Stones

  “All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” John 8:7

 

  “They found that the stone had been rolled away.” Luke 24:2

 

  Inuksuk: “To act in the capacity of a human.”

 

  My friend and I are going rock hunting this afternoon. They are needed to build a couple of small retaining walls beside the new shed. The gardens on either side are quite deep so I want to prevent the soil from falling into the shed wall.

  I enjoy building stone walls. It’s like doing a heavy jigsaw puzzle held in place by gravity. It takes a few tries to find a rock that fits and ties into its’ neighbour. It sometimes requires a smaller stone wedged in place to keep the bigger stones steady.

  A few posts ago, it was mentioned that nobody had ever told me I was beautiful. It’s been rolling around in my head, not gathering moss. Hadn’t they? Was I unable to hear it said?

  When I was sixteen, working my first job, my forty-something boss grabbed me by both arms and pulled me tightly to his body. “I could just do you,” he hoarsely whispered, his squinted and lustful eyes pierced my soul.

  He quickly let go, thank God. Maybe he saw how terror had drained the colour from my face. Maybe he felt me desperately trying to pull away from the nearness of him. I never spoke. I couldn’t.

  He never did anything like that again but eventually quit to return to his original career: high school guidance counselor. I pray he never did anything like this to a student.

  That’s not the same as being told I was beautiful.

  An Inuksuk, today's image, is a signpost made of rock. Inuit people have used them for millennia. They speak a coded language telling those able to read the sign where good hunting is, where a cache of food is. They act as permanent guides pointing out safe passages and away from dangerous ones.

  My boss’s hands were made of stone.

 

  “Giving up can look like complete disengagement OR it can look like complete compliance. Both are versions of despair.” Danielle Strickland

  Compliance was the cornerstone my life was built upon. The moment I read this quote from Danielle, I felt God tap me on the shoulder. “This was you.” He rolled the stone away so I could understand.

  The dictionary defines despair as the feeling of no longer having any hope.

  Hope is what we build dreams on. As children, dreams might be around owning a pony or being an astronaut. As young adults, dreams might be what a perfect wedding would look like or what it will be like to be rich. Older folks imagine retirement, or holidays, or being grandparents.

  My childhood dream turned my bed into a horse drawn, covered wagon. It was not about exploring the world. It was not about seeing things I’d never seen. All I wanted to do was get away.

  Hopes and dreams were for other people.

  The boulders of despair pointed my heart in the opposite direction. I still struggle with envisioning the future. (Smile.) At least I don’t need to worry about it then: the what ifs, the maybes. (Bigger smile.) It means I can happily dwell in this present moment, sitting here, typing, having no idea where God is taking this.

  It’s exciting to see where He is going. It’s like celebrating Easter Sunday every time I sit and write and watch God roll the stone away. Not so I can get into the tomb, but to let me out.

 

  Depression is the offspring of chronic despair.

  Danielle’s words gave me clarity to understand the reason for living in a chronic state of depression for most of my life.

  It was despair. Compliancy came into being out of desperation and a complete absence of hope.

  I will say that all that kept me going was this vague idea, the whisper that one day, things will get better.

  They have.

  God knows how I love finding answers because those stones are diamonds!

  

 

Feather Weight

  “Stand your ground, putting on the belt of truth and the body armor of God’s righteousness. For shoes, put on the readiness to preach the Good News of peace with God.” Eph 6:14-15

 

  The time for using the painted woman isn’t over but some changes have been made. The dragon’s teeth are smaller, its colour faded in places, the outline not so bold.

  I pray God will guide me so that all that’s painted is the space around where it was. Hear my prayer, O God that the woman’s tear will no longer be part of the picture and her womb, her innermost self, bears only beautiful things.

  After yesterday’s post, I spent some time outside replacing a crucial, GFI electrical outlet that had quit working last fall. It’s needed to power the ornamental pond pump and my lawn mower. Some neglected housework got taken care of, too, until the idea for this painting emerged clearly in my mind.

  That’s a process, too.

  I got thinking about how sexism and gender roles are like feathers. They float down and settle on our souls. One, on its own, doesn’t weigh anything.

  “How much does a ton of feathers weigh?” A mind bending question we used to ask each other as children.

  There wasn’t enough room in the woman’s womb for a ton of feathers. That’s where the boot comes in.

  I am not proud to admit owning a feathered pair of my own.  It isn’t surprising. None of us knows anything more than what we learn until we learn differently.

  The feathers on my boots mark each time I held a woman in contempt because she was fearful of changing an outlet or using a hammer. They also mark each time I sneered at women whose lives involve a passion for fashion and make-up. The human objectifying beauty scale is the darkest feather on my boots. There is a feather with, “Blond jokes” etched into its’ shaft…

  Heck, let’s put this in here, too…many feathers are the disparaging and sexist comments made about men; especially the ones who were softer, gentler, and less “manly”…

  I confess before God and you, dear readers, these boots weigh a ton.

  God, forgive me. Let the only feathers I lay on others be the ones from Your wings that don’t weigh anything at all.

  The boot soles are made of judgment. (I didn’t know that until this moment.) Without a sole, the boots could not be worn. The ones on my pair look like 1960’s platforms made up of layer upon layer of thick leather.

  Lord, help me learn the difference between judgment and discernment.

  It is time to get rid of these ton-weighing boots because they are incredibly out of fashion for a follower of Jesus, so waaaaay last season! They don’t fit in with my soul’s new, makeover wardrobe anyways.

 

  I watched a home reno show last night. The family had a little boy and a little girl. The boy’s room was decorated in rich colours and adorned with super-hero stuff. The film crew had installed a bright, plastic barrier over the door. They urged him to use his super-powers to break through and see his room.

  The little girl only had to open her door. Her room was decorated in a pastel, dusty pink with flower decals on the wall. As she sat on her bed, she didn’t look very happy with the new décor. It was nowhere near as fun as her brother’s…but she was, after all, a girl. All little girls love pink. Besides, why would a girl want to imagine she, just like her big brother, had super-powers anyways? She’ll never need them.

  It made me so sad to recognize feathers everywhere are still churning out one ton boots with ten inch platform soles. It makes even me sadder to realize the boots actually weigh megatons times ten hundred million thousand pounds. 

 

Introductions

 

    “Let us go right into the presence of God with sincere hearts fully trusting Him. For our guilty consciences have been sprinkled with Christ’s blood, and our bodies have been washed with pure water.” Heb 10:22

 

  “How cool is it that the same God who created mountains and oceans and galaxies, looked at me (and you) and thought, “The world needs one of her!” Facebook

 

  I am not sure if God is saying the journey with the painted woman is finished or if it’s me needing a break. There has been a lot to explore, process and absorb. Yesterday’s peace and gratitude are still with me. That could be part of my reluctance to pick up the brush.  

  (Smile.) God knows I need a break!

  The writing will continue, though. There are many big thoughts rattling around my head.

  First of all, I’d like to introduce you to Cricket. This photo was taken before starting kindergarten. This is only half the image. My brother was sitting beside me.

  My mom put her Queen Anne coffee table against the wall near the front door before the photographer arrived. I suppose it was to provide a better backdrop as opposed to offering better light. She covered the gleaming, wood table with a folded towel so it wouldn’t get scratched by us sitting on it. I remember being afraid I would damage it.

  My brother wasn’t happy having to sit beside me, never mind having our shoulders touch.

  Why do some of the most vivid memories contain a crap load of fear and shame? Is fear what sears events onto neural pathways? Or is it because fear was such a huge part of my life and is, therefore, in nearly every memory?

  The same house where the photo was taken had a wall mounted, bar style table in the tiny kitchen. We would all sit in a row to eat. It was morning. I was alone at the table, perched on a different stool than the one in the carport. My brother might have been at school.

  A bowl of flaky cereal and milk sat before me, the sugar bowl nearby. I slowly heaped spoonful after spoonful onto it. Not because I wanted to eat the sugar. I was utterly fascinated by how the milk slowly invaded the dry sugar. As soon as each spoonful was completely wet, I added another to watch it happen all over again.

  It must have been pretty thick by the time my Mom came back to the kitchen. She snatched the bowl, berating me for wanting to eat/wasting so much sugar. My science experiment was ruined as she scraped it into the kitchen sink. She never gave me a chance to explain.

  I think, too, I was a bit stunned by being yanked out of such deep concentration like that. Artists call it “being in the zone.”

 

  I just took a break from writing to get a second cup of coffee. It’s not fear that has seared these events onto my mind and soul. Thank You, Lord, for clarifying. It’s those moments in my life when pieces of identity and my place in the world were written on my heart. 

  satan (I refuse to capitalize his name) saw fit to have me believe I was wasteful and careless. he smothered the ability to be in the zone by having me need to be constantly aware of outside surroundings. Trauma survivors call it hyper-vigilance. It can even be there when we sleep. 

  Physically, he drove home the idea I was poorly made with feet that never fit into girly shoes. The ugly, ungraceful EEE width made girly shoes hurt. It was years later I discovered wearing boy's size six shoes meant I didn't have to suffer the blisters women's shoes always made. 

  My back was too arched. Had it been less so, my tummy wouldn't be so fat. Pants would have fit me better.

  My soft fingers were too short and thick to be feminine. he made sure I understood that being female came with expectations while constantly driving home how not up to standards I was. How confusing is that!

  he made sure curiosity became a shameful secret and that acts of curiosity were never to be disclosed or discussed. he saw fit to have me believe celebrations were displays of conceit and selfishness. Let’s toss in lazy, emotional, over sensitive and stupid. I won’t get into the abuse lessons but you, dear readers, know most of them already if you’ve been alongside me through this journey.

  I was in my late forties before someone looked me in the eyes and told me I was beautiful. I thought they must be blind.

   Don’t feel sorry for me. In sharing the lies, I am able to forgive those who left such destruction in their wake. I can't help but grieve over what they must see whenever they look in a mirror. You are beautiful, too, you know. Let God help you see beyond the lies.

  Let's celebrate this lovely, sunny morning because Cricket finally knows the lies. God has never let me forget these events because He knew my insatiable curiosity would, well, make me curious and hungry to understand. Like watching grains of sugar melt away, curiosity would fill me with enough power to de-throne toxic core beliefs. (Grin...I sort of want to shove them up a specific part of satan's anatomy.)

  I have often wondered if I would have completely emptied the sugar bowl had the experiment been allowed to continue...

  God has used a child who could focus completely on a bowl of cereal to the exclusion of everything else around her to sit in the memories, in the suffering and pain, in the hope there were answers waiting to be discovered.

  One of  God’s first acts after saving my life was to restore the zone.

  Finding the lie is nowhere near as wonderful, amazing and healing as finding the moment God was present in the trauma and sorrowful events that shaped so many false beliefs. It’s a close second, though.

  There’s been a massive paradigm shift in my being. It's not the first time, but it's the best one yet! A sense of completeness, of God’s truth, has enveloped my heart and soul unlike anything I have ever felt before. In knowing what I am not, I know who I am.

  It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Cricket! (And a huge smile says it all.)

Morning Has Broken

 

  “All these people died still believing what God had promised them. They did not receive what was promised, but they saw it all from a distance and welcomed it. They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth. Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared a city for them.” Heb 11:13-15

 

  There won’t be a painting today. Sleep has brought some perspective. Perspective has brought joy and gratitude for all God has done since this challenging, heart wrenching, angry and grief filled journey began. I can be grateful for Bruxy today.

  There’s something to find by re-reading the posts backwards by date. I can see the seeds of thought God placed in the writing. His slow and careful preparation enabled me to sit in the first memory I have for longer than I ever have before. Usually, historically, I shut ‘er down at the first hint.

  Finding His presence in those moments, in those events, has liberated my soul.

  Complex, seeming-at-odds emotions swirl around. There’s Cricket’s grief that, I pray, validates the grief of other little girls who have been violated. This child-woman mourns the losses these terrible things leave in their wake while acknowledging other child-women have suffered far more than she did.

  There’s no comfort in knowing this. This doesn't minimize what we went through, either. That's gone on for far too long. Until yesterday.

  Most of all, a deep sense of peace is in this mix of emotions. God has reconciled me and Cricket. She is me. I am her. In telling her, our, story I have embraced my inner child. My arms were closed; I turned my back on her for a life time. Like others, like Adam, I blamed her.

  It’s hard, this unraveling of blame. Yet, now I know it had to be unraveled because it existed.

  My dad was building a canoe in our car port, in and around the time of the closet monster. He sat me on a stool so I could watch him patiently working away at smoothing the outside. The stool meant I belonged there, safe, away from the worst of the dust.

  I loved to watch him build things. It was softly raining. The fragrant aroma of cedars always brings me to this memory, one of the good ones. Not all triggers are bad.

  God sat me on a stool made of words. Like my dad, He wanted me to be safe while being present to His sanding away of the rough spots. God’s Spirit fills my being with a fragrance not unlike rain washed cedars and sawdust.

  I am sure if my dad knew what had happened, he would have killed the baby sitter. God, in His infinite mercy, wouldn’t.

  There may be those who deny that I could remember what happened at such a young age. God saw fit that I wouldn’t ever forget. He does that for some people, you know, lets them forget. In His infinite mercy, it is His gift to them.

  There will be those who are hurt by my story. It is time for me to let go of the responsibility for how they feel as I share my truth. God, in His infinite mercy, will heal them of their pain.

  I am more than happy to sit on my stool, my place of belonging and safety, watching God do His work.

  He is, you know, working. It’s why so many women are finally telling their own stories. He heard our prayers.

Dragon's Kin

  “My Father! If this cup cannot be taken away unless I drink it, Your will be done.” Mat 26:42

 

  “Beware that you don’t look down on any of these little ones. For I tell you that in heaven their angels are always in the presence of my heavenly Father.” Mat 18:10

 

  This is for Cricket.

  Be with us, Lord.

 

  I have no idea why I woke up. My eyes opened wide, my entire body tensed. I stared at the door, my heart pounding, my dry mouth offering a taste of fear unlike anything I had ever known. I didn’t know the person standing there, silhouetted against the hall light. Maybe hearing his unfamiliar footsteps in the hallway had caused this alert-something-isn’t-right explosive wakefulness.

  I tried to make myself as small as I could, shrinking into my nightgown, wrapping my arms around my shoulders. If I was small enough, he wouldn’t see me. He wouldn’t come any closer.

  Even what? Fifty-four or fifty five years later, the fear still wraps itself around my mind like an unwashed blanket. I can hear Cricket’s silent whimpers.

  Somehow I knew if I cried out, there was no one to hear me. There were none of the familiar, family, night time noises my parents made. I was completely alone with this monster from the closet.

  Terror: the voice stealing, breath choking, extremes of fear filled my little body.

  He came closer, treading stealthily on the hardwood floor.

  Did I close my eyes? I thought if I couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see me. Maybe if he thought I was asleep, he would leave.

  His weight pushed my mattress down. Helpless, my body sagged into the bent springs. Then the monster from the closet touched my arm.

  I fainted.

  But not really. My mind did what was needed to protect itself from things it couldn’t understand. It shut down to protect my sanity.

  Or maybe God’s angels covered my eyes and ears and consciousness with their wings. I’d like to think that’s what He did for me, for Cricket, for a baby girl far too young to have this kind of knowledge. Maybe this is why I had to drink this cup today, to find out where He was when this happened, when I felt so alone. He knew how angry I was with Him on Sunday.

  I don’t know what happened next. I don’t remember. My body does, though, if I listen carefully enough.

  I still can’t describe what took place beyond a certain point. I wasn’t there.

  It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.

  Cricket and I know it did. It’s taken adult me to put it in words.

  There’s power in truth. There’s even more power in knowing what is real and knowing that I know it was real. Far too many times my reality has been downplayed or ignored or minimized.

  Today is a good day. I can finally look Cricket in the face, hold her close and tell her, “You weren’t making the monster up so you wouldn’t have to go to bed. He hurt you, me, us in ways you couldn’t understand. He stole innocence and left fear in its place.”

 

  A friend has mahogany slab doors that have never seen paint. Her house was built in the 1960’s. We’ve been working on painting them. I found the doors to be very unsettling but didn’t understand why. Unsettling isn’t the right word… it is more like having a primal, fangs bared, cat hissing fear itching to take over. 

  It’s the same type of door the closet-monster opened.

  Sometimes our triggers don’t seem to make any sense at all…until they do.

  I have no idea how long I was afraid of the monster in the closet. It went on for quite a while. Nobody else believed there had ever been one. At some point, it relocated to under the bed. (This fear transference happened because I began to believe the closet monster wasn’t real like everyone assured me it wasn’t. The fear he left behind, however, was still alive and kicking.)

  As far as I know, this particular monster never came out of the closet again. There’s a real possibility he was a baby-sitter who had come over after we were asleep so my parents could go out. They must have thought we would never know.

  As an adult, I ruefully smile at my own foolishness; at having to make 100% sure the closet doors are closed before crawling into bed. My foot never hangs over the edge of the bed…my hand doesn’t either, just in case.

  As mentioned earlier, I was very angry at God on Sunday. This grave and vivid memory has been first and foremost in my mind for many days now, warring with “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus.” That’s why I was angry. If God loves little children, how could He let this happen?

  He couldn’t stop it.

  He was there, though, with Cricket. It’s why we don’t remember everything. That is His blessing, His gift, His loving on us just the way we needed Him to.

 

Trespass

  “Give us this day our daily bread and forgive our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us. Lead us not unto temptation but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen.” Mat 11-13

 

  “When you enter the home, give it your blessing. If it turns out to be a worthy home, let your blessing stand; if it is not, take back the blessing. If any household or town refuses to welcome you or listen to your message, shake its dust from your feet as you leave.” Mat 10:12-14 (Thank You, Lord, I needed to hear that.)

 

   The black outline of painting number 16 lay in stark contrast against the white paper. Not knowing how long this journey will continue, I pondered the idea of having the black and white image photocopied onto some sort of heavy paper suitable for paint. I laughed at this foolishness when the words, “That’s cheating!” came through bold as the image before me.

  It would be cheating. Tracing the image and painting the outline draws me into stillness. Taking a short cut would cheat God of time spent before Him. It would steal the time needed to settle into the process so I can hear His voice.

  Using the hair dryer is ok. (Smile.) It prevents my patient labours from getting smudged and blurred. The painting is completed by touching up the places where my brush decided to wander, to trespass into places it didn’t belong.

  The two I’ve been using are at the end of their life. The brushes aren't overly expensive so the bristles begin to splay and break. It takes time to get to know a new brush and its personality. No two are the same.

 

  Hour after hour was spent walking the fence line on the farm. It was old, falling down, and not very good at keeping cows in. I patched it with fencing wire, old gates, ancient cedar rails, tree branches, anything to try and keep the cows on the property.

  As we could afford, we began installing a patchwork of new posts and wire. We wanted to top the fence with barbed wire to prevent the cows from damaging the new fencing.

  The post installer said it was hard to find. A lot of manufacturers had quit making it because demand had declined over the years.

  “Mostly,” the post guy said, “it’s because if someone climbs over the barb wire fence and gets hurt, the landowner is responsible. Even if there are, “No Trespassing” signs posted.”

  If cows get on the road and a car hits one, the farmer is responsible for that, too.

  I feel like a barbed wire fence right now.

  My Houdini cows ended up well trained. All it took was a finger pointing at home accompanied by the almost daily, angry and frustrated yell, “Get the f---- back over there!” They looked like ungainly show ponies as they jumped back over the non-barbwire fence. I could almost hear them laughing.

 I put up some barbed wire fencing a few days ago, finally stating I wanted nothing more to do with my brother. Twice I was told it was not very forgiving to cut him out of my life like that.

  It stings.

  It has sown seeds of doubt and confusion.

  It has Compliancy screaming at me for screwing up the status quo.

  It has Subservience demanding I meet another’s desire that we all get along and stay connected like "we always have."

 God knows, I can no longer deceive them or sustain the illusion. The cost is too high. I have given enough.

  Even writing that last sentence stings. Have I?

  Maybe not, but Cricket has. The barbed wire isn’t around my heart; it is because I believe she is worth protecting. 

  If my heart was wrapped in barbed wire, I wouldn’t have felt sad about having to do this. I mourn the reasons a boundary is needed in the first place. I regret having to shake the dust from my sandals even though it must be done.

  Wearing heavy work gloves doesn't prevent barbed wire from slicing your hands to ribbons when you put up the fence. Until you learn how to handle it safely. 

 

  It is a sin to continue living a lie now that I know truth. Compliancy must be discarded despite her unnerving, constant and violent outrage. She is not who God had in mind when He designed my being. Someone else’s paintbrush coloured her in until she learned how to do it for herself.

  That’s a sin, too, denying/squashing/oppressing the person God made me to be. His revelation cannot be denied. Denial permits external trespassers and internal trespassers to conspire together to destroy the beautiful artwork the Master painted on our soul.  (To tie it into todays image, they cut the lock rather than finding a key. Trespassers are never concerned that it cannot be used again. A broken lock makes it easier to break in next time. It's very comforting to know that God is more than an artist, He is a goldsmith.)

  I ask God to forgive me for my part. Please, forgive those who taught me I was limited to the colours they chose. Help me continue to forgive them even more.

  Forgive me, too, my Lord, for being an art vandal.

  Thank You for providing me with new brushes. Jesus has had them waiting to be picked up for a long time; from the moment He paid for them with His life.

 

Debriefing and Revelation

 

Turn your eyes upon Jesus.

Look full in his wonderful face.

And the things of earth will grow strangely dim,

In the light of his glory and grace.

 

Helen Lemmel/Cindy Rethmeier

 

  I wasn’t going to write this morning but I find myself up early. A single chime from my phone ignited the alertness that is a huge part of PTSD. There was no going back to sleep.

  This song in my head has helped the things of earth grow strangely dim. Thank You, Lord, for bringing it to mind and playing it constantly since yesterday afternoon.

  There won’t be any art today. I need a break.

  Recent events have the flashbacks pouncing. They create electric and pulsing cognitive dissonances because they are so far removed from all that is pure and holy and beautiful. The carnal memories batter the love of God that also fills my heart and mind. I have no idea how these things can ever be reconciled. I can only pray the evil things be redeemed and used for good.

  After yesterday’s post, I went for a walk in the park across the road. Winter has damaged many of the trees. Many large ash trees have been cut down to help prevent the spread of the Ash Borer which is killing most of them anyways.

  The bare and naked branches, the white scars of winter wounds, the piles of fallen debris commiserated with the weight I was carrying. I felt like the trees.

  A chorus of spring peepers urged the sun across the sky.

  There’s a river in the park. A small flock of Merganser ducks flew away as I approached the shore. So did a Kingfisher.

  I took advantage of a gray and weatherworn picnic table to sit beside the water for a while. It wasn’t quiet. The Canada geese on the lake hold constant debates about politics and love. The trucks and cars on the nearby highway generate a background hum that never goes away.

  The first swallow of the year flew over head, making the official announcement that spring is here. While the mosquitoes haven’t landed yet, there must be other insects that warrant this acrobatic bird’s appearance.

  Leaving the riverside, I followed the path through the campground area. It’s empty until the opening May 24 weekend. It’s strange seeing the empty sites with their own picnic tables waiting for families to gather around. The rusty, metal fire pits are waiting, too, for marshmallows and hotdogs. Maybe the fallen branches still have a purpose, being needed to hold the culinary delights that always taste best when cooked over flame and eaten outside.

  Cricket and I talked for a bit. God is working towards reconciliation there, too. It helps to have included her story in much of the recent writing. It’s made me realize I’ve held a huge part of my identity in a prison.

  I distanced myself from me, from Cricket, by emotional numbing. The lingering effects have taken a long time to dissipate. She, I, did it out of necessity because the feels were just too big to be felt. The doctors describe it as Dysthymia, a low grade, chronic depression. It’s been around since I was seven years old. Come to think of it, that’s when the songs to Jesus ended.

  It’s still in me to shut-er-down. I only need to flip the switch. This survival skill has been honed to perfection. It has only happened a couple of times since I came to the Lord. An overwhelming emotional response exploded during situations I was ill equipped to handle. Terror/fear/anger/rejection/outrage/guilt/shame had me reaching for the big guns of numbing. It was a lot to feel in one second.

  My son was there one time. He grabbed my shoulders and gave me a gentle shake, “Don’t do it, Mom. Don’t go there! Mom, come back!” He pulled me away from the abyss with his desperate cry.

  The shut-down is a place of emptiness, of aloneness; a hollow darkness that wraps the soul in shadows.

  It is also indiscriminate. The hard stuff is turned off but so is the good. In this place there is no joy, no hope, no childlike delight at the sight of the first swallow. It’s like walking through the world as a ghost.

  Shutting ‘er down smothers creativity.

  It means I can’t play the piano so that each note sings its own song to Heaven.

  It means the ability to paint a picture with words will no longer exist.

  It means it won’t ache for the poignant and fleeting beauty of a sunset.

  It means I am only half alive.

  I never want to be that way again.

  The deep, complex and sometimes bewildering emotions that now have a home in my breast are God’s gift. There is no shame in the tears that pour down or the outbursts of rage as I follow His calling to write the difficult writes of the last few weeks. There’s no shame in laughing about eating my chocolate Easter bunny ears first…obeying mandatory childhood protocol on how to consume a bunny.  Never eat the tail first!! It filled me with giggling delight to obey this rules!

  This glimpse of forgotten childhood innocence helps me love Cricket a little bit more.

  I don‘t have it in me to blame her any more, for being the one to teach me how to shut ‘er down. She had to, you know. It was the only thing she could do to survive.

   I can also forgive her for doing things to provoke a glimmer of emotional response; for desperately needing to know she wasn’t the walking, unfeeling, soul-less dead.

  The shut ‘er down power off switch stayed hidden from sight for most of my life. I am so grateful God knew where to find it.

  In Him I move and have my being. 

 

  “But I am like an olive tree, thriving in the house of God. I will always trust in God’s unfailing love. I will praise You forever, O God, for what You have done. I will trust in Your good name in the presence of Your faithful people.” Ps 52:8-9 

   NOTE: In doing my last proofread, it seems a single switch is a misleading metaphor. There were layers of shutting down, one on top of the other which, basically, turned off the lights in my heart. Compare it to the ones controlling the overhead lights in a massive factory. God has turned them on slowly, methodically, one switch at a time so as not to overload the fuse panel! 

Blame

  “But if you cause one of these little ones who trust Me (Jesus) to fall into sin, it would be better for you to have a millstone tied around your neck and be drowned in the depths of the sea.” Mathew 18:6

 

  I hear her desperation, her need to be believed, her need to be absolved, “I never asked for it!”

  I know, love, you never did. The terrible, awful things that happened were given to you against your will. Your stop light was broken. You didn’t break it, not one bit. It was broken by vandals and thieves who only wanted to destroy and take what wasn’t theirs to have.

  She is not alone. I’ve heard this phrase often, from other women.

  Their voices, my voice and even Cricket join with them in this child-woman’s cry of lament. It bears witness to the unquenchable sorrow that fills our being.

  Blame is a terrible thing. Eve knew. Adam was quick to lay his choices at her feet.

  I read a FB post about Johnny Depp. He had taken his partner, a woman, to court with charges of abuse. It shared how he was mocked by the courts, his addictions and sexual history made central to the case. The article closed with the line (paraphrased), “If he had been a woman, he never would have been treated like this by the justice system.”

  So, that’s a lie.

  The article was written by a man who has no understanding what women face when they finally have the courage to press charges against a man for abuse, sexual or otherwise. He has no idea what an uphill battle it is to simply be believed especially if there is no evidence of sexual violence. Even if there is…Adam is very quick to put his two cents in.

  Hagar gets it. She is the anonymous woman who came forward with, now proven, allegations of sexual abuse against Bruxy. It’s why she chose to remain anonymous. It grieves me deeply how Bruxy pulled an Adam, too.

  Maybe I don’t need to go any further with this line of thought. Maybe there needs to be a deeper explanation for why women do the things they do.

  It’s time to dive into the damage blaming the victim does. It might get ugly. Truth often is.

  I’ve done things I am not proud of. I’ve done things I would undo if I could. God, in His infinite mercy, has forgiven me. It’s much, much harder to forgive myself. He’s also forgiven me for hating the fact He made me a woman in the first place.

  I tried so hard to hide my femaleness. It didn’t really matter, my femaleness sent off invisible signals, just like Compliancy did. I was never the seducer. I never “asked for it.”

  The following is a composite tale, made up of the countless number of stories I’ve heard from other abused women. Parts of it are also my truth. Names are made up to protect the innocent.

  What would a child know of seduction? How could a child sitting on Uncle Tommy’s lap even begin to understand that Uncle Tommy had ulterior motives? How could a child know how sick he was?

  To be blamed for what Uncle Tommy did is utterly bewildering. How can simply being a girl, alive, and vulnerable be blamed? How can being female be so bad or naughty that such awful and confusing things be done to her?

  Uncle Tommy never left the family. Being blamed and not believed left the little girl exposed and vulnerable. He got really good at hiding what was going on. He created a conspiracy of secrets. He made this little, beautiful, precious, sweet child into a plaything, an it, an object, with no regard for the damage he was doing.

  “She enjoyed what I was doing.” Adam says.

  I watched a TV show on female sexuality. I admit it was uncomfortable because when it comes to thinking or talking about sex, it’s difficult for me. I know I have a terribly broken understanding of the beautiful gift of intimate sharing God gave men and women. It’s never been beautiful. Nevertheless, the takeaway from the show needs to be shared here.

  When a woman’s body responds to sexual stimulus, even in cases of sexual abuse, it’s how our bodies protect our vulnerable parts from damage. If the body responds during abuse, it has absolutely nothing to do with pleasure!!!! It also has nothing to do with being sexually mature. God has allowed this self-preservation response to be ignited regardless of age or understanding.

  It’s so important to understand this key piece of how God made us. It absolves us of asking the terrible question, “If I didn’t enjoy it, why did I react like I did?”

  The men think we do, enjoy being abused. They misunderstand our body's automatic responses and it makes them think of themselves as excellent lovers. “She wanted it!”

  The gift God gave us to protect us ends up creating far bigger problems. Isn’t that satan’s handiwork!

  The little girl grew up, understanding her place, her role and her purpose. She was burdened with shame and guilt for all she had done. Perversely, she was also burdened by shame and guilt for all she hadn’t done—for not getting away from the games children and grown-ups play. No-one believed her anyways so it must be her fault these things happened.

  She grew up and sold herself to the lowest bidders, never believing anyone would want such damaged goods. So the cycle of abuse continued. Promiscuity, when all is said and done, is a desperate search for belonging. You see, that’s another cost of sexual abuse for those who have experienced it…we don’t feel we have a place in “good society.”

  There is no joy in these types of relationships. There is no caring, or intimacy, or love. But, hey, “She asked for it, didn’t she?”

  The men involved just didn’t understand the question. They didn’t understand her cry, “Will you love me?” was asked in the only language she knew, the one that continued to cost her everything.

  It’s a long list of expenses paid out: innocence, virtue, purity, virginity, identity, connection, community, value, faith…pretty much everything that is good and beautiful about us that is unique and God given.

  Dear readers, this has been a tough one to write. I suppose it needed to be said because when Hagar was blamed for what happened, those who did the blaming heaped fiery, burning, searing coals on her. I hope, in reading this, you have been given a glimpse inside a room that most of us, as sexual abuse survivors trying to survive, locked up tight and then threw away the key.

  As I said earlier, I have done things I wish could be undone. They can’t. Maybe in writing these things, they are being redeemed. Maybe this composite story contains pieces of yours. Although, this thought offers no comfort, only deep sorrow.

  Maybe it's what I needed to hear as well because I finally realize Adam’s voice is still really, really loud in my head.

  Lord, about the people who abuse women and children. They are sick. Help for them is very limited because few people even want to help them. To be honest? I want to hurt and maim them and have a dozen millstones placed around their neck. But Lord, You have called me to a higher calling. With mixed emotions I reluctantly lay these words at Your feet, “Hear my prayer for them.”

 

The Untold Story

“Therefore, put on every piece of God’s armor so you will be able to resist the enemy in the time of evil. Then after the battle you will still be standing firm.” Eph 6:13

 

  This painting was done yesterday, a lifetime ago. I had no idea it was prophetic.

 

  I have struggled sometimes, reading the Psalms, when King David goes on and on asking God to smite, punish and kill his enemies. It seems to be at war with what I believe following Jesus is about.

  It is.

  David didn’t know Jesus.

  I find myself in David’s court this morning.

  Over the last twelve hours, God has answered some of the private questions I have been silently asking since God opened my eyes to seeing, remembering things that were just to the left of normal. Today's answers echo other knowledge I have gained over the years. 

  God has allowed this confirmation of my many suspicions. I have zero reason to think anyone, ever, would make this shit up. I know the story isn't finished, either. There will be more suspicions confirmed when God knows I am ready.

  If you think of the worst possible thing someone can do to someone else and multiply it ten-fold...

  I am angry. No. It’s beyond anger.

  I respect the desire for confidentiality no matter how much I want to hold those involved accountable. Hagar understands the reasons why.

  A stream of profanity pours from my lips.

  A murderous heart speaks up.

  It is all so sick and twisted and wrong!

  And I ask the dreaded question, “How? God, how could you let this happen?”

  How do people even think they have the right to do such harm?

  God, smite them.

  I hate men this morning.

  Bruxy is on the hit list, too. Even though we haven’t heard the results of the two latest investigations…if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck…it’s a duck. It will never, ever be a swan.

  Oh, ducks are cute when they wheedle at the stale bread floating in the water, but they also eat living things.

  It is all so sick and twisted and wrong!

  

  I have forgiven much. More than anyone could possibly imagine. Sometimes it takes time, sometimes it comes in waves. Sometimes I am simply not ready. I will hold onto the hope that there will more. God's not finished yet.

  Forgiveness never, ever demands we keep secrets!!!! Jesus never, ever asks this of us.

  Hear me, O God!

  To all you men out there: the pedophiles, the molesters, the abusers, the pimps, the pornographers, the rapists, the thieves of all that is good and innocent, you will be found out. You will be revealed. Your secrets will no longer be kept in the darkness. God knows where you are and who you are. He is calling His women to arms and cladding them in His armor.

  Women, my sisters, I encourage you to come forward. Yes, there will be those who won’t/can’t believe your story.

  I will.

  So will many others who share your experiences or worse. The only way to fight back is to end the silence. The only way to stop the terrible things men do to women of all ages is to make them very afraid they will be publicly named. It’s time to stop protecting them. Shout the truth from the rooftop. Then give the men to God.

  If you can’t do it for yourself, do it for the women God has in Heaven waiting to be born. Oh, Lord, the generations who have been harmed!!

  If you can't do it for yourself, find an advocate, a champion for your cause, a shoulder for your tears. We are out there, waiting. (God, bless Danielle Strickland!)

  My sisters, gather around each other. Believe, even if you can’t bear to hear such things. None of us ever, ever asked for it. Do not silence us, or blame us. Do not shut us down.

  And, to you, my sisters, please forgive me for turning a blind eye to the things just left of normal, for not asking questions, for not acknowledging something wasn't right. Forgive me for being afraid to come alongside you in the darkness because it was too close to the darkness in me. Forgive me for imagining swans when there were ducks.

   Let courage shine the light on evil. Let God’s brilliant armor burn the darkness into oblivion.

  And God? There are men and boys out there who are our sisters, too. Look after them, would You?

 

Unspoken

“Be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power. Put on all of God’s armor so that you will be able to stand firm against all strategies of the devil.” Eph 6:10

 

no

is a necessary magic

 

no

draws a circle around you

with chalk

and says

I have given enough

--boundaries

 

  Pretty sure my blood pressure is up. Today’s painting was sketchy. I had a hard time staying in the lines. Looking at the hand, I wasn’t sure if she was putting the stop sign in the bowl or if she was taking it out. The bowl isn’t nearly big enough.

 

   My life is full of unspoken, “No’s.”

  They have trapped me into doing things I don’t want to do because of the silence on my part.

  Difficult conversations lay ahead because some major changes have to be made.

  It will come as a surprise to those who have rarely, if ever, heard me say it. They may wonder where it came from, out of the blue like that.

 

  My soul is full of unspoken, “No’s.”

  My beloved Granny lay in a hospital bed dying of cancer. Ten year old me drew near. She weakly laid a wasted and withered hand on my arm. Her last hoarse and whispered words to me were, “Be a good girl.” They burned me like fire.

  I couldn’t let on to anyone that I wasn’t.

 

  My heart is full of unspoken, “No’s.”

  My brother had to walk me to school. The trek to kindergarten took us behind a shopping plaza. A deep pot hole was full of water. He egged me on to put my boot in to see how deep it was. “Your foot won’t get wet,” he assured me (snickering with the boy beside him.)

  My brother and his friend ran off, laughing, the moment the water cascaded over the top of my boot. I squished my way to school alone, head down, burning with shame at my stupidity.

  I had to take my tights off when I got there because they were soaked to the knee. The teacher, Miss Horner, put my tights and wet boot on the radiator to dry them off. I was even more ashamed to see the evidence of my gullibility on public display like that.

 

  My mind is full of unspoken “No’s.”

  I wish I could forget. I wish I had fewer memories like this. I wish my unspoken, “No’s” hadn’t created events that have been seared into my consciousness. They are so vivid I can hear, taste and smell the moments they happened.

  It was overcast, the day of the boot. I can see the dirty water shimmering gray as it caressed the broken asphalt. I can see the ripples caused as I tentatively put my red, buckle-up boot deeper and deeper into the puddle. I can feel the icy cold water rush around my toes and the sensation of it crawling up my tights clad leg.

   It seems like such a little thing. Maybe, in the grand scheme of things it is. Maybe I needed to share this because the memories of far worse things are also seared into my being. Yah, flashbacks are awful.

  The lifetime of suppressed and silenced, “No’s,” ignite them as I sit here and type. Memory after memory after memory clouds my vision.

 

  I have given enough.

  God, help me wrap my lips and tongue around, “no, no more, stop.”

  I have given enough.

  God, release me of the responsibility I feel because I didn't try to say, “No,” sooner.

  I have given enough.

  God, fill me with the courage to rattle cages. 

  I have given enough.

  God, fill me with strength to stand behind my, "No."

  I have given enough.

  God, free me from the anger I feel because my, "no," was ignored or overpowered more times than I care to remember.

  Huh?... Oh...I wasn't the only one adding to the bowl! 

  (A huge sigh of relief.) Thank You, Lord, for wrapping it up this way. AMEN!

 

Can't

  “Jesus shouted to the crowds, “If you trust me, you are trusting not only me, but also God who sent me. For when you see me, you are seeing the one who sent me.”” John 12:44-45

 

  “Every human life is a reflection of divinity, and every act of injustice mars and defaces the image of God in man.” Martin Luther King

 

  “Always see the best in people.” Everywhere

 

  The teaching part of our church service begins with quotes from a wide variety of sources, from Bob Marley to Jesuit monks to Greek philosophers. The Martin Luther King quote was shared a few Sunday’s ago.  The one about seeing the best in people appeared on FB shortly after I completed today’s painting of rose coloured glasses and ear plugs.

  It didn’t sit well, the quote about seeing the best in others.

  My mother-in-law phoned a couple months before my ex confessed to his affair. She told me he was having an affair. I leapt to his defense, chastising her for thinking so poorly of her son that she believed he would do such a thing. It’s not something I have shared very often…come to think about it, I doubt this was even shared with my therapist. It’s embarrassing, having vocalized my blind (see the best in people) trust for a man who was, in the end, utterly un-trustworthy.

  It’s not that I wouldn’t believe my mother-in-law, it’s that I couldn’t. The rose coloured glasses were permanently affixed. I couldn’t face the fact my reality was a life of pretend-zies and lies. Only in hearing it directly from him did my constructed reality come crashing down into a gazillion pieces.

  That’s when I thought driving head on into a truck was a good idea. Ironically, the only thing that stopped me was the idea that the trucker would have been haunted by my death. God used my ingrained training of always putting others’ needs first to save my life. (Smile.)

  In reaching the end of myself, I accepted Christ. Not out of faith but as my only other option. Turns out, it was a good choice. (Another smile.)

  The therapist and I worked together for several years. After I defended/justified his actions yet again, she came up with a way to help me move beyond this ingrained behaviour. Using different coloured markers, she drew a black stick figure on a white board.

  “This is him,” she said.

  “This is how you see him.”

  She drew a red stick figure over top to show me I had constructed this false idea of who my ex was. It was blinding me to see him for who he really was. It was stopping me from admitting how badly he had hurt me.

  I stopped feeling as though I deserved it, that it had all been my fault.

  Taking off the glasses was the first step to some deep healing.

  I feel rather stupid for not having done it sooner.

  Here’s where the idea of “can’t” comes in. That’s what the ear plugs in the painting represent. It’s not that I couldn’t see him for who he was, it was beyond my mind’s capability to accept the truth about a man who had shared my bed, my life and had fathered my child. The artificial construct I had created was out of a dire need to feel safe and, sadly, loved.

  There lies the inherent danger of wearing rose coloured glasses.

  Because of the massive shock generated when someone does something that falls outside our personal realm of possibility, we can’t believe, we can’t accept the truth. This happens even if, deep down, we believe it to some degree. It’s not that we won’t embrace the truth, it can’t be faced.

  It’s so unbelievably difficult to face a reality constructed of smoke and mirrors. When the veneer of our personal realities wavers, we are faced with taking a hard look at ourselves.

  I wore rose coloured glasses when I looked in a mirror, too. However, the lenses that warped what I saw in other people also warped what I saw in myself. I saw caring, serving, being respectful, and putting others first as fine traits…and they are…but, in reality, they were different facets of being completely compliant. Compliancy made these traits necessary for survival and maintaining safety.

  They ended up not being good attributes at all. (Balance is crucial, by the way.)

  When the reality we create warps and twists, it’s easier to hear God. Sometimes we’re not ready to hear what He has to say. The only reassurance I can offer is that God is very good at bringing us to the place where we can take out the ear plugs.

  Hearing about something horrible someone has done can trigger memories of similar circumstances in our own life. We might be in a place where we can’t face the truth of our own story. That’s okay. God knows where we are at right now, today. He’s with us as you sit and read my next typed word.

  Is constructing our own reality a sin? That’s an interesting question. If we don’t know or can’t hear when truth is not a truth, how could it be? However, now I know the truth about my compliant nature, I can repent or turn away from living a life that aided and abetted a twisted and artificial reality. 

    Thank You, Lord, for giving me eyes to see and ears to hear. AMEN

 

Locusts

  “So I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten, the crawling locust, the consuming locust, My great army which I sent among you. You shall eat in plenty and be satisfied, and praise the name of the Lord your God, who has dealt wondrously with you; and My people shall never be put to shame.” Joel 2:25

 

  Today, I stand on God’s promise. It’s the one He whispered in my ear a long time ago. It’s the promise that has encouraged me to keep on going, to keep on working through the tough stuff but most of all, to keep my eyes on Him. I knew He will eventually lead me to the Promised Land even if that Land is in Heaven, and not on earth, not here or now.

   It’s Good Friday today. I wasn’t going to go to the church service because my heart is leaking. Tears finally started falling in earnest yesterday after realizing the deep sense of loss caused by the fire at work. It’s due to more than the fire. The fire is the catalyst that has unlocked it all.

  My pastor quoted Jesus’ words, “Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do.” Even though this is said pretty much every Easter, even though I've applied this verse as a band-aid over my pain, my heart heard His heart for the first time.

  And I wept the sort of tears that heal.

  I found myself unable to condemn Compliancy and the damage she has done.

  I found myself unable to condemn Abuse for the hurt it has caused.

  I found myself unable to condemn Control for the things it has stolen.

  And I wept some more. While I can’t condemn, I mourn the beautiful things the locusts have eaten: joy, peace, love, confidence, faith…

  A piano played softly during our contemplative time of Communion, wrapping up with a few sweet notes that sang, “Jesus Loves Me This I Know.”

  I was transported back in time to a single bed in a small room, my red, never-far-away, hand knitted kitty clutched tightly to my chest. Cricket would sing us to sleep with this very song. Already we knew life was about loss. We knew life was one that meant being stolen from. We knew life was about compliancy, regardless of the cost to self. Self was of no consequence. The words voiced my soul’s cry to believe that we were worth loving.

  The locusts have been eating for a long, long time.

  I stopped singing after a while because it seemed He wasn’t listening.

  The locusts kept on crawling.

  Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so.

  It’s why we are here, in this moment, in this place of unbelievably deep grief and healing.

  It’s why there has been no onslaught of depression as I have faced the truth of who I am…was…during the season leading up to today.

  The consuming locust has been held at bay by Jesus.

  It’s a vulnerable time right now. My tears almost prevented me from going to church. However, the need to come before God overpowered any embarrassment or shame over how I was feeling. It is a Holy day and an important part of my faith to be part of something much bigger than my own troubles.

  Someone saw me weeping and approached after the service.

  “Are you okay?”

  I smiled a sorrowful smile and wiped my face, “No.”

  “Do you want me to leave you alone?” She started to turn away.

  My head said yes, but my mouth was quicker.

  “Heck, no!” I replied, evoking a real smile from both of us for the emphatic and welcoming/appreciative/grateful response.

   I left feeling much better than when I had gone in.

   The locust swarm has passed. It will take time for life to recover from the destruction left in its wake. 

  I pray that God will temper and guide me through this, too. It feels like I have become a monster. (Smile.) I haven’t. It is my choice to say, “No,” after all.

  Glory be to God! AMEN!