Trauma

Why are we drawn to epic tales of people battling in scenarios of life and death; people who are fighting for their lives, fighting to bring criminals to justice, fighting to bring peace to their wounded hearts?

Life is precious. Truth is worth seeking out.

I recently read a post from the blog of a person who has experienced life-altering trauma. I have always felt this woman’s words deeply and related to her view of God and the world. Now, after hearing her story, I understand why. It seems to be the same for many kindred spirits in my life. I find out that the person has experienced trauma and have pressed hard into the Lord.

There are others who experience the same kind of things and have allowed their hearts to go cold. They have separated themselves from the pain and from God.

Not me.

I have the raw edge in my soul that always threatens to capsize my peace. No smooth edges here. Oh, I think, wouldn’t that be nice… nice to know that all this suffering has produced a happy ending. Nice to know that the epic tale ended where everyone made it out alive and well.

Everyone did NOT make it out alive.

We have had many casualties along the way. That truth keeps the jagged edge in my spirit. Today I wear armor. Other days I lay on my bed and weep. My reading today produced a funny quote from a woman named Jennifer Rothschild, “underneath the warrior’s armor, you’ll find a chicken…”

Yep that’s me. I’d like to think my internal constitution is worthy of the armor… that the person behind the shield has the heart of a warrior, rather than the heart of a chicken. But I don’t. It took me years to want to even walk through this life with hope, much less engage the enemy in battle.

But I remember the ones we have lost along the way.

And so I take up arms.

So many days I think, what am I doing? Why do I think I am worthy to take up arms? I know exactly what I am made of… exactly how IMPERFECT and flawed I am. I know all my own weaknesses.

But I do know my source of strength.

It is easy to sit here in the quiet place and pound out words that I hope will impact you in your own quiet place. It is easy (now) to find a quiet moment in my day and listen for the voice of the Lord… seek it out in his WORD. That part of the trail is packed and hard from my footsteps. I know it well.

But to put myself out there… face to face with those women I so long to impact, that is a little harder. It’s a bit more real… it makes me feel my raw edges more. It takes a lot more faith.

I have had the opportunity to do this only a handful of times… and I love it. I love speaking a message of hope to women. I do. I love the women that seek me out after I speak… the ones that have tears in their eyes… the ones that timidly share a tid-bit of their own story. They are the ones that make it worth it to put my heart on the line… to be raw and real in front of perfect strangers.

If my story impacts one person… if my life inspires one woman to press in harder toward the Lord, than it is all worth it…. It is worth the pain I have endured.

I was filling up the car a few weeks ago and I heard an ambulance go by. I immediately began to tear up. This is something I have noticed that I tend to do when I see or hear and ambulance and for the first time in my life I realized why.

Some of the most traumatizing experiences of my life involved the ambulance in our drive-way. After all these years, my soul remembers.

And here is where I pause…

This is the challenge about what I have been called to do. I need to write about those experiences, because people need to know that God can bring healing to the broken places in our life. The fact that I HAVE received healing there makes me resistant to even bring it up again. I have this amazing sense of PEACE around the most painful memories I have.

There was a time when I resisted drudging up the memories because the pain was too great for me to bear. The fact that it was too great to bear was the reason why it had to be brought into the light. I could carry it no longer. I needed my mentor and more importantly my Lord to help me through that pain.

That is why I tell my story to you. Because you need to know that God can take a person who is battered and bruised… scuffed and scarred… and turn their story into a glimpse of glory.

The Lord’s glory is revealed to us at the point where he interacts with his people. When he comes down to me and you, it is ALWAYS good. It may not be pretty or happy and it probably will not be clean. It will most likely be messy and raw and real, but it will be GOOD.

I am reminded that when God made the way for me, it was messy and raw and real. I mean, what is messier than a barn? If you think that barn Jesus was born in is cute and cozy and warm, you’ve never been in a barn. The only reason I can think that the woman allowed herself to duck into the barn to deliver our Lord is that she didn’t want to drop that baby on the STREET. She didn’t want the WORLD to see her back side. At the very least she could shut the door and let her husband be the only one to see what’s under her dress.

Even if the inn keeper kept the barn clean, he probably only did that once a day. Let me tell you, even if the stalls had been cleaned and laid with fresh bedding, the smell of animal dung still remains. The environment is anything but sanitary. People in that day didn’t know about germs but no midwife would have ever dreamed of delivering a child where animals were kept. The only place I can think of that would be WORSE than a barn might be an outhouse.

The birth of Christ took place in real messy, raw place. He came to real people in difficult circumstances. Jesus’ parent’s marriage was not tied up nicely with a bow, thanks to him. They took a lot of slack, no doubt. Who knows how many people turned their noses up at this family, when they went to worship at the temple? I imagine, Mary’s circumstances didn’t feel too glorious when she was changing diapers and cooking over a hot fire. Jesus didn’t grow up on ambrosia and angel dust. He grew into adult hood on real food and momma’s love.

God has a habit of picking the most unlikely candidates. I used to not really understand why. Why would God pick someone who has no formal training past high school and who has the constitution of a chicken to tell people about him? Why not pick someone who has taken college level theology classes? Why not pick the courageous… the person with little or no scars? Why?

The reason God picks the most unlikely candidates is that he wants his glory revealed. If I could do it on my own, no one would see him. They would see me and my credentials. They merit my skill to the training I received.

I, however, didn’t make it to college. I barely made it through high school. I had seen things I should have never seen by the time I was 8. Although I have a supernatural peace around the events, the memories still sting when they come to mind…

~

I heard my Mom banging on the bathroom door. “Russell! Russell, open the door!”

My bedroom was across from the bathroom. I opened my door to see what was going on. Mom shooed me back into my room. I heard her talking to my Dad through the bathroom door. I heard a bump against the door. I didn’t understand what was happening. I tried to deduce what I thought it was. I had heard my parents argue a lot but this was different. Mom sounded panicked.

Then I heard my mom on the phone with the emergency operator. She told them that she thought he was passed out. I was scared. My heart was racing. Was Dad having a heart attack? I heard Mom yelling at him. She kept asking him what he took. Then I heard the sirens. I heard Mom talking to the paramedics. I heard the paramedics trying to talk to my Dad. I never heard my Dad’s voice… Was he dead? Was he dying?

Then I peeked out of my door again. They were wheeling the stretcher out the door. I remember that my Dad was in his underwear. No pajamas… no robe… just going out the door, undignified. I remember thinking that was what it looks like when you die and about the thing people say about wearing clean underwear…

I don’t remember anyone talking to me about it but I know they did. I don’t remember relatives or church people being there. I’m sure they were. I just remember me and my brother and my mom. I remember discovering that my Dad was not who I thought he was. My Dad was very withdrawn and I didn’t really know much at all about him. I remember at this age assuming that he was like Dads on TV and then realizing that he was nothing like that.

Over the next few years there were other suicide attempts... other times when the ambulance was in the drive way. One time I remember that mom rode with the ambulance to the hospital and left me and my brother standing in the drive-way as it drove off. ALONE. I remember a neighbor, who had been standing in her driveway, walking over to ask what happened. Could she do anything? No, we were fine.

I see it in my mind’s eye. My brother probably reached a hand over to touch my shoulder to reassure me. He was always so strong. I wasn’t crying but I did not FEEL strong. I thought: this is pretty embarrassing. The ambulance came to our house WAY too often. The neighbors must think this is really bad.

~

I didn’t know then that it WAS pretty bad. It occurs to me now that me and my brother really were alone. My parents were both mentally unstable. We had other people in our life who cared for us and nurtured us but we didn’t have the ones that really mattered. The people who were supposed to be helping guide us through life, couldn’t manage to live their own lives.

How is it that the trauma stays in our bones, even when our hearts have found peace? Will I ever stop crying when I hear sirens? I know my personality helps me empathize with hurting people. I wonder how much of the trauma I endured helped shape my personality.

Would I be stronger if I had not been scared? Would I be empathetic? Well my brother endured the same trauma and yet he is not an empathetic person… He is a hardworking, driven person who doesn’t seem to be affected by much at all. On the outside, he seems to be a very strong person.

I am NOT strong. I stand on the foundation of the rock but I am a puddle. I am as all my sculptures are, on the rock… but I am not fired. I remain soft, pliable… crushable. I remain vulnerable.

Behind the armor I am still a little girl, terrified the enemy will claim the lives of the ones I love.

I am terrified I will scar my own children, just as I was scared. And so I press into the HOLY ONE, pleading for redemption… for transformation. EVERYDAY. Everyday I ask him to fired me, to make me strong.

And the answer comes again today as it has all the days I have asked for this: "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." (2Co 12:9)

1Co 1:27-28 says: But God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong. (28) He chose the lowly things of this world and the despised things—and the things that are not—to nullify the things that are…

How can I argue with HIS plan? How can I continue to mourn the things I lost when God’s purpose, all along, was to make me into who I am today?

Someone who is STRONG will not rely on the strength of the Lord. Someone who has all the answers will not go to the Lord for answers.

Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. (2Co 12:9)

Lord if, in my weakness, I may glorify you. Let it be so… If the trauma I endured served to make me who I am today, then I praise you for it… I praise you for the sirens and the hospitals and my parents who could not cope with life. I praise you for their bad decision and my bad decisions. I praise you for the time I spent wandering in the desert. If just ONE person finds their way back to you, through my story… If just ONE person breaks free from the slavery of their sin to follow you… If just ONE person’s life is touched… one person mind can grasp ONE of the truths you have shown me… it was all worth it…. All the heartache and sadness was worth your glory and your truth being revealed through this VERY humble vessel. Through this real, messy, raw wounded girl, comes the truth that God is good despite what your limited sight can see.