word God was bad, churches were awful and people in the church were better than me. While I know that seems extreme, I think it was a normal perception for anyone who had endured a life like mine.
As a young child, my dad was very outspoken against God. The seed he planted with me was, first and foremost, that there was not a God. If there was a God, then bad things wouldn’t have to happen to me. Even if there was a God somewhere in this big world, then he would never care about a little girl whose parents didn’t love her. Yes, those were the seeds he planted through his words and his actions. He was not afraid to prove his theory to me over and over.
It was not uncommon for people from “the church” to visit our house on the weekend. I would later learn that they were Jehovah Witness and Seventh Day Adventist, mostly. I grew up in a very church oriented town who boasts one of the oldest religious parades and celebrations each year. When the church people would knock on the door, we were all forced to hide in the stairway and remain quiet until they were long gone. If any of us didn’t move to the hiding place fast enough or dare to make a noise, we faced the wrath of my dad once the coast was clear.
In my early elementary years, we received New Testaments at school. To prove his point that bibles, religion and God were not allowed in the door of our house, my dad would take the small bibles from us as soon as he found them. He would take them and the bibles left by the church people to his shop and burn them. If he saw that any of us were particularly attached to the small book, he would force us to throw the book into the fire.
Neither my brothers nor myself saw the small bibles as anything more than a gift that someone had given us. My dad, however, saw them as a threat. It was difficult for any of us to understand how something that was given as a gift could arouse such hatred in my dad. But, we would follow his rules on this. It was rare that any gift would be worth the punishment of fighting for with my dad.
Road to Salvation, Part 3
As summer began, the pastor completed Acts and started preaching on Proverbs. I don’t remember what the topic was, but one Sunday I began to pay attention. The following week, we moved up a few rows. That week’s sermon was on another topic that felt very personal to me. The man sitting nearby who kept loudly proclaiming “Amen” was a little distracting and was the reason I used to move up even closer the following week.
The next week, the pastor talked specifically about alcohol and how it destroys lives and homes. Through the entire sermon, I became very aware that my eyes and ears were wide open. At times, it felt like the pastor was looking at and talking to me and me only.
How could he have known that I had watched alcohol destroys the lives of people around me? How could he have known that I had used alcohol as an escape in my own life? How could he have known that I had a cabinet of liquor at home that I was saving for the next time I didn’t want to feel?
The pastor’s words became very real to me that day. I don’t think I heard or made any connection to God. I knew what he talked about came from the bible and thought I would find every word he said in the bible. I didn’t understand then that a sermon wasn’t just a reading from the bible.
Because I was not familiar with church, I also thought the people standing on the stage were the children’s church leaders. It made sense to me that they gathered there and left when the children’s church was dismissed. Of course, I later learned that was the choir.
The next week, the pastor talked specifically about alcohol and how it destroys lives and homes. Through the entire sermon, I became very aware that my eyes and ears were wide open. At times, it felt like the pastor was looking at and talking to me and me only.
How could he have known that I had watched alcohol destroys the lives of people around me? How could he have known that I had used alcohol as an escape in my own life? How could he have known that I had a cabinet of liquor at home that I was saving for the next time I didn’t want to feel?
The pastor’s words became very real to me that day. I don’t think I heard or made any connection to God. I knew what he talked about came from the bible and thought I would find every word he said in the bible. I didn’t understand then that a sermon wasn’t just a reading from the bible.
Because I was not familiar with church, I also thought the people standing on the stage were the children’s church leaders. It made sense to me that they gathered there and left when the children’s church was dismissed. Of course, I later learned that was the choir.
Road to Salvation, Part 2
We arrived just after the greeting time and were able to escape the uncomfortable handshakes with all of these strangers. Nobody seemed to notice us sitting in the back row and we were more than ok with that. While not much stood out to me that day more than my own uncomfortable feelings, I can remember one of the songs so very clearly. Here I am to Worship. It had a beat that would stick with me and a message that I wouldn’t understand until much later. I would find myself later that day downloading this catchy new tune I had heard.
We managed to escape the church that first Sunday with only one lady talking to us. She had a warm, friendly face. We took the coffee mug she handed us and the literature. The coffee mug went to my office and the literature went in the trash. I had sat through a sermon, I certainly felt no obligation to read what she had given me.
The next day, I received a call at work from Kent. He said two men from the church had come by and left a bag of cookies. He said the men were nice, but didn’t share much more. I was incredibly glad I had chosen to work late and missed them all together.
Because the church experience wasn’t completely awkward, we decided to go back the following week. The pastor was preaching on Acts and Kent seemed to enjoy going. I would keep to myself during the handshakes and avoided all contact and conversation with everyone. I but mostly fidgeted in my chair hoping nobody would make eye contact with me. Kent seemed to be getting what he thought he needed from going each week.
For a few months, we began to grow more and more comfortable in the back row. I, on the other hand, was going merely to appease my husband. I didn’t pay attention to what was being said, rarely shook anyone’s hand and genuinely didn’t care to be sitting in church each week. I even made sure that Kent never put more than two dollars in the collection plate each week. And, while I love singing, I didn’t care to join in with everyone as they sang. To me, this was still just a phase my husband was going through and I was biding my time waiting for him to be done over it.
We managed to escape the church that first Sunday with only one lady talking to us. She had a warm, friendly face. We took the coffee mug she handed us and the literature. The coffee mug went to my office and the literature went in the trash. I had sat through a sermon, I certainly felt no obligation to read what she had given me.
The next day, I received a call at work from Kent. He said two men from the church had come by and left a bag of cookies. He said the men were nice, but didn’t share much more. I was incredibly glad I had chosen to work late and missed them all together.
Because the church experience wasn’t completely awkward, we decided to go back the following week. The pastor was preaching on Acts and Kent seemed to enjoy going. I would keep to myself during the handshakes and avoided all contact and conversation with everyone. I but mostly fidgeted in my chair hoping nobody would make eye contact with me. Kent seemed to be getting what he thought he needed from going each week.
For a few months, we began to grow more and more comfortable in the back row. I, on the other hand, was going merely to appease my husband. I didn’t pay attention to what was being said, rarely shook anyone’s hand and genuinely didn’t care to be sitting in church each week. I even made sure that Kent never put more than two dollars in the collection plate each week. And, while I love singing, I didn’t care to join in with everyone as they sang. To me, this was still just a phase my husband was going through and I was biding my time waiting for him to be done over it.
Road to Salvation, Part 1
In the spring of 2007, Kent and I were faced with the reality that we were in financial ruin. As a planner, I went the route of finding a way out of the mess. Kent, who had never been strong in faith but was a believer, turned to God.
Although we weren’t sure how to crawl out of the hole we were in, Kent was very firm in his belief that we needed to go to church. He told me to pick a church and we would be going the next Sunday, the week after Easter. I was certain that going to church would not fix our problem, but agreed to give Kent what he wanted.
With as little as I believed or knew about church, I could not understand how sitting in a church building on Sunday morning would change anything that was happening in our lives. It was just a building. In fact, I looked at church as only a building and religion as just something people do.
At Kent’s request, I searched websites of churches in Lee’s Summit, not really knowing what I was looking for at the time. I stumbled onto the Summit Woods Baptist Church website only because it was at the top of the search list. Once on the site, I found the “My First Visit” section. Of all the information on the page, the sentence that stuck out like a neon flashing sign was “Don’t worry, we don’t ask our guests to stand up or do anything to cause attention!” That’s all I needed. Next Sunday, we would walk through the doors of Summit Woods Baptist Church.
I spent the entire week trying to convince Kent that we did not need to go to church. I explained over and over that churches were all bad and that the people in them would never welcome us. It was with great reluctance that I agreed to get married in a church and I had spent almost 10 years avoiding another visit to any church. Since I took responsibility for where we were at financially, I felt an obligation to do what Kent had asked. So, off to church we would go.
Although we weren’t sure how to crawl out of the hole we were in, Kent was very firm in his belief that we needed to go to church. He told me to pick a church and we would be going the next Sunday, the week after Easter. I was certain that going to church would not fix our problem, but agreed to give Kent what he wanted.
With as little as I believed or knew about church, I could not understand how sitting in a church building on Sunday morning would change anything that was happening in our lives. It was just a building. In fact, I looked at church as only a building and religion as just something people do.
At Kent’s request, I searched websites of churches in Lee’s Summit, not really knowing what I was looking for at the time. I stumbled onto the Summit Woods Baptist Church website only because it was at the top of the search list. Once on the site, I found the “My First Visit” section. Of all the information on the page, the sentence that stuck out like a neon flashing sign was “Don’t worry, we don’t ask our guests to stand up or do anything to cause attention!” That’s all I needed. Next Sunday, we would walk through the doors of Summit Woods Baptist Church.
I spent the entire week trying to convince Kent that we did not need to go to church. I explained over and over that churches were all bad and that the people in them would never welcome us. It was with great reluctance that I agreed to get married in a church and I had spent almost 10 years avoiding another visit to any church. Since I took responsibility for where we were at financially, I felt an obligation to do what Kent had asked. So, off to church we would go.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Rethinking
I have spent the last two days unfolding yet another piece of my past. It's like pulling gym clothes out of a bag and unfolding the pieces one by one, not knowing what kind of mess you will find.
One of the hardest parts of the unfolding is trying to reform my way of thinking about life. Around each corner, I find yet another place where I come face to face with what I previously thought was real with a light shining on the truth. Most of the time, what I thought was real and what is true are two completely different things.
If you had asked me throughout my life what my childhood was like, I would have been completely honest with you. I had good grades, I was happy, my dad was mean and I had a cousin who molested me. I may have not shared the part about my cousin so willingly, but that is exactly what I said and believed about my past.
On August 3, 2007, a light began to shine in my life. That was the day I accepted that I was a sinner and that the only way to eternal salvation was through Christ. Little did I know, another light would soon begin shining in my life. The light of truth shown brightly on a past that was dark and hidden.
The box I had neatly packed all the truth of my life in was bursting open. Everything I knew as real was changing day by day. I didn't have a choice, I had to rethink and reform every thought I had about my life.
For me, that was like thinking the sky was green only to find out after 32 years that it was in fact, blue. That kind of thinking is difficult to change and at times, feels impossible. It's hard to know something one day and be told the next that it is all wrong.
It has taken lots of time, but I have completely reformed what I believe about my childhood. Ask me, I'll tell you what I now believe the truth to be. Yes, I did get good grades and my cousin did moleste me. Yes, my dad was mean, but mean doesn't fairly depict who my dad really was. No, I was not happy. Yes, there is a lot more abuse and dysfunction than I ever thought possible.
Just as I have many times over the past two years, I am again faced with believing one thing but the truth being completely different. And, just like all the other times, I'm doing my best to rethink what I knew and let the light shine on the truth. It's once again difficult to accept truth over what I know.
Once again, I feel overwhelmed by having to rethink what I believed to be true. I hope in six months, I can look at this time too and be able to say, "When I finally accepted what was true, I was able to never be bound by that horrific memory again."
The beauty of rethinking and accepting what is really true is feeling the bonds of your heart disappearing. Oh, I long for that day once again.
One of the hardest parts of the unfolding is trying to reform my way of thinking about life. Around each corner, I find yet another place where I come face to face with what I previously thought was real with a light shining on the truth. Most of the time, what I thought was real and what is true are two completely different things.
If you had asked me throughout my life what my childhood was like, I would have been completely honest with you. I had good grades, I was happy, my dad was mean and I had a cousin who molested me. I may have not shared the part about my cousin so willingly, but that is exactly what I said and believed about my past.
On August 3, 2007, a light began to shine in my life. That was the day I accepted that I was a sinner and that the only way to eternal salvation was through Christ. Little did I know, another light would soon begin shining in my life. The light of truth shown brightly on a past that was dark and hidden.
The box I had neatly packed all the truth of my life in was bursting open. Everything I knew as real was changing day by day. I didn't have a choice, I had to rethink and reform every thought I had about my life.
For me, that was like thinking the sky was green only to find out after 32 years that it was in fact, blue. That kind of thinking is difficult to change and at times, feels impossible. It's hard to know something one day and be told the next that it is all wrong.
It has taken lots of time, but I have completely reformed what I believe about my childhood. Ask me, I'll tell you what I now believe the truth to be. Yes, I did get good grades and my cousin did moleste me. Yes, my dad was mean, but mean doesn't fairly depict who my dad really was. No, I was not happy. Yes, there is a lot more abuse and dysfunction than I ever thought possible.
Just as I have many times over the past two years, I am again faced with believing one thing but the truth being completely different. And, just like all the other times, I'm doing my best to rethink what I knew and let the light shine on the truth. It's once again difficult to accept truth over what I know.
Once again, I feel overwhelmed by having to rethink what I believed to be true. I hope in six months, I can look at this time too and be able to say, "When I finally accepted what was true, I was able to never be bound by that horrific memory again."
The beauty of rethinking and accepting what is really true is feeling the bonds of your heart disappearing. Oh, I long for that day once again.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Precious
That's the word that's been running through my head a lot the past 24 hours. Precious.
By definition, precious means cherished, feeling or showing fond affection.
We use precious to describe babies. They are cherished, have high worth, and are undeniably desirable.
But what happens to a baby when they are not cherished or not treated as though they have a high worth? I was one of those children. I was not precious in the eyes of my parents. By their own admissions throughout my life, I was a burden. To them, I was so far from precious.
I watched the movie Precious yesterday. It's based on a novel and is not a true story. Sadly, parts of the story could have been pulled from the pages of my life long book.
Precious was a teenage girl who was far from being cherished. Her dad raped her and she had two children by him. Her mother abused her physically, emotionally and neglected every need. She was a lost child. Precious was intelligent who received very little from going to school. She was HIV positive from her father. The other kids in the neighborhood bullied her and treated her like the outcast she thought she was.
There is so much about that summary that is familiar to me, eerily familiar. It's a familiarity that most people would not understand and others would use to judge me.
I've struggled for the past couple years with my mother's part of my life. She didn't teach me anything. She saw what went on but never bothered to stop it. She never protected me. She never treated me like the precious child I was born to be. But why?
After watching this movie, I think I may have another theory of why my mother hated me and walked away from every motherly responsibility she had.
The mother in the movie Precious talked to a social worker about why she hated her daughter. She wanted her husband's attention on her and her only. She saw the awful things that he was doing to her and she never stopped it. Instead, she developed a hatred for her daughter. She blamed her daughter for what her husband did to her.
Watching this scene was like listening to my own mom. Although my mom never said anything like that to me, I believe she could have. My mom is incredibly selfish person. She really never cared about anyone but herself. She wanted to be precious and cherished by everyone. She could not ever see beyond her own self.
It's possible that my mom was much like this mother.
If she doesn't ever find her way to repentance, I hope that God does ask her someday why she failed in every way to care for her precious child.
By definition, precious means cherished, feeling or showing fond affection.
We use precious to describe babies. They are cherished, have high worth, and are undeniably desirable.
But what happens to a baby when they are not cherished or not treated as though they have a high worth? I was one of those children. I was not precious in the eyes of my parents. By their own admissions throughout my life, I was a burden. To them, I was so far from precious.
I watched the movie Precious yesterday. It's based on a novel and is not a true story. Sadly, parts of the story could have been pulled from the pages of my life long book.
Precious was a teenage girl who was far from being cherished. Her dad raped her and she had two children by him. Her mother abused her physically, emotionally and neglected every need. She was a lost child. Precious was intelligent who received very little from going to school. She was HIV positive from her father. The other kids in the neighborhood bullied her and treated her like the outcast she thought she was.
There is so much about that summary that is familiar to me, eerily familiar. It's a familiarity that most people would not understand and others would use to judge me.
I've struggled for the past couple years with my mother's part of my life. She didn't teach me anything. She saw what went on but never bothered to stop it. She never protected me. She never treated me like the precious child I was born to be. But why?
After watching this movie, I think I may have another theory of why my mother hated me and walked away from every motherly responsibility she had.
The mother in the movie Precious talked to a social worker about why she hated her daughter. She wanted her husband's attention on her and her only. She saw the awful things that he was doing to her and she never stopped it. Instead, she developed a hatred for her daughter. She blamed her daughter for what her husband did to her.
Watching this scene was like listening to my own mom. Although my mom never said anything like that to me, I believe she could have. My mom is incredibly selfish person. She really never cared about anyone but herself. She wanted to be precious and cherished by everyone. She could not ever see beyond her own self.
It's possible that my mom was much like this mother.
If she doesn't ever find her way to repentance, I hope that God does ask her someday why she failed in every way to care for her precious child.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Bigger than the average bear?
After reading the post I wrote last night, a friend asked me why I was so afraid to share what is going on in my life.
The point she made was well taken. She said that it would help to know more specifically how to pray for me and I so appreciate that. She said that we all go through trials in life. Again, her point was well taken.
I know that there are worse things I could be dealing with in life.
No, the doctor didn't walk in the room and tell me I have a stage four cancer with a two month death sentence. So, I know there are way worse things. I know there are other things in life that require even more treatment and are more urgent.
My counselor uses the phrase "Bigger than the average bear." While I haven't been handed a death sentence, I do have a problem with minimizing everything to do with my current and past issues. She has really helped me to begin to grasp the magnitude of issues by continuing to speak truth about them.
To address the thought that we all go through tough times, I can fully appreciate that as I'm learning to not minimize every situation. For me, my issues are big because they spiraled out of control until they knocked me on my emotional and mental and physical butt.
I have been dealing with post traumatic stress for many years, although only diagnosed in the past 18 months. I did my best for over 34 years to not allow the PTSD to keep me from putting on a happy face and living my life without everyone around me knowing the struggles I went through, daily.
After several years, the PTSD wiped me out. I have gone months without sleeping more than a few hours a day. Flashbacks have put me in precarious positions at work, at home and even in public places. With those things alone, I feel fortunate to have been able to maintain a job and as many relationships as I have over the past few years.
With the most recent diagnosis and symptomology that has come with it, I cannot work. I cannot drive. I cannot be in busy, loud places.
So, to address the other point, I'd like to be able to say "just cause." I realize it is hard to be understanding when you don't know what it is that you need to be understanding of.
But friends, what I am dealing with is "bigger than the average bear." It is for me and I know it would be for those who care about me as well.
For my therapist, I may fit a certain criteria for a diagnosis. My diagnosis may be more common than what I realize. My insurance company may know that I am a five digit medical code. I may be all those things and more in the medical world.
BUT, I'm still me. My mental disorder may be smacking me in the face right now, but I try my best to not lose sight of the fact that I am still a human and not a label.
You may still be asking why I am so protective of a diagnosis.
Even though it is a big part of my life right now, I am still struggling to understand the diagnosis I have been given. My husband, my counselor, and a couple friends are literally feeling our way through this process right now. We are all at a disadvantage in that none of us have the support or knowledge of others who have been through this same disorder.
The one thing that I think we all agree on is that the disorder is misunderstood enough that the general public has many misconceptions about it. I believe that we all agree that there may be a time and place to share the information pieces at a time with those close to me. But, now is not the time. A time when we all better understand will be an easier time to share.
I truely hate that I cannot share fully with those close to me. Not only does it put a strain on relationships, but it leaves me feeling incredibly alone.
To those close to me who may continue to ask the questions, please remember that no, this is not my forever. The same applies to you and the relationship I have with each person. No, this is not my forever and yes, someday I will be able to share the amazing journey God has taken me through.
The point she made was well taken. She said that it would help to know more specifically how to pray for me and I so appreciate that. She said that we all go through trials in life. Again, her point was well taken.
I know that there are worse things I could be dealing with in life.
No, the doctor didn't walk in the room and tell me I have a stage four cancer with a two month death sentence. So, I know there are way worse things. I know there are other things in life that require even more treatment and are more urgent.
My counselor uses the phrase "Bigger than the average bear." While I haven't been handed a death sentence, I do have a problem with minimizing everything to do with my current and past issues. She has really helped me to begin to grasp the magnitude of issues by continuing to speak truth about them.
To address the thought that we all go through tough times, I can fully appreciate that as I'm learning to not minimize every situation. For me, my issues are big because they spiraled out of control until they knocked me on my emotional and mental and physical butt.
I have been dealing with post traumatic stress for many years, although only diagnosed in the past 18 months. I did my best for over 34 years to not allow the PTSD to keep me from putting on a happy face and living my life without everyone around me knowing the struggles I went through, daily.
After several years, the PTSD wiped me out. I have gone months without sleeping more than a few hours a day. Flashbacks have put me in precarious positions at work, at home and even in public places. With those things alone, I feel fortunate to have been able to maintain a job and as many relationships as I have over the past few years.
With the most recent diagnosis and symptomology that has come with it, I cannot work. I cannot drive. I cannot be in busy, loud places.
So, to address the other point, I'd like to be able to say "just cause." I realize it is hard to be understanding when you don't know what it is that you need to be understanding of.
But friends, what I am dealing with is "bigger than the average bear." It is for me and I know it would be for those who care about me as well.
For my therapist, I may fit a certain criteria for a diagnosis. My diagnosis may be more common than what I realize. My insurance company may know that I am a five digit medical code. I may be all those things and more in the medical world.
BUT, I'm still me. My mental disorder may be smacking me in the face right now, but I try my best to not lose sight of the fact that I am still a human and not a label.
You may still be asking why I am so protective of a diagnosis.
Even though it is a big part of my life right now, I am still struggling to understand the diagnosis I have been given. My husband, my counselor, and a couple friends are literally feeling our way through this process right now. We are all at a disadvantage in that none of us have the support or knowledge of others who have been through this same disorder.
The one thing that I think we all agree on is that the disorder is misunderstood enough that the general public has many misconceptions about it. I believe that we all agree that there may be a time and place to share the information pieces at a time with those close to me. But, now is not the time. A time when we all better understand will be an easier time to share.
I truely hate that I cannot share fully with those close to me. Not only does it put a strain on relationships, but it leaves me feeling incredibly alone.
To those close to me who may continue to ask the questions, please remember that no, this is not my forever. The same applies to you and the relationship I have with each person. No, this is not my forever and yes, someday I will be able to share the amazing journey God has taken me through.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Has it really been that long....
It's hard to believe that it has been since September that I have visited this blog. My life has taken many twists and turns since I last blogged here. In fact, I have started a new blog where I share my thoughts about all that is going on right now. Sadly though, I can't publish those things for the world to see at this time.
While it's freeing to be able to share some of the chains that have held our hearts for years and years, there are times that the journey needs to be kept a little more private.
I've stumbled through the past few months, knowing that the struggle I face right now is not one that the general public would understand. It's so hard to feel like those chains are lifted when you can't share the truth with those close to you.
Not that I am alone in this journey. I have my loving husband, who loves me no matter what the issue. I have a wonderful counselor, who despite my best attempts to push her away, has stayed by my side and reminded me that "No, this is NOT your forever." I have a therapist, who also despite my best attempts to take other paths, always manages to prove he does know more than me. And, I have two amazing confidants who allow me to be mad, be confused, talk through my anxieties and continue to remind me that they love me and will not judge me.
I know there are others who care and who likely wonder why I withdraw from them or large groups of people. I can only hope and pray that when the time comes to explain to them the journey I had to take, they will understand.
To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven: A time to kill, a time to heal; A time to break down, And a time to build up; A time to weep, And a time to laugh; A time to mourn, And a time to dance; Ecc 3:1,3-4.
The past two months, I have learned it's ok to fight for myself. Everyday seems to come with a unique fight. I've had to fight for rest. I have fought with insurance companies over my own standard of care. I have to fight the guilt of walking away from my job for now, daily. I have fought to understand. When Satan wages war against me every single night, I have to fight for my life.
I know I am learning lessons along the way. And, every once in while I get a glimpse of God. But, it's so hard to see, remember and hang onto those things when you are caught in the storm for so long.
Several people have asked what I need during this time. For so long, I really didn't know. It is only now that I know there are two things I desparately need get through this.
Prayer, lots and lots of prayer and not just for me. I need prayer for all those I listed above. I need them continue to stay healthy and strong, as well as steady in faith. It's taken a lot to trust each of them, but in God's timing that has happened and I know they are my foundation right now. I need prayer for so many others who care about me. Some of those people have been hurt, some may be confused by my actions. I need prayer that they will some day understand.
I need prayer for my family. None of my immediate family has a belief in Christ. My brothers and their families need prayer, not only for salvation, but also for healing.
The other thing I so desire and need right now are people who care to surround me and accept me. I struggle every day to understand and believe in God's love for me. Now, more than ever, I need those who care to show me that unconditional love of others does exist.
Not sleeping at night gives me plenty of time to pray for those around me. And yes, if you've gotten to the end of this entry, you too have been prayed for.
While it's freeing to be able to share some of the chains that have held our hearts for years and years, there are times that the journey needs to be kept a little more private.
I've stumbled through the past few months, knowing that the struggle I face right now is not one that the general public would understand. It's so hard to feel like those chains are lifted when you can't share the truth with those close to you.
Not that I am alone in this journey. I have my loving husband, who loves me no matter what the issue. I have a wonderful counselor, who despite my best attempts to push her away, has stayed by my side and reminded me that "No, this is NOT your forever." I have a therapist, who also despite my best attempts to take other paths, always manages to prove he does know more than me. And, I have two amazing confidants who allow me to be mad, be confused, talk through my anxieties and continue to remind me that they love me and will not judge me.
I know there are others who care and who likely wonder why I withdraw from them or large groups of people. I can only hope and pray that when the time comes to explain to them the journey I had to take, they will understand.
To everything there is a season, A time for every purpose under heaven: A time to kill, a time to heal; A time to break down, And a time to build up; A time to weep, And a time to laugh; A time to mourn, And a time to dance; Ecc 3:1,3-4.
The past two months, I have learned it's ok to fight for myself. Everyday seems to come with a unique fight. I've had to fight for rest. I have fought with insurance companies over my own standard of care. I have to fight the guilt of walking away from my job for now, daily. I have fought to understand. When Satan wages war against me every single night, I have to fight for my life.
I know I am learning lessons along the way. And, every once in while I get a glimpse of God. But, it's so hard to see, remember and hang onto those things when you are caught in the storm for so long.
Several people have asked what I need during this time. For so long, I really didn't know. It is only now that I know there are two things I desparately need get through this.
Prayer, lots and lots of prayer and not just for me. I need prayer for all those I listed above. I need them continue to stay healthy and strong, as well as steady in faith. It's taken a lot to trust each of them, but in God's timing that has happened and I know they are my foundation right now. I need prayer for so many others who care about me. Some of those people have been hurt, some may be confused by my actions. I need prayer that they will some day understand.
I need prayer for my family. None of my immediate family has a belief in Christ. My brothers and their families need prayer, not only for salvation, but also for healing.
The other thing I so desire and need right now are people who care to surround me and accept me. I struggle every day to understand and believe in God's love for me. Now, more than ever, I need those who care to show me that unconditional love of others does exist.
Not sleeping at night gives me plenty of time to pray for those around me. And yes, if you've gotten to the end of this entry, you too have been prayed for.
Friday, September 4, 2009
New Outlet
In walking around the past few weeks with several thoughts in my head, I finally realized that what better place than to put them than on a blog.
From a very young age, I loved writing. I wrote story after story throughout grade school of what I wanted everyone to think my family looked like. I wrote about how mom swiftly placed fresh squeezed orange juice on the table and headed back to tend to the eggs and bacon she was about to serve to us. We were all gathered around our beautiful dark, wood table as the rays from the sun kissed the tops of our heads. Dad only looked up from his newspaper long enough to shoot as a smile that contained so much love that it could carry us through the day.
Oh yes, my family was perfect in my own imagination.
In fifth grade, my ability to imagine a normal home life begin to fade and my creative writing quickly turned into a reality that was unacceptable. When my teacher gave the class an assignment to write about an after school activity, I doubt he was prepared for what I was going to hand to him. Although I changed the names in the story, what I gave him outlined a day in my life.
My teacher, who lived only a city block from my house, kept me after school. Paper in hand, he demanded that I explain to him why I failed to take the assignment seriously. In my attempt for someone to see my reality, I had failed and he was quick to show me. My teacher explained that my story was disgusting and if I wrote things like this, people might get the wrong idea about me and my family. He gave me until the next morning to repeat the assignment.
I remember so clearly sitting over a blank sheet of paper that evening and crying. I would not only never be able to write the truth, but I would never be able to tell the truth. I would never be able to tell anyone the reality of my life. As the routine of my home life played out that night as it normally did, I knew my life would never be any different.
Writing was one of the very few things that I enjoyed. I knew so young, in fifth grade, that if I wanted to write, I would have to write things that did not matter to me. I could no longer write creative stories, because it was too hard to know what was normal or not.
Once I reached high school, I was able to write for the newspaper and yearbook. That carried me through college and into my adult life. I was able to write, which I loved, but not let anyone into what my life was really like.
Today, I find myself sitting here still with the love of writing inside me. The difference is that I don't have to worry about what anyone says. I may not know what normal is, but I have nothing to hide from now.
From a very young age, I loved writing. I wrote story after story throughout grade school of what I wanted everyone to think my family looked like. I wrote about how mom swiftly placed fresh squeezed orange juice on the table and headed back to tend to the eggs and bacon she was about to serve to us. We were all gathered around our beautiful dark, wood table as the rays from the sun kissed the tops of our heads. Dad only looked up from his newspaper long enough to shoot as a smile that contained so much love that it could carry us through the day.
Oh yes, my family was perfect in my own imagination.
In fifth grade, my ability to imagine a normal home life begin to fade and my creative writing quickly turned into a reality that was unacceptable. When my teacher gave the class an assignment to write about an after school activity, I doubt he was prepared for what I was going to hand to him. Although I changed the names in the story, what I gave him outlined a day in my life.
My teacher, who lived only a city block from my house, kept me after school. Paper in hand, he demanded that I explain to him why I failed to take the assignment seriously. In my attempt for someone to see my reality, I had failed and he was quick to show me. My teacher explained that my story was disgusting and if I wrote things like this, people might get the wrong idea about me and my family. He gave me until the next morning to repeat the assignment.
I remember so clearly sitting over a blank sheet of paper that evening and crying. I would not only never be able to write the truth, but I would never be able to tell the truth. I would never be able to tell anyone the reality of my life. As the routine of my home life played out that night as it normally did, I knew my life would never be any different.
Writing was one of the very few things that I enjoyed. I knew so young, in fifth grade, that if I wanted to write, I would have to write things that did not matter to me. I could no longer write creative stories, because it was too hard to know what was normal or not.
Once I reached high school, I was able to write for the newspaper and yearbook. That carried me through college and into my adult life. I was able to write, which I loved, but not let anyone into what my life was really like.
Today, I find myself sitting here still with the love of writing inside me. The difference is that I don't have to worry about what anyone says. I may not know what normal is, but I have nothing to hide from now.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
All Things are Possible
Mark 10:27 says; Jesus looked at them and said, "With man it is impossible, but not with God. For all things are possible with God."
Friday night I learned a valuable lesson in knowing that what is impossible for me, is possible with God.
Many of you who know me, know that I have been struggling through some tough times including many months of sleeplessness. What only a few people very close to me have known is that my issues, accompanied with exhaustion, have at times kept me homebound with anxiety attacks. Fearful of triggering an anxiety attack in a group of any size, I have often chosen to withdraw and be alone.
Last summer, I had an opportunity to go street witnessing with a group. Although at the time I had very little anxiety, I wasn't sure street witnessing was for me. As time past and I heard several testimonies about witnessing, I began to feel very differently. However, I knew more recently with my anxiety problems, it would be impossible for me to go.
I went 32 years in life before anyone shared with me what it meant to be a follower of Christ. Even at that time, I had to ask someone to explain it. I have wrestled with the thought since then of, "Why didn't anyone share with me sooner?" "Why did someone not care about my salvation enough to share with me?" I married into a family of Christians, I have Christians in my extended family, and a handful of friends who have been Christians the entire time I have known them. But, none of them had ever shared with me the need for a Savior. It had to be God's timing, I know. I also know that I had to be a willing listener. And with my past and my journey, I do feel God has put in my heart the need to tell others.
This week, I was faced again with an opportunity to go with a group to hand out gospel tracts downtown. And again, I was faced with another week of high anxiety. I knew each time I was asked if I was going how badly I wanted to go, but how impossible it would be for me. Stranger upon stranger walking by and taking things from my hands....the very thought was horrifying to me. But, I agreed to go. There was a calmness inside that knew it would be okay but an unwillingness to let go of the fear and anxiety.
As Friday came, I picked up the phone several times to bow out, but never dialed the phone. I gave Kent every excuse not to go on the way, but went anyway. Each mile of the trip downtown was filled with a second thought and the desire to go back home.
My own fear and anxiety was about to make this the impossibility that I thought that it was. But as we walked to the Sprint Center, all of my fear and anxiety disappeared. Tract after tract after tract, my fear, my anxiety had all gone. It had been replaced with sadness. I saw myself and the first 32 years of my life on the faces of so many young people as they walked past. My anxiety was replaced with a desire to tell each one of them about a God who loves them so much that He gave His son for them.
It was impossible for me to go Friday night. It was impossible for me to not have anxiety or fear in a group of strangers standing outside a rap concert. It was impossible for me to hand gospel tracts to strangers. But, with God, it was all possible. With God, it was possible for me to know I was right where I should be, doing what I should do and without fear or anxiety. Only with God was it all possible and only with God did it happen.
I praise God for showing me that with Him, all things are possible.
Friday night I learned a valuable lesson in knowing that what is impossible for me, is possible with God.
Many of you who know me, know that I have been struggling through some tough times including many months of sleeplessness. What only a few people very close to me have known is that my issues, accompanied with exhaustion, have at times kept me homebound with anxiety attacks. Fearful of triggering an anxiety attack in a group of any size, I have often chosen to withdraw and be alone.
Last summer, I had an opportunity to go street witnessing with a group. Although at the time I had very little anxiety, I wasn't sure street witnessing was for me. As time past and I heard several testimonies about witnessing, I began to feel very differently. However, I knew more recently with my anxiety problems, it would be impossible for me to go.
I went 32 years in life before anyone shared with me what it meant to be a follower of Christ. Even at that time, I had to ask someone to explain it. I have wrestled with the thought since then of, "Why didn't anyone share with me sooner?" "Why did someone not care about my salvation enough to share with me?" I married into a family of Christians, I have Christians in my extended family, and a handful of friends who have been Christians the entire time I have known them. But, none of them had ever shared with me the need for a Savior. It had to be God's timing, I know. I also know that I had to be a willing listener. And with my past and my journey, I do feel God has put in my heart the need to tell others.
This week, I was faced again with an opportunity to go with a group to hand out gospel tracts downtown. And again, I was faced with another week of high anxiety. I knew each time I was asked if I was going how badly I wanted to go, but how impossible it would be for me. Stranger upon stranger walking by and taking things from my hands....the very thought was horrifying to me. But, I agreed to go. There was a calmness inside that knew it would be okay but an unwillingness to let go of the fear and anxiety.
As Friday came, I picked up the phone several times to bow out, but never dialed the phone. I gave Kent every excuse not to go on the way, but went anyway. Each mile of the trip downtown was filled with a second thought and the desire to go back home.
My own fear and anxiety was about to make this the impossibility that I thought that it was. But as we walked to the Sprint Center, all of my fear and anxiety disappeared. Tract after tract after tract, my fear, my anxiety had all gone. It had been replaced with sadness. I saw myself and the first 32 years of my life on the faces of so many young people as they walked past. My anxiety was replaced with a desire to tell each one of them about a God who loves them so much that He gave His son for them.
It was impossible for me to go Friday night. It was impossible for me to not have anxiety or fear in a group of strangers standing outside a rap concert. It was impossible for me to hand gospel tracts to strangers. But, with God, it was all possible. With God, it was possible for me to know I was right where I should be, doing what I should do and without fear or anxiety. Only with God was it all possible and only with God did it happen.
I praise God for showing me that with Him, all things are possible.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)