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.)