Hidden Sorrow

You would think this time of year would be lifting this winter fog off my mind. Everything is greening, everything is warming, life is emerging everywhere. My bulbs and wild flowers are faithful to send up jade leaves, slowly unfurling.

There will be flowers.

My flowers come in seasons. First the Daffodils, then Primrose (we call them “ I love you” flowers- a cherished memory of courtship), quickly the Irises will don purple bonnets, and lastly the Daylillies and Canalillies will explode the yard with orange and yellow.

And yet with all this promise of visual food for my soul, there is a fog that lies heavy on my heart. It is strange that my grief consumes me even when I am not conscious of it. I wake up in the morning wondering: what is wrong with me? Am I just overwhelmed by the clutter that marks my calendar… the constant “hither and yon” of children and church and just ordinary responsibilities? Is it that undone task that is nagging at the back of my brain? Why can’t I button up just one simple thing in my life? Why can’t I complete something? I want to line all my accomplishments in a row and prove to the world or just prove to myself that I have finished SOMETHING.

As usual, I want to be more than the Special Chicken that I am.

I look again at the calendar. I know why I am foggy. The answer probably lies on April 8^th.

I don’t know exactly what time she died. I know it was after midnight on a Tuesday. It’s funny how: not knowing the exact date has troubled me. I know it doesn’t really matter but it has pestered me a little. I wonder if she lay there unconscious for hours as her breathing slowed and death drew near. I wonder how long the window of salvation stood open as she lay there un-rescued.

Salvation… that word nags at me too. I had saved my mother from death many a time. But I am not the one who saves souls, am I? I could save her from tasting the grave for a time but I could not save her from standing at the judgment seat. We all stand before the Lord someday.

They call us survivors. When they write out the obituary, they list the immediate (and sometimes the extended) family. The person is survived by… For years I felt like I was just trying to survive. I am finally in a place where I feel like I can actually live. It doesn’t keep me from wishing that she could have found a good reason to live. I still battle guilt that floods in for a moment and I pray to my God to swallow up my grief. He has swallowed up a mighty river before.

I met a woman once that called herself a survivor of suicide and she noted the difference between this kind of death and natural or even accidental death. I think that the difference is the human factor. It was not God’s decision to take. The person made the decision. Then there is the “if it was in human hands, then why couldn’t I have prevented it” factor.

After that, I met two more women who had lost their own mothers to suicide in the same year I lost mine. I wanted to reach out and comfort them. I wanted to clearly state the answers the Lord had shown me, and yet my grief still plagues me. It is not a paralyzing grief that shuts me down and incapacitates me (most days) but a hum in the back of my mind that seeks to distract me or make me seek distraction. I want to flip on the TV or really loud music that will drown out doubt and fear and uncertainty.

In the quiet, the tears slip out. I see my departed loved one in the soft notes on the piano… my sweet boy reflects his grandmother in musical genius. I knew this before she died. He carries on her song.

Within the silence I feel my grief loud and yet in facing it, I find a peace that surpasses understanding. Within the deafening sorrow, a light shines. I know this is not a worldly venture. It is a holy quest. I am not one who is ignorant of Holy Pilgrimage and so I press on.

Maybe I am trail blazing and other survivors of suicide will be encouraged to blaze their own trails through the valley of grief. Maybe this is just another Refining Fire. Either way, I am awed at the hand of The Creator on my life.

As the second anniversary of my mother’s death draws near, I feel another link in my chains of flesh broken, another layer is cut off my uncircumcised heart…

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.

The Identity Project

There is a crisis in our world. It is not far away in a third world country. It’s right here in our community. It’s in our schools. It’s in our homes and yes it’s even in our churches. It’s in our children… It’s in our hearts.

It is an identity crisis.

We do not know who we are. The world struggles to find it. People, everywhere, scurry around trying to find the answer. They try to find out what defines them. People seek to find meaning in their life… It’s what we all want: purpose.

Even in the church, we struggle. We know our identity is in Christ… in our minds. But this is a truth that is battling to penetrate our hearts. What does that mean exactly? What does it look like to find our identity in Christ? How do we walk in that truth?

I have found this battle raging in the hearts of many people but there is a segment of society where this struggle is most evident: teenagers. These young adults have their identity wrapped up in what boy they are dating, who their friends are, what kind of clothes they wear…

What happens if the person they are dating breaks up with them? What happens if their friends are unhappy with them or if they do not have name-brand clothes? They find themselves flailing around trying to secure a new identity. These young people grasp for the next thing… the next person to hold their hand so they can have a new identity. If they do not find a hand to hold, they are lost in despair.

Is this something we should be concerned about? Won’t these teens just “get over it.” Many do not. According to the CDC, suicide is the third leading cause of death of young people ages 15-24. Apparently this identity crisis is a little more serious than we like to think.

Our children are seeking to define who they are in a society where even the adults are confused… in a society that gives them very little guidance. We seem to think they are best to discover it for themselves.

I disagree.

We are the church. We must give these teens a hand to hold. This is a battle of life and death. Even if our teens are not despairing to the point of taking their own life, what kind of life is it to go from relationship to relationship seeking to find the right one… the one that will define who they are? When the answer is already there… right at our finger tips.

I do not believe most young people will discover this truth for themselves. We must show them.

The Identity Project is a weekend to discover our identity… a weekend where we will take hold of our teen’s hands and embark on the journey to discover who we are. I know that we, as grown ups are a little confused on the topic. That’s OK. We will discover these truths together… Moms and daughters… mentors and friends… one on one.

We will use music and drama, paper and clay, fellowship, food, and friends. We will open our bibles and open our hearts. We will begin a journey of the heart. A journey that I hope we will all continue long after the weekend has ended.

But we have to start somewhere…

This is a starting point… the head of the trail… It will open a conversation with our teens we are afraid to have. Do you know what defines you? Do you want to discover? Many times our teens are more willing than we are. You just have to open the door. I know you need help.

Here is your help.

We will talk about dreams, goals, choices, friends, and yes… boys! We will give the girls successful ways to guard their purity and we will give comfort and hope to those who have already surrendered theirs. We will not just tell the girls what not to do. We will show them what to do. They will hear testimonies of young people who are walking in victory and the testimonies of those who have reclaimed the things they thought were lost…. testimonies of those who know exactly where their identity lies.

The Identity Project Weekend

Where: Winshape Wilderness Retreat

When: February 25-27 2011

Who: Moms and teen-daughters Mentors and teen girls

Recommended for girls 14 to 18 (Younger girls will be permitted in special circumstances)

Details: Arrive 7pm Friday Depart 11:30pm Sunday Bring a pillow, sleeping bag or bed linens, and towel(s) as these are not provided

Cost: $175 per pair Includes meals on Saturday and Breakfast on Sunday.

Deposit of $75 is due January 15th and the rest ($100) is due February 15th

Extending a Hand to the Open Door Home

Special Chicken Ministries and West Rome Baptist Church have decided to reach out to the Open Door Home, a children’s home in Rome Georgia, and invite these young people to participate in The Identity Project. We need your help. The teenagers need scholarship money to attend the full weekend. They will also need a mentor.

The mentor will give one on one attention to these girls for the weekend. No extensive training is required, just an open heart and a desire to give some of your time. All we are asking is that you commit your time for the weekend and two one-hour leadership meetings in the weeks before the event.

Would you consider donating scholarship money for a girl? Would you consider being a mentor? We need Christian women who are willing to give just a little bit of themselves for such a significant spot on these girls’ journey.

Not Simply Surviving, Thriving

I don't really have it all figured out... there's no step by step to healing... I did spend many months and even years spinning my wheels, going around in circles. My journey has been full of steep slopes, slips and falls, bumps and bruises, wallowing in the mud, cursing the enemy, cursing my Maker, repenting, rejoicing, hiding from God and from believers, being alone, being in a crowd of people and still being alone, feeling that hand of God as the only one who could hold me, feeling the hand of God through the Body, finding "The God Who Sees Me" and like the Woman at the Well, rejoicing that he knows "everything I ever did."

This one thing I know. I did not suffer in vain. All my trials had a purpose. God did not call me to the desert to punish me. He brought me out here to the wilderness to sing. And this is what I sing: There is a God who sees me and you (just as we are) and he LOVES us. I stand here today after being torn up, pushed down, and thrown away to tell you: There is hope. You may not see it. You may not know it yet but I stand in the blood of the Lamb and by the power of my testimony to tell you that Hope is real! Healing IS possible.

I still have bad days. Yes! I still struggle with sin and temptation but it does NOT rule me anymore. My fears do not drive my life as they used to. There is a band of believers who can testify to the goodness of God and you can no longer plug your ears and refuse to listen! Stop listening to the lies of the enemy and stand up and fight! Fight for your freedom by getting on your knees! Seek God in your desert. Find a true believer and tell them your struggle. It doesn’t have to be me.

When I did find things that helped I was advised to take note and remember when something worked. The more I took notes, the more I saw the hand of God on my life. Therefore, I will sing all the more! I have a journal, just as many of you do, it is the story of the goodness of God. One of the greatest discoveries was of my gifting. The gifting that (when not being used by the Lord) was being used to beat me up. Imagine that! I asked God why… why… for so long. I know this to be true: we are all going to be used. The question is: by whom? Then I asked God: What is my gift for? He told me through his word:

Each of you has been blessed with one of God's many wonderful gifts to be used in the service of others. So use your gift well. (1Pe 4:10 CEV)

A body isn't really a body, unless there is more than one part. It takes many parts to make a single body. That's why the eyes cannot say they don't need the hands. That's also why the head cannot say it doesn't need the feet. In fact, we cannot get along without the parts of the body that seem to be the weakest. (1Co 12:19-22 CEV)

But God chose the foolish things of this world to put the wise to shame. He chose the weak things of this world to put the powerful to shame. What the world thinks is worthless, useless, and nothing at all is what God has used to destroy what the world considers important. (1Co 1:27-28 CEV)

Why did God make me “weak” (in the world’s eyes)? Why is it that world sees me as: worthless, useless… nothing? Because God’s world does not operate by the same standards! If I were a strong person and could do things all on my own, GOD would not get the glory! But I stand here to day telling you: I was cracked and broken, torn apart and I SURVIVED! And not just survived to tell the tale… I THRIVE! God has given me contentment and goodness and REST. God has cradled me in his loving arms and given me hands to hold. It was God! Nothing else. I did not accomplish this on my own! It was GOD!

Broken and Crushed

I’ve been sitting here in the quiet for awhile meditating on these two tea cups that I have made into candle holders. The unique thing about them is that they were made in the 60s in Japan and they are not exactly alike. Most things we buy today are factory made and are identical. I’m not sure if these were fashioned by hand but I know they were at the very least painted by hand. I love to note the differences between the two vessels. Besides being slightly larger, one is more translucent and the candle light glows inside it. The other that is more opaque does not radiate the same feeling since I can only see the light coming through the top. The painted gold rim is wider making it shimmer more.

I received these cups in the mail and they had been inadequately packed and were crushed. These cups had been a pile of shards and crumbs when I got them. I carefully pulled the pieces out and sorted them. I worked through the rubble like I would work at a puzzle. I was overjoyed when I found pieces that fit together. Then I glued them together, trying my hardest not to glue my fingers to the project. Then, what seemed like a hopeless tragedy, became a thing of beauty. Many of the pieces were crushed beyond recognition but that did not keep me from completing my task. No, the places where there are missing pieces and cracks are the places that allow light to flicker through, adding even more to how very unique they are. The two cups were not broken in the same way and one is more “complete” than the other but they both started out broken and they both shine the light in their broken places.

How ashamed we are of our broken places! We try our best to stop up the hole and hide where we have been crushed and pieced together. We slap on a new coat of paint and hope no one sees the scars. We forget that we were born into a broken world and we all have been crushed (some of us more than others.) Some of our cracks are bigger and some of us have things that will all be missing because those pieces have been crushed beyond recognition.

Our Lord wants to take the time to put us back together, if we would only allow him to work on us. But we do not want to be still long enough to let him. Our lives are so full of distractions or we have figured out our own way to “fix” ourselves. Maybe if we go to the gym more or read the right book or get a new job or even a new spouse, then things will be better… maybe then I will be better. Our own messed up thinking is what got us here in the first place but we think we know the best way out. We fail to submit to the one who designed us in the first place. Who knows us better than him?

All we need to do is place his light inside. Every day light the flame. God is constant. His flame will not change and he wants to use those broken places to shine light on others. So if you have a gaping hole, just give up trying to hide it. Put the light of Christ inside and let it shine!

New Year Resolution

With holiday season and the coming of the New Year, my spirit has been plagued with unrest. Several times my husband and I have tried to pin point the source of this unrest and the only thing I truly understood was that I am angry. This may not be a problem for many people but as a Christian I feel compelled to put this feeling to rest. Christ calls me to forgive as I have been forgiven. There is even a debate that unforgiveness can cause us to lose our eternal salvation… well I don’t know about all that but this is what I have discovered over the past few weeks of stress, tears, fits, sadness, and ultimately seeking God’s face.

I was confused and unnerved by the fact that the ones who I harbored unforgiveness against, truly had harmed me. Their offenses were damaging not only to me but to others. In my head I know that I have to forgive them but in my heart there is the lump of hurt that screams for something, some kind of resolution. Over and over I used the word “unresolved.” I can say: ‘I forgive them,’ with my mouth, but in my heart I feel… unresolved. So I deduced: if it looks like unforgiveness well then it probably unforgiveness. So how can I forgive and obtain that ever elusive resolution.

Hashing out the source of my angst last night with my husband, I told him yet again that I am struggling with the hurts he has brought on our family for, well, the past few years. Seeing as I have no plans to rid myself of him or make him pay, I needed so badly to find some resolution on the topic. “I’m just angry,” I said, “and I don’t know what to do with it.” I also poured out a list of others that I find myself hopelessly angry with. My husband wisely asked me to tell him just how angry I was. So he allowed me to pour out my anger and grief and despair. It must have been difficult to listen to that, but I think he was able to listen and rest in his own confidence of who he is in Christ.

This pouring out or confession was so helpful in revealing the true word I had been looking for. Somewhere inside of me, I needed there to be payment for the wrong that had been done to me and my children. There was this unspoken need for retribution. Some would call it propitiation or satisfaction of a debt. Although it was not a conscious thought in my head that my husband or the others who had wronged me should “pay” it was there in my spirit. So when I was using the word “unresolved” the word crying out in my spirit was “retribution.”

The comfort in having sought the scriptures for, well, my whole life, is that I have a lot of knowledge in my head, even if it is not really absorbed into my heart. So when the strategy of the enemy was to keep him plan of unforgiveness in my heart was brought into the light, the light of the truth of God’s word was easily able to shine on it.

Here is the truth:

When someone sins against you, they are ultimately sinning against God. The pain I feel is a result of me or someone else stepping out of God’s plan. So truly that person’s debt is not to the person they harmed but to God. And God treats all sin the same. Usually when I experience unforgiveness toward others it is because I have a hard time accepting my own forgiveness.
Robert McGee said in his book “The Search for Peace”: “if we hold on to unforgiveness, we cannot accept our “own” forgiveness. In fact, the only way we escape the torment of having unforgiveness is to begin to contemplate our own forgiveness until it has so impacted our lives that we are able to forgive from our heart.”

For years I viewed the forgiveness God gave me as him giving me a pardon or “wiping the slate clean.” But that is truly and unscriptural view of God and frankly “the” reason why I have been able to accept a true and complete forgiveness from God. It just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t follow the idea that God is a righteous. How can he just “overlook” my sins? Well the truth is that he doesn’t just “overlook” our sins. God is righteous and justice and for him to exist in that holiness there MUST be payment for sin. It is what we FEEL when we describe a “righteous” anger. We feel that this has been a true offense against out soul and God. The effects of which, destroy and deplete for generations. It is what I was feeling: the need for the payment.

The essential truth that is blocked by this partial truth in our spirit is that Christ has already made the payment for ALL sins: past, present, and future. This is a truth that needs to be put on ALL unforgiveness. Christ has paid for their sins, even if they are “not saved” and essentially “not walking in that forgiveness.” The payment was made for EVERYONE. The bible says, “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us;” which means that he died for us BEFORE we came to him.

So what was the thing that helped so much to burry my unforgiveness: First, I confessed my anger and unforgiveness. It didn’t look like: “Dear Lord, I am harboring unforgiveness in my heart...” No it looked like: “I am angry! I’m hurt and confused… You not only hurt me but you hurt our kids and you hurt yourself!” I think people have the wrong view of confession. Confession should be cleansing, not holding back anything in our heart. Now, beware, this is not something that you can do with “everyone.” In fact most people cannot handle this kind of confession. Do it before God or with a Godly friend or counselor.

Second the truth was able to wash away my “sin” of unforgiveness which not only hurts the one I am holding it against, it hurts my friends and family, because I am NOT a nice person when I have this anger in my heart. But mostly I hurt myself. I sin against myself. I cannot “accept my own forgiveness” in this state and it truly does torment me… The truth is that God did not just “wipe away” my sins, he looked at me and said: “You’re guilty and the punishment that is fitting for your crime is death.” And then he turned and took my punishment and placed it on Christ’s body and Christ was tortured and suffered death for me. For me and for everyone even those who do not yet (or may never) walk in that forgiveness. No one’s sin is greater than mine, because God looks at all sin the same way. So that person who harmed me deserves forgiveness just as much as I do.

I find it fitting that as I was looking for the thing that was plaguing me I could only describe it as feeling “unresolved.” Here at the new year when everyone is throwing around their New Years “Resolutions” I am struck that it is simply used synonymously with “decision.” We are making decisions as to what we are going to do the next year.

Resolve is defined as: decide: bring to an end; settle conclusively; conclude: reach a conclusion after a discussion or deliberation. It actually means that we have “decided” or “concluded” after careful thought and examination. It implies the end of something as opposed to the beginning of something. To settle, resolve, at the end of the year is actually a rather fitting thing for me to do. So while you all are resolving to be a better person in the future, I am taking the time to resolve conclusively an issue I have deliberated on in my heart for this whole year and many years before that.

So go ahead and make your promises. Set your jaw for the future. But as for me I sit here with an awesome gift to enter the New Year with forgiveness in my heart and peace in my mind. I have truly resolved.

Consumed with Grief

This year ends with loved ones lost. I have struggled and fought through the Christmas season because there are empty places at the table. Those loved ones did not die of natural causes. They died by their own hand. This is not the kind of death that leaves a sense of peace. It only leaves an empty hole. Two of these women were women I worked with in recovery. I spilled my story to them and they shared theirs with me. I trusted them and we worked through tough stuff together. We were not family but we held each other’s hands. LIFE is hard and many times our families are not there for us. In recovery we made new family. My family was not there for me because they were broken. They had so many obstacles to overcome, it is difficult to raise a family when you cannot get yourself out of the pit. I can relate. I struggle each day to be the best mother I can while I find myself a broken little girl. A broken little girl who cared for a sick mother and watch her father break down over and over, to the point that he wanted to die.

Suicide forms a backdrop in my life. Most kids remember their life based on what grade of school they were in. I remember my life by periods when my parents were stable and when they were not. I praise God that he sent people to help me and my brother along the way. When my Dad attempted suicide he would get treatment and then come home and kind of start over again. My Mom had very little coping skills and I think the many years of this atmosphere only drew her further down. Blame is not my goal here but only to tell a story.

As an adult I tried to help my Mom see her need for help. It was only in her last few years that she tried to get help. Even then she was unable to be consistent. She bounced from place to place claiming they couldn’t help her. I think when you’re 50 and your family is trying tough love, it is difficult to change. I had spent years letting her drag me into the drama and finally I wanted to let someone else be the listening ear.

Last year in the summer time my mother called me and told me she had taken enough pills to kill herself and wanted to say goodbye to me. I remember the conversation vividly because months later, in April of this year, she did the same thing to take her life and succeeded. She drove away from home, got a hotel room, and killed herself.

There is a song by Superchic that says:

”Please tell me you'll fight this fight.
I can't see without your light
I need you to breathe into my life
Don't tell me this is goodbye
I won't grieve - it's not yet time
Each breath breathed is keeping hope alive

So keep breathing
Go on breathe in
Keep on breathing
Go on breathe in
Just breathe”

I feel like I fought and fought to keep Mom alive. That day I fought to save her and I said these words to her over and over. And yet what I fought to keep breathing died.

I feel consumed with grief over the loss this year. I am angered at those who would say I am better off without my Mom. Yes, she created chaos in my life many times but now there is a hole there. I am thankful for people who have come back into my life since she died but I still miss her. I am angered at people who would say that I will always wonder what I could have done. I don’t wonder! I did it all. I spent hours on the phone calling the police or neighbors to help. I spent hours talking her down off the edge. I spoke to her doctors. I spoke to the hospitals. I went to family counseling. Year after year I did this! I drove to take her to the hospital. I drove to pick her up when they let her out! I refused to pick her up when they let her out. I talked to her for hours on end. I refused to talk to her for hours on end. I rode the roller coaster with her, for her, and for me. So I would have the peace of mind when some careless person wants to say, “You’ll always wonder what you could have done….”

One of my best friends, who had helped me through a difficult month of my Dad’s life hanging in the balance after his suicide attempt, was one of the first people on my scene when I got the news that Mom was dead. And the first thing she said to me after I was handed the phone was: “You did everything you possibly could to save her life.”

And ultimately she took her life. God had written love on her arm and she wiped it away and believed a lie, despite my efforts, despite my love and heart-wrenching conversations.

So what am I left with in my grief? What is the legacy that I can walk away with? What do I do now?
Because I am broken, I see the broken. Because I have fought and others have fought for me, I want to fight for others. I cannot do anything about the past. I cannot go back and say the things I wished I could say. I said it all! What I grieve for is the now. I want to be able to tell her that I love her now. I want to see her eyes light up with the season, but I cannot.

So what I have resolved to do is the thing that I can. I could not make my Mom love herself, but I can choose to love myself. I cannot change my Mom’s future but I might be able to change others with my story, with her story. I have some beautiful women and young women in my life who are broken. I see they are broken, because I have been broken. I want to pour words of life into their life. When your brokenness is all consuming, it is difficult to see even one ray of hope. I want to give them that hope.
Life has ended for my Mom but life has not ended for me, so in a sense life continues. I am a part of her story and I am a part of her. God has designed this miracle so life will continue, but it is so much more than just simply breathing… surviving… existing. It is about breathing in the life and refusing death that pound on the door of your heart. It is about thriving in the midst of trial and pain. It is about standing alone with God in the rain and that being enough! It is about setting a mile marker on the road, turning a rock on end, cleansing and marking a moment, yes; erecting an Ebenezer and saying: THUS FAR THE LORD HAS HELPED ME!

I will write love on other’s arms so that in some way it may penetrate their hearts. I will go toward the hard things. I will press toward the mark. I will say the things that are hard to say and open doors we would rather not open. I will wrestle with the angel and rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the paths to dwell in. I will put my faith in no one or nothing but the ONE with the nail scared hands. The one who I pray to at my mother’s leading so many years ago, that lay in the manger at Christmas time. A tiny tot who didn’t really understand prayed that the baby Jesus would save me because that is why he came to earth.

I will tell my story so that others can believe that redemption is possible.

Mom's Jewelry Box

This weekend I spent a long time picking through my mother’s jewelry and it grieved me that it was piles upon piles of cheap costume jewelry. Not much of it is things I like, but I smiled remembering how much she loved to buy and wear big, shiney earrings and necklaces. Amongst all the glitter and glam, I found only one piece of “real” jewelry: her wedding band. She was not even wearing it when she died.

While going through the physical process, I meditated (as I usually do) on the spiritual side of what it represents. This is what I believe: Mom had so much junk in her life; like the cheap costume jewelry. She would see something she just “had to have” and without thinking about it, she would buy it. Mom was always struggling for money because she loved stuff and she loved to shop. In many ways she created money problems because she could not resist buying the things she saw and it all added up. And in the end she had a dusty pile of worthless junk. What is the lesson to be learned here? I think there are two:

The first lesson is: If you can be patient and save your money, you can have the opportunity to buy something more valuable that will hold its worth like gold and diamonds. The spiritual lesson is that the things we have to wait for are worth more than the things that come to us easily. When you’re young it seems very important to have a hand to hold: a person to “love” us and make us feel like we re the most important person on this planet. But when we are young we don’t know what is best for us. We want to have the marriage bed and all the things we imagine it will be immediately, but if we are wise and wait for God to choose our spouse we can avoid so much heartache and pain. Those of us who are married need to remember that God is transforming us and our spouse and will mold us into who he needs us to be. It is a process to that makes coal a diamond. Don't be distracted by others. Believe that God will be faithful to transform our spouse into the person we need, not just the person we want. Don’t settle for the costume jewelry you can have now, hold out for the diamond!

But you know, there is a positive side to Mom’s jewelry box, and the lesson is this: Our parents hand down a lot of emotional garbage to us. You could call it costume junk jewelry. So many times, in our bitterness and anger we take the lessons our parents taught us and throw the whole lot in the garbage and call it an example of what not to do. But if in your anger you fail to take the time to dig through the junk, you may miss the opportunity to find a gem amongst the junk. What is needful is to take the time to carefully consider each item and its worth and choose to keep it or throw it away. The size of the pile may be huge and the task overwhelming. The time may be “wrong” or the place uncomfortable. But we press toward the things that hurt so that we may gain understanding and then we remove the thorns so we may keep the blossoms.

So what gem did I take away from Mom’s jewelry box? Was it her wedding band? Well that is truly a gem, a symbol of perseverance in adversity. Mom stayed in a marriage that was plagued with mental illness and the resulting financial hardship. But the more precious gem to me in Mom’s box is the colors. Mom didn’t have much jewelry that I really like because I am simple, plain person. I have silver and gold and black in my own box. The only colors I really have are ones that people chose and bought for me. I probably would not have bought them if I had done the choosing. I usually want to blend in the background in this world, not be on display. The truth of the matter is that God created me and he created you too. God did not plant any weeds. Perspective is the only thing that makes a weed a weed. He had us all to go through seasons. Sometimes the flower is only a bulb underground or a dormant seed. Sometimes it is a tiny sprout or a luscious green plant. But there is a season in which the plant blossoms and beautiful colors appear. Mom wanted to always be in blossom. She loved bright, beautiful, bold colors. If it was flashy or bold she loved it. If it was silly, she bought it!

Joy in your season of blossom! A skilled gardener can force a plant to bloom in the time of his choosing. Let the gardener bring you into season. Though the world seeks to keep you underground, you must stand against it and shine. Show your reds and purples. Let it out for the world to see.

To Write Love On Her Arm

Tonight I joined thousands of people across the world who are writing love on the arms of people who desperately need to know, deep down, that they are loved. Last night my husband wrote LOVE on my arm and tonight we drove across the county to write LOVE on my nieces arms so that tomorrow at school they could celebrate the event and pass it on. Some people struggle so hard to love themselves. I know because I am one of those people. TWLOHA exists to reach out to those who struggle with depression, self injury and suicide. As most of you know my life has been greatly touched by depression and suicide. So tomorrow, please, pick up a sharpie and write LOVE on your arm in recognition of the event. Then write it on someone who really needs to know.

Sadness

Tonight I'm thinking of my mom. Most of the time my brain is too busy to spend time thinking about her but it's 3:30 am and I can't sleep. It's rare for me not to sleep. I'd probably write a lot more if I slept less. My husband warded off an inevitable melt down tonight by shoving me out the door to have coffee with a friend. It was 8:30 and I had not eaten dinner. Mostly due to lack of time management on my part. My friend is a jewel. I left her house thinking that I had prattled on about my life tonight and she didn't really get to tell me about her trip she just returned from. I will resist beating myself up about it,I hope she forgives me for being selfish.

How much sadness can a person swallow? This phrase has been echoing in my head for months now. My Mom's family was very formal. I'm not sure how it came to be since my great grandparents were farmers. I think maybe some how their success resulting wealth poisoned them. I'm not really in the mood to analyze them. I'm just sad. Sad that Mom felt like she never made the cut. She would swing back and forth from pride and denial to self degradation and injury. One minute everything was perfect and wonderful in her eyes and the next the world was coming to an end.

I was so strapped into my parent's roller coaster that even when I was gone from home, I felt I had to ride. I chose a painful path to leave home and yet I returned to take part in the drama. How strange is that? I knew that the twister would pull me into it but I still hovered near. Others had the good sense to stay away but I didn't.

I loved her. It's my only excuse, With all the heartache with all the pain... I hoped one day my mom would wake up and stop the crazy cycle. But she never did. She went to sleep and never woke up. It was such a permanent decision.

A person casually said that "They (me and my brother) would always wonder what we could have done..." It infuriates me that someone who knows the story could be this idiotic! We knew what was going on. It was no surprise! We had fought with no success to keep her hospitalized. Mom found a friend that would pick her up... what could we do?!!! I didn't ever think "What could I have done?" I did EVERYTHING I could do and all the time had my heart ripped to shreds! I asked these very persons to come and help us and they would not.

After her death I looked to my Dad. Maybe he would wake up and start to be a Dad to me. I reached out and yet he stays away. How much grief can a person swallow?

I understand how he feels. My kids and my husband need me. They need me to live life with them and yet sometimes my sadness swallows me up and all I want to do in lay down and pull the covers over my head. I get so very little time to myself, I hide from them sometimes. I used to be racked with guilt over it. I know there is an appropriate time to get away alone so that I can be available to them when they need me and I wont have to hide.


Lord, you know what it feels like to feel forsaken. Take my grief and sadness. It's yours

My Special Chicken

Amongst the grieving and searching through the ashes God is faithful to remind us of new life. Scott and I have dreamed of farming. We do not have very much land and we have never done anything beyond a small vegetable garden and caring for cats, turtles, and a dog. A few weeks before we found out about Mom’s death we had purchased 6 chicks and were busy trying to keep what we call our special chicken alive.

We think our special chicken has a neurological disorder and she fails to thrive. God has shown me so much through raising this chick that could be viewed a burden and needs to be euthanized. We have isolated her to ensure she has sufficient food and water and warmth. We have cuddled her to keep her from being lonely. We have cornered her when she’s freaking out to prevent her from injuring herself. She injures herself when she freaks out and sometimes the other chickens peck at her. She gets these spells (not so much anymore) where she falls down and cannot get back up. She just spins around in circles until she is covered in poop and soaking wet. And yet through it all we have kept in mind that ultimately she needs to be with the flock for protection and warmth. We have calculated the ideal times to put her back in with her sisters and incorporated her back into the group. She got to where she was calm enough to sleep with them at night and they accepted her and allowed her to huddle with them. Then she was able to be with them during the day. I suspected she still wasn’t eating enough and periodically now I remove her from the chicken pen and put her in her own place to ensure she gets what she needs.

Now that my chickens are old enough to be in the big pen, we have observed a strange phenomenon. When the special chicken freaks out and runs in circles (banging into the fence on all four sides) the other hens look up and see her and as a group they surround her and stop her from running: Therefore preventing her from further injury. It’s the very thing I did when they were chicks in the brooder. I would reach in and hold her still with my hand until she calmed down.

I am keenly aware that the care I give her is very much the care I receive from my Lord. I fall down in the muck and mire and spin around in circles, unable to get back up. God picks me up, cleans me up, and puts me in a special place where I am warm, well fed, and can heal from my wounds. My Lord calculates when I can be with the flock and moves me that direction. I am shy of the flock because I have been pecked at before. And yet God knows I need the flock. Through the care I have received directly from the Lord in his wisdom, I have found protection and warmth in the flock. When I was young my Lord reached down and held me until I was calm and now when I am in need the flock surrounds me and I know everything is going to be OK.

I am a special chicken.

Through this life I meet other special chickens and I know that only the Lord can feed them. I move them toward Him. But I also know that I am part of the flock that can bring protection and warmth. As a member of the flock I am privileged to be an instrument of healing. I am so glad to be part of the flock that surrounds and prevents injury- not the kind that pecks at a failing chick. I feel that is one of the reasons that my mother took her own life. She received a lot of care directly from the Lord. Her special place was at the piano. As she played and sung to Him she was being fed by Him. But she had been in so many flocks that pecked at her. She was shy of the flock and was never able to find her place amongst it. She needed so badly the warmth and protection of the flock but she huddled in a corner away from them getting rained on and making herself and target for predators.

I don’t believe God called her to do what she did but I think He saw her huddled away from the flock year after year. Injured and malnourished she wanted so badly to be held by the master. I think he finally just allowed her to go home. He didn’t send anyone to stop her this time. He just left the gate open. Although we see her torn apart by wolves and lifeless; Darkness did NOT win. We see her spot in the flock empty; her special place is void with her gone and we grieve. But she’s in the hands of the master and she will never be lying in the muck bleeding again.

Again my thought return to the flock that has nurtured, protected, and surrounded me. I thank you for being the picture of coinania (meaning fellowship.) Not many flocks out there know how to do life together and even more don’t know what to do with special chickens. As I taught my flock to help the special chicken so our Lord teaches us to how help others and He deserves all the glory and honor and praise

Poem: Sinister and Blue

Dreams and hope still blossom
They have eternal flame
Even curse of generations
Cannot drown out the same

Dark my dreams of late
Sinister and blue
Despite the gentle coaxing
By the hand of you

Tears that stain my pillow
Oppression from the deep
Taloned claws so buried
Prey upon our sheets

Yet flame birthed in the early
Young, impressionable years
Some how survived the dowsing
Some would think it queer

That fire so ignited
Could survive the storm
Demonic dark depression
From those whom me have born

Tiny birthday candle
Set upon my heart
Love for my creator
Respected from the start

So I stand in awe
At paradox of life
Darkness that surrounds me
Causes marital strife

So gently now He lifts me
From my deepest pit
Hope springs in the morning
Sunshine it comes to sit

Inching in upon me
Softly on my bed
To rest upon my eye lids
My Lord has come and said:

Take them now - My mercies
You know it to be true
Each morning I do give them
Freely now to you

Amazing how - the hope
Quickly can return
To home and habitation
Making candles burn

Hope it springs eternal
Love cannot be quenched
When founded by Creator
Satan is found lynched

Elizabeth 09-07-06

I wrote that one morning and little did I remember that Scott had come in and prayed for me while I slept. When I showed him the poem he, was in awe of the Lord and the power of prayer. Then he wrote this:

Morning Hope

One simple prayer said over you
Helps us both to not be blue
Call on the father at first light
Makes the day his…
Gives him the fight
We know we love you
Both Jesus and I
We want you to see it
With your inner eye

Scott