Perceptions

“By having the eyes of my heart flooded with light, I can know and understand the hope to which He has called me, and how rich is His glorious inheritance in the saints.” Eph 1:18

 

  There are probably untold doctoral theses written about the impact abuse, sexual or otherwise, has on children. They are probably full of medical lingo and case references or “Subject” studies. I’ve read enough of them on various topics trying to understand the complexities of my mental health challenges to know this is how scientists write.

  It makes it hard to make any sort of personal connection.

  Then God comes along with the beautiful phrase, “the eyes of my heart.”

  How we perceive ourselves and our place in the world is not all in our head.

  I know a young father who never forces his children to hug anyone, even if the person is a family member. What a wonderful way to teach his children they have the right to decide what happens to their body.

  Many months ago, I met a man for the first time, an elderly doctor who is a good friend of a friend. We had a brief driveway chat then just before we were leaving, he held his arms open. He phrased his invitation to hug him in a way that implied there was no choice. (Or that’s how I perceived it.) He didn’t ask if I was okay with it or even if I wanted to hug him, basically a stranger to me.

  A lifetime of conditioning kicked into full swing. He wanted a hug, so therefore I had to give him one.

  Within seconds of feeling his arms around me, I ended up in full on fight/flight mode, disassociating and barely remember getting into the car.

  The sad and unsettling thing to note is the automatic response to his male “authority” is still deeply ingrained.  I responded without thinking according to what he, a man, wanted.

  A day later, he apologized, deeply regretting his actions because he had later realized I had been abused. (God is a huge part of this doctor’s life!) He apologized for putting me in such a situation. He said he should have asked first. (I guess my perceptions were right: he hadn't.) The next time we met, he did ask if I was okay with a hug. I wasn’t and was given the freedom to say so.

  It made all the difference in the world although what happened previously makes me wary of trusting him.

  It also makes it incredibly difficult to trust myself!

  The moment I declined accepting his fatherly hug, I was overwhelmed by a tornado of emotions and a barrage of nasty thoughts, guilt being first and foremost…you hugged him last time, you have no right to deny him, you weren’t being “nice”, there’s something wrong with you, how dare you say “no”…it was ugly and confusing. Shame came a close second…your friend said you could trust him but you don’t because you are broken. 

  Yes.

  I am.

  Like the doll in today’s image, the terrible things I experienced growing up and as an adult twisted my perceptions of my place in the world as a woman. The resulting "truths" birthed in trauma have shaped everything from behaviours to thoughts. It's a challenge to not beat myself up for believing the lies disguised as truth. I can only know what I know until I know differently. Even then, new knowledge, new truth, takes time to settle in for the long haul.

  I have no idea how to overcome the disturbing automatic responses. They happen as quickly as someone would reach for a glass of milk that got knocked and was threatening to spill.

  Sometimes we catch it in time. Sometimes we don’t.

 

  I’ve decided to reframe how I perceive the need for taking my nightly meds. Instead of feeling they are a reminder of why I have PTSD, they are now an opportunity to give thanks to God for being released from the wilderness.

  There’s hope in that. It means perceptions, or our version of truth, can be challenged and ultimately, changed.

  Glory be to God! AMEN!

 

I Never Meant to Hurt You

 

  “For He will conceal me there when troubles come; He will hide me in His sanctuary. He will place me out of reach on a high rock. Then I will hold my head up high above my enemies who surround me.” Psalm 27:5-6

 

  Those six terrible words, “I never meant to hurt you,” are rife with toxic messages and dark undercurrents. They are not an apology!

  I have only heard them once, from my ex after he confessed to his infidelity. Once was enough because they did nothing but leave me confused. It’s meant to, because out of confusion comes an inability to respond.

  In the moments after he said this, I owned the hurt believing there was something wrong with my emotional response. I owned the fact that the hurt was utterly unreasonable. (?!) On the heels of that gem, it caused me to question whether or not I should be. I accepted the burden of responsibility these words placed on my shoulders because this statement implied his choice was my fault, too. It took a matter of seconds for this whirlwind of ideas and first impressions to flash through my brain.

  I was left reeling in a place of utter darkness. Jesus knew. Four days later, I accepted Him as my Saviour. Remembering the darkest days contains great comfort now.

  The burden of false responsibility is a nasty load to carry and I still find myself discovering bits and pieces that have yet to be dislodged. It is a burden all too familiar because there were many others who also dodged being accountable for their choices.

  Trite platitudes help abusers absolve themselves of needing to recognize the swath of hurt they leave in their wake. The easiest way is to place the blame elsewhere. Usually, the victim’s shoulders are the first to be burdened.

  “I couldn’t resist!”

  “At the core of these allegations, there is truth.”

  “It was just a game.”

  “I was only having fun.”

  “You never said, “No!” before.”

  “It happened a long time ago.”

  “Get over it.”

  Some of these I am all too familiar with.

  After I made the decision to separate myself from my ex, there was incredible pressure to let his affair slide because it had only happened once. 

  “He hadn’t tried to hide it!” was uttered as a selling feature for how good a man he was.

  It was so damaging.

  But then, the friends and family who said such things had no idea how bad it was. How could they? I hadn’t known until I was set free.

  He had been unfaithful other times as well.

  “You’re imagining things!” he replied, after being questioned about his behaviour. So I thought I had.

  Nope. I know that now.

  The seeds of doubt grow into some awfully thorny and twisted vines.

  So today’s art, with the extended hand full of crushed and wilted roses, represents the complexity of the poisonous gifts given to us that are over and above the damage done to our bodies.

  Lord, despite my own anger towards men, my heart cries out for the men who have also been given a dead bouquet. Sadly, women aren’t the only ones to get flowers. Be with them, with us. AMEN!

The Weight of Secrets

  “For our captors demanded a song from us. Our tormentors insisted on a joyful hymn: “Sing us one of the songs of Jerusalem!” But how can we sing songs of the Lord while in a pagan land?” Psalm 137:3-4

 

  Today’s art is special to me. The graphic figure of the kneeling, pregnant woman is one I used back in 2011. She was paramount in being able to break down the insurmountable grief that was choking my ability to articulate how I felt. She helped encapsulate the different facets of personal pain, breaking it down into somewhat manageable pieces. I spent about three months on that journey, producing a dozen or so images. It is unlikely they will be shared because the images are all deeply personal.

  Following the last blog, I felt led to resurrect her. This time it’s different. This time she is meant to be shared.

  A friend asked me to explain what it was all about so I thought I should explain to you, dear readers, what the significance is of the various elements.

  First and foremost is the fact she is pregnant. I felt it was representative of one of the fundamental aspects of being a woman. We are carriers but first have to be the receivers. For our womb to be filled, it takes two. Using the womb to contain an image of what she is carrying is an opportunity to voice the other mental, emotional and physical burdens we bear. Her pregnancy is a result of toxic interactions which created the pain in the first place.  

  It’s important to add I feel this is a huge part of being a women and why many of us who have experienced abuse wait so long to disclose it. It’s one of the key pieces of how God designed us. It’s humanity that twisted this beautiful gift.

  The weight brings us to our knees. Kneeling is also a pose of supplication before God. Her kneeling image is inviting Him into the pain of her terrible burden.

  The red dragon in the background is added because the dragon represents how pain has teeth and claws. They are dipped in the poison of shame and guilt and false responsibility. Christians might also view the dragon as a representation of demonic forces and influences. They are a huge part of the battle we wage.

  It’s no wonder she is weeping.

  The silver and black outline represents containment and illustrates how we end up trapped in our pain especially in instances of sexual or physical abuse. We end up trapped by a conspiracy of silence for untold reasons.

  As I painted the “SHHHHing” man, my tears flowed down. This time it’s different because while the tears poured out for my own experiences, they also rained down for all the other women coming forward through www.hagarsvoice.com. As I wept, I realized resurrecting this image is not just for my own benefit, it is an opportunity to visually voice the corporate grief of my sisters: the women joined together by trauma, abuse and secrecy.

 

  To end on a positive note, God has silenced the nasty little voice, my own red dragon, that insists on telling me I should be “over it” by now.

  I was one of the silent women who carried secrets my entire life. I was in my mid 40’s before starting to talk about what had happened to me. (Smile) Just unraveling the pain of my marriage is taking a long time simply because all of my experiences have interwoven emotional connections. It’s complicated beyond belief. I am only 57.

  There have also been huge triggers lately. Triggers don’t just stir up the memories of events because our bodies remember and our heart does, too.

  I have no idea if I will ever be “over it” until God takes me home and wipes away every tear from my face. I believe all the ugly stuff can be redeemed here on earth regardless of the sorrow it stirs up in my soul.

  If art is part of that redemption, I am deeply grateful and honoured to hold God’s paintbrush.

  

 

Looking for Grace

Today will start with a quote a friend sent me instead of a Bible verse:

 

“The woman was made of a rib out of the side of Adam; not made out of his head to rule over him, nor out of his feet to be trampled upon by him, but out of his side to be equal with him, under his arm to be protected, and near his heart to be beloved.” Mathew Henry, Commentary on the Whole Bible 1706

 

  At home church on Wednesday, I heard a term for the first time: toxic masculinity. It’s been around for a while but had never crossed my path previous to this point in my life.

  Toxic masculinity consists of many of the ideas blogged about over the last few posts. In a nut shell, it is how male culture breeds chauvinism, power, and tacit permission to treat women badly in the name of “manly behaviours.”

  I realized last night, and this brought me to tears: men don’t necessarily know they are abusers or that their behaviours are abusive. Their cultural conditioning is just as deep and unconscious as the toxic female culture which left me vulnerable to being abused.

  On the heels of that sad, sad understanding, my ex came to mind. I felt the teeth of my ages old foe of justification snapping at my soul.

  Yes, he was a product of his culture. He learned from his father how to treat women. His mom told me horrific stories about her husband. Her jaw never healed properly after one particularly vicious beating. Was her son justified to treat me badly because of this?

  Knowing a huge chunk of the why isn’t helping this morning.

  Maybe I am not ready to extend grace. Or maybe I am confusing grace with making excuses for what happened. Maybe I need to let myself off the hook first.

  Hey, Sue, remember what you just wrote: Men don’t necessarily know they are abusive.

  And that is harder than anything to wrap my head around.

  It’s even harder to wrap my head around how hard I worked to justify what happened. The excuses I made for his behaviour…even now I am wrestling with the idea that I should never criticize him in public or discuss marital matters with anyone. He said, frequently, it was out of respect for the sanctity of our marriage.

  Folks, secrecy is foundational in any abusive relationship, marriage or otherwise.

  I’ve been divorced for a long time, though not as long as the marriage lasted. While having walked away physically, the emotional baggage is immense, complex, pervasive, and hard to shake. It sucks to have a reminder of all the crap as I swallow the necessary anxiety and sleep meds every single night.

  It’s darn confusing, too, when old ideas leap up and reveal how much they shape how I think today.

  In closing, I realize I need help to understand how grace works because it feels as though grace is simply another name for justification. Maybe I am afraid extending grace to men (Bruxy is part of this, too) is giving permission for things to keep on trucking like they always have.

  Lord, the bitterness is choking me. Please, please, help me move beyond this. Help me forgive Bruxy for stirring all this crap up because right now, I really, really want to hurt him. My rage is distasteful and ugly and toxic. This is not who or how I want to be. In Jesus' name, AMEN!
 

White Privilege

 

 It's a two post day due to technical difficulties but I wanted to write about this to help wrap my head around it.

 “How wonderful and pleasant it is when brothers live in harmony! For harmony is as precious as the anointing oil that was poured over Aaron’s head, that ran down his beard and onto the border of his robe.” Psalm 133:1-2

 

  Part of our Zoom staff meeting is an opportunity to dialogue about issues surrounding anti-racism and anti-oppression. I’ve lost track of time from being off work with Covid but it was about a month ago when I spoke up. I strongly felt the discussion was fanning the flames of racial hate instead of helping us learn from each other.

  I have zero recollection about what was said to this effect because, following my passionate and aggrieved speech, a co-worker exploded. Again, I cannot remember what was said except for the last words, spoken in bitter rage…”People who are white!!”

  Of course, being me, I quickly apologized in the chat because it had not been my intention to silence or demean anyone. The support received was amazing. Most of the comments affirmed what I had been trying to say had been very clear. A call with my boss to debrief later that day also helped tremendously.

  But it felt as though I’d been gut punched.

  There’s been some time to recover but what happened haunts me.

  The idea of white privilege seems to be the leading concept in any sort of anti-racism dialogue. I only had a vague idea what this meant. Yesterday was a quiet day at work so, thanks to Google, I now have clearer understanding.

  I don’t have to worry about being pulled over by police because of the colour of my skin.

  I am also not concerned that police won’t help should I need them.

  I can walk freely in a store or mall without being followed by security.

  TV, magazine and newspaper images are predominantly white.  I have to add that statistically, since Canada is 79% Caucasian, we are bound to be the main focus of the majority of anything promotion related.

  No one says I got my job because of the colour of my skin as opposed to being the right fit.

  Nobody ever says I should be thankful I have a job because of my colour.

  Band-aids are the colour of my skin. Maybe they should only make them blue then it wouldn’t matter anymore.

  So are the little hand icons we can share in our Zoom meeting.

  These are samples from the pages and pages about this online. The majority are written by white authors.

  But I also learned another term: intersectionality.

  Because I am a woman, many of the prejudicial treatments towards people of colour are shared because of my gender. Poverty, too, comes with its own challenges around prejudice.

  I have been followed around a high end store and given the hairy eyeball by the clerk because my wardrobe was deemed “inappropriate” for the cost of the items being sold there. Little did they know my wallet contained ample funds to purchase their most expensive item! Another store got my money.

  During this research, following a rabbit trail came with the discovery that there was slavery in Canadian history. This shocked me more than anything because our role in the Underground Railroad helping slaves escape from the US is all I knew of slavery. It was an American thing. Why was this whitewashed from our history classes? I guess it’s also why wasn't taught black children couldn't come to my school. The last Canadian segregated school only closed in 1983. (!)

  This biased history is also part of white privilege but it bothers me that it took so long to erase one of the most punitive types of social exclusion ever created by man.

  Interestingly, the Canadian Encyclopedia online shared the identities of Canadian slave owners. Most of them were white but one slave owner was a Mohawk chief. At the time, this was acceptable. There were also indentured servants brought over from Europe who repaid their passage by working for free for decades…basically, they sold themselves into slavery for the chance at a better life. Most of them died at the hands of those who had paid for their trip from overwork and harsh conditions long before they were free.

  Much of my journey has involved looking at the past. The hardest thing to overcome was not judging my decisions based on today’s knowledge and experience. Nothing can change what happened in the past, I can only learn from it and, hopefully, strive to do better. Being aware that there are pervasive cultural attitudes that unconsciously shape how I live is a start.

  God knows how much they've hurt me, too.

Courage

 

  “I have courage in God’s presence, because I am sure that he hears me if I ask him for anything that is according to his will.” 1 John 5:14

 

  I almost did a second post the other day, excited for this opportunity to share some more art and speak about courage. Waking with anticipation is a rare event. However, spotty internet meant it wasn’t possible. Thankfully, this has been recitifed.

  Courage and bravery…I once heard someone say that bravery is doing something despite being afraid. That takes courage.

  Danielle Strickland, who resigned as a teaching pastor at The Meeting House, has chosen to be an advocate for any woman who has been abused by clergy or any other church member. Her resignation was both a protest over and an invitation for the church to change how it handles such matters. A website, www.hagarsvoice.com, has been created as a safe place for women to come forward and share their experiences regardless of denomination.

  Maybe the biggest element of courage is trusting God. Danielle has modeled this tremendously, sacrificing a pay cheque to do what is right.

  Hagar, the first victim to come forward preferred her identity remain anonymous. She chose that name because Hagar is the woman whom God sees. To constantly refer to her as The Victim only distanced us from her humanity and her pain. Some have called this cowardice but more on that in a minute.

  Bruxy also went to social media following his resignation. He wrote an online confession which, with other women coming forward with allegations, leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

  Social media has given the public an opportunity to weigh in. It’s a judgment bath and, sadly, rather ugly especially if we call ourselves Christians.

  I have taken some time to read these comments, disturbing as some of them are. I honestly pray that some of the men who have weighed in don’t have daughters because their words only reinforce the idea that women should just shut up and take it because, after all, it’s their fault.

  This is a lie.

  The cries for Hagar to reveal her actual identity are particularly hard to read.

  When a woman presses charges of rape against a man, time and again we hear how her reputation is smeared by the defense. Perhaps her promiscuity is brought into the picture or drug use or the fact she was impaired. Her lifestyle choices are blamed for the assault. 

  Her femaleness is blamed, too. She’s a woman who put herself in this dangerous situation…what did she expect?

  The number of women who think this way as well is staggering. Our social conditioning is gravely alive and well.

  So here’s the thing, and I will direct this towards men, how can you blame someone else for your lack of control? How can you believe that abuse is deserved? How can you infer it is your male right to take advantage of someone?

  Hmmm…didn’t expect that to come out this morning but it’s a story I am all too familiar with.

  I thought this was about courage.

  Hagar choosing to remain anonymous is not a measure of her courage. If anything it is a grim acknowledgement of how women are treated in cases of sexual misconduct, rape, or abuse. It’s a disturbing comment how such things are, more often than not, disregarded and swept under the rug.

  The plight of Canadian missing and murdered aboriginal women clearly demonstrates how grievously alive and well this attitude is.

  Why would Hagar want to reveal her entire self to even more abuse? Despite her anonymity, there’s been plenty directed her way.

  What would have happened if she hadn’t been believed? That, too, happens far too often.

  And there is courage to the Nth degree. In spite of the risks, in spite of the cultural attitudes, in spite of living in a patriarchal society, in spite of the church’s history of ignoring such charges, Hagar came out of the shadows and into the light.

  It’s no wonder it took so long.

In the Name of Love

  “Those who live in the shelter of the Most High will find rest in the shadow of the Almighty.” Ps 91:1

 

  When my heart breaks, God gives me art. For this I give thanks.

  More allegations against Bruxy have been made by two women who used www.hagarsvoice.com to speak about what happened to them. These recent situations have yet to be investigated but I am not surprised. Once someone has wandered, it’s easier to justify doing it again. Oh, Lord, what a mess.

  My heart bleeds for his wife and daughters.

  My heart bleeds because Hagar's story is a story of multiple churches and multiple clergy of all denominations. Thank God these brave women are breaking the silence.

  My heart bleeds for the women who are coming forward. Some of them have taken thirty years to tell their story.

  Why does it take so long?

  You see, there’s this code of silence whenever abuse happens. Our own shame is a huge part of it. “How could I?” “Why didn’t I stop him?” “How could I be so stupid?”

  How do things get so twisted?

  Grooming is an insidious thing.

  Abuse doesn’t happen overnight and that’s the hardest part to understand. Men who abuse women take their time to exert their authority over them. They do and say the right things to make us fall in love with them. Only then is that love twisted into a dagger they use against us…we need to prove our love over and over. It may mean obedience. It may mean never questioning. Abuse is definitely being joined together by a conspiracy of secrets.  

  I was the proverbial frog in the cold water pot. The poor thing doesn't even know the heat has been turned up until it's too late. 

  While I can't speak to clergy sexual abuse, I can speak of the spousal kind.

  It takes time until we come to realize to keep the peace, our needs are secondary.  Often our needs are used against us…the silent treatment, the threat of violence, and withholding intimacy are about having power.  

  Love blinds us.

  I can’t say this enough!

   It's the biggest part of grooming, this invitation to love according to the rules of the abuser. 

  When things are good, we hold an illogical hope things have changed. They haven’t. Then it happens again…it’s good for a while. Then it’s not.

  Eggshell walking becomes a state of being.

  Grooming is often aided by cultural influences. 

   I watched the musical, Oliver, a while back. There’s a woman in the story who is involved with a violent criminal. He treats her like crap but she sings out her heart…”As Long As He Needs Me.” Something is terribly wrong about this. And maybe, having watched this many times over the years, I thought this was the way it should be.

  Charles Dickens’ book the movie was based on has a poignant conversation that doesn’t appear in the movie or maybe a shorter version does. I forget. Anyways, she confesses to a wealthy lady it’s all she thinks she deserves because she was trapped by crimes of her own.

  This is something abusers look for. They look for women who struggle with low self esteem or perhaps were already victims of bullying, neglect and abuse.

  They win us over with kindness and inclusion.

  We grow to love them to the point we become their fiercest protectors. He needs me!

  This is why it takes thirty years to come forward. We are unable to betray this illogical love for the one who hurt us the most. We are unable to destroy the public persona of the one who took so much from us. Love doesn’t do that sort of thing, does it?

  For those of us who finally come forward, the internal wrestling match is unbelievably complicated. Guilt, feelings of betraying his “love”, a massive dose of responsibility…I didn’t say, “NO!” It’s admitting our shameful secret, how badly we failed to make him happy. Compliancy is equated with being a complicit and willing partner.

  It's hard to believe how grateful I am for my ex's infidelity even now, many years later. (That was a journey of its own.)  I hadn't even realized I was in an abusive relationship because my freedoms were taken away so gradually and subtly ( Love the frog in a pot metaphor.) God knew this was the one thing that could set me free, painful as it was. It also led to my becoming a follower of Jesus. 

  My ex's choice proved unequivocally he didn't need me after all.

  He was utterly surprised when I left, holding him accountable for the first time in our entire 20 year relationship. He thought I should be okay with his seeing other women because it was my fault he had to. Wow. He must have thought I was fully trained by this point.

  Surprise!!

  Which leads me to ponder, why did I think I needed him? 

  That is an integral part of grooming. I fully believed I didn't deserve better and his "love" for me was a huge gift. Being told in countless way that nobody could ever love me or would want to love someone damaged as I was made me grateful for his kind attentions when he deemed to dole them out. (Man, that's an ugly thing to see in print but, hey, it was what it was. I know better now.)

  Let’s reiterate one very important point: an abusive relationship is all about one person exerting control over another.

  Love doesn’t do that. 

  Ever.

 

 

Gratitude Returns

 

“Why am I discouraged? Why am I so sad? I will put my hope in God! I will praise him again—my Savior and my God!” Psalm 42:5-6

 

  I have finally found a metaphor that has given me some peace. It isn’t the wounds of the past that have been torn open. It is the tender skin around the scars that has been stretched and maimed by recent events. It helps me view the terrible memories with the knowledge I have not turned my back on the healing that has already happened.

  In some ways I have suffered a set-back but in no way is this river as deep or as black as some I have travelled. My mind has remained intact. It didn’t slip sideways into oblivion, the place of no memory, thoughts or consciousness. It’s an odd thing to be thankful for: being present in the pain of today.

  I am not alone in this place of collective pain. Somehow it’s easier to bear knowing that. As much as I grieve for my sisters whose lives reflect my own, we are a community. We have gathered to mourn and share and weep and plant tiny seeds of hope.

  These seeds will grow.

  On their branches will be blossoms of grace, forgiveness, restoration, and joy.

  How beautiful it will be!

 

  Maybe I can thank Bruxy this morning. Without his having done what he did I wouldn’t have found this place of belonging. I wouldn’t have discovered that briefly lowering the mask is the start of freedom. 

  I wouldn’t have realized how badly I need people to come alongside this part of my journey. Amazingly, I am ready to share my boat because there are others who need to be floated along their own Black River. It’s a good boat, she is, built of faith and promise.

  My soul lifts with hope for the first time in days. 

  We will get through this, together.

More Thoughts

 

  “Cry out for insight, and ask for understanding. Search for them as you would for silver; seek them like hidden treasures.” Prov 2:3-4

 

  I needed to go to church yesterday. I needed to be with my people, my friends. I needed to be a part of the collective grief and know that I am not alone.

  The Meeting House has suspended its planned teaching for the Lenten season leading up to Easter. Yesterday, four of the teaching pastors gathered on stage and shared their feelings, their heartbreak, their pain. There were no polished notes. There were no thought provoking questions.

  It was real.

  I am grateful the events leading up to this point are not going to be set aside as though they never happened. Instead, they are being met with courage and openness, vulnerability and truth.

  One of the good and kind men I wrote about in my last post approached during the few minutes we spend greeting each other. He hugged my friend and turned to me, arms open. Part of me wanted to put my hand up and rebuff this sign of friendship. Part of me was aware of the damage it would cause. Not by hurting him (which it would have) but because such an act would have reinforced my own fear.

  I did cringe the moment he put his arms around me. But, hey, it took years for me to reach the point I could even accept his brotherly embrace.

  I don’t want to start over.

  I don’t want to obliterate all the work the Lord has done in my heart because of fear. Maybe I should say I don’t want fear to steal the good things from my life. It’s already done too much of that.

  So why am I afraid to forgive Bruxy?

  Is it because I don’t fully understand forgiveness?

  Forgiving him doesn’t mean I condone what he has done. It doesn’t mean turning a blind eye.

  Does it mean I have to let go of the anger I feel for the far reaching damage he left in his wake? Okay. Yes. But I am still unraveling how deep the damage is personally and socially. Cringing at simple human touch is only the tip of the iceberg.

  To see the pain etched on my own pastor’s face breaks my heart.

  To end on a positive note, I have recovered from a two week battle with Covid. This morning's RAT test was clear. It lost. 

  So will evil.

  

Not There Yet

 

“I will be glad and rejoice in your unfailing love, for you have seen my troubles, and you care about the anguish of my soul. You have not handed me over to my enemies but have set me in a safe place.” Psalm 31:7-8

 

  There has been much dialogue about forgiveness over the last forty-eight hours; how we need to forgive Bruxy for the damage he left in the wake of his secrets coming into the light.

  I know this.

  I am just not ready yet.

  What is disturbing is the impression that granting forgiveness is somehow a barometer of what sort of Christian I am. The inability to forgive is a black mark against me. Do I want to? Yes. Do I trust that the Lord will bring me to that point? Absolutely! God knows I am incapable of doing on my own.

  Years ago as a baby Christian, my mentor silenced me when I began to share of the healing that was taking place specifically around the abuse. She cut me off with these words, “If you are still talking about it, you aren’t healed.” 

  That was one of the last times I went to her for advice and guidance.

  Is that what a declaration of forgiveness is meant to do? Silence us before we have a chance to unravel the deep layers of hurt?

  The barrage of unpleasant memories is nearly overwhelming. I am surprised and saddened about the raw anger and grief they have stirred up because I thought I had moved on. (A nasty little voice in my head says I should have by now.)

  But then, my life is wrapped with the chronic and constant companion of PTSD because of the compounded and lasting effect of multiple traumatic events. It’s hard to forget when you are constantly ambushed by panic or tears that a mere word can trigger. (Yes, I am deeply angry about this.)

  Recent events have been a colossal trigger.

  I am trying very hard not to get buried in the pain. Again.

 

  Do I trust or don’t I? That is the question.

  The church has been a place of great healing. I can thank the good and kind men God brought across my path for much of it: my pastor, our home church leaders, the men in my home church who have been nothing but kind and generous. To turn my back on them because of the poor choices of another would be so sad.

  It would set me back by years…it took years to reach the point I was even comfortable in the presence of these men. They didn’t push me. They treated me with the highest respect. To my amazement, I began to feel safe around them.

  And that is the greatest cause of my grief and sense of loss. I am bewildered and unsure. Do I continue to trust my judgment about these men or do I walk away?

  Do I trust God?

  Or do I simply wait suspiciously on the sidelines for the “true nature” of men to reveal itself. Again. Regardless of how good and nice they are. Abusers are very good at being “nice.” It’s why I ended caught up in a cycle of chronic abuse in the first place. I so wanted to believe they cared that I made allowances for anything that was untoward or inappropriate.

  Oh, Lord, what a mess.

  Men, I am sorry, sorry for feeling this way, sorry for being so afraid. I have to hang on to the hope that you are not all the same because I know in my head you are not. It will take time for my heart to fall in line. Please be patient with me as I wrestle through these thoughts and feelings. This, too, will take time.

  Can I forgive Bruxy? Not today.

 

 

 

 

It

 

  “But I say, love your enemies! Pray for those who persecute you! In that way, you will be acting as children of your Father in heaven. For he gives his sunlight to both the evil and the good, and he sends rain on the just and the unjust alike.” Mat 5:44-45

 

  I confess to struggling with enemy love this morning. Maybe if I sit here and write, God will open my heart beyond the pain it is feeling. The events at the Meeting House have left me unsettled and full of anger towards men who use their power and authority to subjugate women.

  I have personal experience because I learned my lessons well. Male authority was not to be challenged. This was part of the culture I was raised in, a hangover from the 1950’s.

  I think too, of the tacit permission men are given that not only authorizes sexual behaviours it encourages them. Sexual prowess is admired. Multiple partners are something to boast about. A man with a wife and a mistress? Lucky dog!

  Men, in their pursuit of these accolades, are not to be held accountable. Boys will be boys don’t you know!

  I enjoy watching NCIS but one thing has really started to bother me. Tony Dinozzo, one of the main characters, frequently makes inappropriate remarks towards the women who cross his path. A joke is made about his having missed this year’s sexual harassment training. It’s laughed off. Even by the women who were targeted. This scenario happens in multiple episodes—kind of a running gag about Tony’s attempts at seduction.

  Folks, this is wrong.

  It’s nothing to laugh about. Not. One. Bit.

 

  There is nothing worse than being treated like a thing.

 

  And that is at the heart of it all. It’s why I suffered so much. It’s why I was tossed away like yesterday’s garbage. My identity as a woman, a person, was crushed by disregard and neglect and abuse. Submission was the only way to survive. I didn’t know I deserved better because, except in these latter years, no male in my life ever showed me I did.

  So yes, I am angry. I am angry for the woman who so bravely came forward to speak about what had happened to her and is maligned and insulted for it. I am angry for the little girls who become sexualized long before they stop playing with dolls. I am angry for the young women who believe having sex is a barometer of their worth.

  I am angry at the men who still believe sexual, emotional and financial dominance is their right and that we women should just shut up and take it.

  It’s time to stop justifying these sorts of behaviours.

  It’s time to stop making excuses.

  It stopped being funny a long time ago.

  Men, if you don’t understand what I am saying, you need to listen to women and hear their stories. Learn about the dynamics of an abusive relationship. Learn to identify the cultural norms that create power dynamics. More than anything, if she has been broken by abuse, ask her, “What happened?”

  My answer to that?

  I didn’t think I had a choice.

  A thing, you see, doesn’t have any rights.

 

 Besides, all I ever wanted was to be loved.

 

  Lord, be with me. Be with those who bore the full brunt of my anger this morning, Bruxy included. Be with those who seek to know more, who are open to hearing the cries of a woman’s heart. Be with those women whose hearts cry out to You for healing, restoration, grace and acceptance.

  AMEN.

 

Helping Hands

 

  “While the man slept, the Lord God took out one of the man’s ribs and closed up the opening. Then the Lord God made a woman from the rib and he brought her to the man.” Gen 2:21

 

  This ties in to what I posted yesterday. This woman’s heart is grieving over what is happening so I thought to share some hard lessons I’ve learned. Hindsight is a great teacher.

  As I read the few verses around the creation of woman and how the serpent deceived her, I realized Eve and I have a lot in common. How could it be otherwise?

  God’s foremost plan for woman was that she be man’s helper. This fundamental aspect of women has been encoded in our DNA. It’s our greatest quality but it’s also our greatest enemy.

  Being a helper automatically creates a hierarchy of power. Or maybe I should wonder why a “helper” is automatically less than. Humanity’s greatest successes couldn’t have happened without teams of people working towards a common goal. We can’t all be leaders or nothing would happen.

  Having the heart of a helper gets us into a lot of trouble. It leaves us vulnerable to manipulation. It leaves us vulnerable to abuse. I feel it is also a huge part of our naiveté and perhaps, generates a fair bit of blindness when it comes to discerning when we are being manipulated.

  Some of us pay dearly for it.

  Master manipulators are very good at taking their time. Before we know it, we’re in deep trouble with no idea how we got there.

  Manipulators have an arsenal at their fingertips. Generating sympathy morphs into being punished for not anticipating needs. Failure is laid at the woman’s feet and, being a woman, she wants to help make it right.

  Isolation is also a weapon of control. Our helping nature is squashed unless our time is spent solely on serving the one taking control. It quickly escalates to not permitting any other demands on our time. It ends up being easier to cut all outside ties rather than facing a barrage of jealousy and accusation and, far too often, fists.

  We are kept off balance. What was okay one day is unacceptable the next.

  We are led to doubt our intelligence and abilities to make decisions.

 

  Manipulators are unable to take any sort of responsibility for their actions and choices. It’s always someone else’s fault.

 

  They will also try to minimize the harm they have done. Sadly, many women end up believing that they are responsible for being hurt physically or emotionally. That too, is a weapon of manipulation.

 

  Yet, we women still think we can help, that if we try harder, things will get better.

  They won’t. If fear motivates your choices or squashes the ability to make them in the first place, something is terribly wrong.

  I pray for anyone trapped in this cycle of abuse. Manipulation is abuse. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

 

They Know Not What They Do

 

“Then I pray to you, O Lord. I say, ‘You are my place of refuge.’” Psalm 142:5

The contents in this post may be disturbing to some readers.

 

  Our church is reeling. In November, a woman came forward with allegations of sexual misconduct in regards to Bruxy Cavey, the lead teaching pastor at the Meeting House. The church took this seriously and an investigation by a third party began immediately. They found Bruxy to have abused his power as counselor and pastor. He has resigned, his BIC pastoral credentials removed.

  So has Daniel Strickland, another teaching pastor whose teachings I will sorely miss. Her resignation took place because she felt the woman who brought forward these allegations has not been heard.

  Following last night’s town hall meeting where the findings of the investigation were shared with the church community, both Bruxy and the woman involved have released statements.

  It’s hard not to be angry. This situation is far more than “sexual misconduct.” After reading what Bruxy had to say, I am even angrier. He has no idea.

  In his written apology, Bruxy has referred to his “transgressions” as having an affair. Thanks to this brave woman, we have her side of the story.

  She was 23. He was 47. He was her counselor. She came to him for help. This was no fling between peers. This was a grievous abuse of power. He took advantage of a vulnerable young woman for years.

  I am struggling to get past his apparent disregard for the terrible impact his actions had on her. I understand why Danielle resigned. Both the report and Bruxy’s comments minimize what happened to her.

  An affair? Is this an attempt to justify what took place because she didn’t say, “No”?

  We MUST equip our church with language that gives voice to the deep and lasting damage sexual predation has on its victim. We MUST recognize that an inability to say, “NO!” is a huge part of female culture. It’s why 1 in 3 of us ends up being sexually abused.

  Those of us who have been abused need to speak up. We need to be candid and forthright about the lasting damage sexual abuse causes. Just because it isn’t called rape doesn’t mean it wasn’t. Just because it appears consensual, doesn’t mean it was. No choice is hardly a choice at all.

  This young woman has responded with far more grace than I find possible this morning. I grieve for her, for myself, for the countless women who have shared their own abuse stories with me.

  I am so incredibly angry at the men who believe they have the right to steal dreams, hopes, health and self-worth in the name of sexual gratification. This is especially heart breaking because I have worked so hard to overcome this soul consuming anger and fear. I had begun trusting the good and godly men who surround me.

  That is the greatest loss of all, not knowing if they truly are trust worthy.

I Can't Fix This.

 

  “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” 1 Cor 13:4-8

 

  I am tired of all the ugly in this world. I am tired of living with an illness birthed in trauma and abuse. My body is the one keeping a record of wrongs. No matter how hard I try to move on, I end up right back where I started; facing down the memories.

  It sucks.

    The events of last Wednesday have set me back, big time. They have unlocked a smoldering anger and bitterness that is utterly distasteful to me. I don’t want to end up lashing out and hurting others because of it. I’ve been on the receiving end of unwarranted and undeserved rage far too often.

  It’s how I got here in the first place.

  Oh, Lord, I want off this dark, dark merry-go-round that seems to be everywhere I look, outside and in.

  I am tired of seeing opinion articles that disguise themselves as “news.” One of the articles about the convoy had a picture of a Nazi arm band with the headline “swastikas displayed at Canadian protests”. Unless you read the fine print under the photo by clicking on the article, you wouldn’t have realized the image was an arm band displayed in a European museum. It wasn’t anywhere near Ottawa. Again, I do not support anyone who holds racist beliefs and am working on being able to speak up whenever they cross my path. It’s not easy for me.

  The only reason I did some investigating was because of a FB post that encouraged everyone to test the images and statements made on social media. It works well, to do just that with everything being broadcast in these difficult times.

  This is just an example of how easy it is to manipulate and divide. Who reads the fine print?

  I can’t help but wonder where else inflammatory sensationalism has been disguised as news.

  Something is terribly wrong.

  We are on the brink of a possible WWIII.

  We are a nation divided by suspicion and prejudice.

  And I am reeling from the ugliness all around not knowing what or how to pray.

Teach Our Children Well

 

  “You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. A second is equally important, ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’” Jesus Mat 22:37-39

 

  Hate is a terrible thing. We humans are very adept at finding reasons to hate or mock or ridicule. 

  I attended some training yesterday for work: First Aid and CPR. I learned a lot more than the last time. I also learned a great deal about prejudice.

  Women are far less likely to receive CPR as quickly as a man because of our anatomy. People are far more uncomfortable with the idea of cutting the clothes away from someone who has breasts, never mind placing hand to chest to provide life saving measures. Maybe this isn’t exactly hate based, but due to the increased sensitivity around sexual harassment. The two couldn’t be farther apart.

  If I am dying, touch me, please!!

  Throughout the day, the instructor regaled us with tales about “old people” she heard from her paramedic husband. Some “poked fun” at deafness. Some “poked fun” at what age does to a body. Had the words, “old lady” been replaced with a colour or nationality it would have been utterly unacceptable on so many levels.

  It gave me pause. Last week’s conversations have me mulling over the idea that, because I am white, I have never been a victim of prejudice. Hearing what I heard yesterday revealed just how subtly prejudice has managed to weave its way into our lives. Ageisms are prejudice.

  Many years ago, I was involved with the municipal government in a battle against intensive agriculture. During one session of open Q&A, an older neighbour smiled, gave my shoulder a paternal pat and quietly whispered he had gone around the room and assured everyone, “I was smarter than I looked.”

  I was never one for fuss and feathers and adornment. I was clean, professional, and had an arsenal of memorized facts, statistics and medical information supporting my stand yet, I “looked” stupid? How does wearing or not wearing a skirt impact my brain?

  Lately, I’ve been criticized for “thinking too deeply.” It’s who I am. I think. I read. I learn. I explore and wonder and question. Why is this even an issue? Would it be okay if I was male? (Lord, I taste the bitterness in my mouth after asking that.)

  I’ve also been “classified” as not being very feminine. Comfort far outweighs the expectations I should be in heels or spend hours donning make-up and crimping my hair. It simply isn’t me. It never was. It might be you and that’s okay.

  Getting quotes for the renovation was a terrifying prospect simply because I am a woman on her own. To be safe, I arranged for three different contractors to bid on the job. A man from the city came up. His casual, verbal quote was ridiculously overpriced unless I was using marble and real gold. I thanked him for his time knowing he had tried to take advantage. He had no way of knowing I knew how much the job should cost because I had researched the heck out of it and had extensive experience with renovations.

  A week later, he called, asking if I was going to hire him. I firmly said, “No.” saving the outrage for when I was off the phone although, perhaps I should have let him have it for what he was trying to do. It might have made him more honest with other women. (It would appear there are still some life lessons I need to address.)

  Is it prejudice to assume contractors and other trades like mechanics attempt to take advantage of my gender? No…it happens frequently but I take each situation as it comes, knowing there are many wonderful business people who don’t have a gender bias. I ask friends for references and guidance as needed. That’s just smart.

  The contractor I hired was a company owned by a woman. The first thing she said was along these lines, “Because I am a woman running this business, we have to be better than anyone else.” She wasn’t the cheapest but was the most thorough in her quotes, her questions and gave clear answers to mine. Everything was in writing. Every step was documented. Every step of the way she was professional and respectful. That’s why I hired her, not because of her gender.

  I’ve had to work a long time to overcome the objectification of women rampant in our society. I lived many years with someone who would identify women as “it” until I finally spoke up and put a stop to this. But the lesson was learned. Women were frequently (usually) referred to by other, disgustingly profane names, especially successful ones. Some highly offensive names I put a stop to but the damage was done.

  Because of my gender and toxic lessons like this, I believed I was “less than.”

  A lifetime of being a victim of prejudice will do this. It steals rights. It steals dignity. It suffocates love and acceptance. It crushes unique expressions of individuality. It pulverizes our intrinsic value as people to dust. The tentacles of prejudice reach far and wide, far beyond the colour of our skin.

  Thank God, I am free…sort of. I can’t help but be the woman God made me to be. Why do I feel the need to apologize?

  Growing up I would hear my dad using racial slurs like “Coon” and “Woolly”. I didn’t understand the significance or why he used such words to describe the black man in the car beside us. Maybe it was the contempt in his voice I heard but my child’s heart knew it was mean and nasty. He sounded just like the kids who called me “fatty”.

  Children don’t start out prejudiced. We teach them.

  Forgive me, Lord, for not teaching my own children better, daughter and sons alike. Forgive me for perpetrating the awful, unspoken, prejudice infused lessons of “gender rights and identity.”

  I confess, as well, that even though I never repeated the words my father used, I grew up using other culturally based slurs, especially when they were “funny.” I called other kids names, too. Those who are unaccepted find others “less acceptable” than them to pay the pain forward. This doesn’t justify or excuse my actions, but clearly demonstrates what I said in my opening sentence, “Hate is a terrible thing.”

  Thank You, Lord, I am more aware than ever just how hurtful my actions were to others. Thank You that I can personally identify, conquer and forever silence the prejudicial attitudes, ideas and language that are entrenched in my subconscious.

  Discrimination is also the ability to recognize and understand the difference between one thing and another such as right and wrong. This is a good thing.