Winter

     "For everything there is a season, a time for every activity under Heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1

  A foot or more of wet, heavy snow fell in the quiet hours of the night. It's most unusual for this time of year. The snowblower was good to go and fired up nicely but it was hard slogging all the same. The wet snow kept plugging the chute as the temperatures climbed. It simply took a bit longer to clear the driveway.

  They are calling for rain so the snow won't stick around for very long. It usually doesn't when it comes this early.

  Autumn was late so it is strange to see the gold and amber leaves of the neighbour's silver Maple tree dressed in white.

  It has caught me off guard a bit. There are still some beets in the garden waiting to be dug up. I pulled a few a couple of days ago. They were roasted and eaten. I never knew beets got sweeter after the frost kisses them. They don't taste so much like dirt.

  I had planted the beets for my friend who enjoys them. It's something I am learning to like. There's an amazing Thai soup made with golden beets which is now a keeper recipe. 

  

  Now there's something to think about...frost also kills. Tender greens cannot survive being frozen. Morning Glory leaves turn to soggy spinach at frost's first caress. 

  The harder the first frost strikes, the more brilliant the autumn colours. This year there was more crimson on the trees than I've seen in a long time. It was the kind of spectacular that takes your breath away. While I know the trees aren't dead, they put their life on hold until the warm, lengthening days roll in and the cycle starts all over again.

  So maybe the frost that strikes our hearts can also do different things. But, unlike Morning Glories or trees, we can choose the ending.

  Do we allow it to kill the life and light within? Or do we allow it to help make our life and light shine more brightly?

  

  Years ago I was listening to a friend rant about her ex husband. It was a regular thing. Her bitterness and anger coloured every word. Frost had touched her soul in the form of a broken marriage.

  She paused for a breath and opened her mouth to continue. I interrupted her, "Why do you hate him so much?"

  She closed her mouth and paused, this time for a few minutes. She looked at me with a surprised expression, "Because it's easier!"

  She stopped talking about him and began the difficult task of sharing her pain. 

  It was like spring had finally come into her life.

  I'll never forget that moment. 

  Living with hatred in our heart is like being swallowed by a winter that never lets up. Nothing can grow or bloom or bear fruit. While there may be a season of needing to express such feelings, it can only be with one purpose in mind: to move through and past it. 

  I am grateful to have a God who is always there regardless of what I might say. Honesty is the spring rain that fosters new growth. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

  

 

Burning Basket

  "Beware of false prophets who come disguised as harmless sheep but are really vicious wolves. You can identify them by their fruit, that is, by the way they act."

  Since Tuesday's post, the image of the light smothering basket has been forefront in my heart and mind. It's a far better metaphor than a cage. The upside down basket contains the light of a life that has been covered up for decades. But no more. 

  Beams of light shoot out from between the weavers and stakes forming the sides. It starts as small, pencil sized rays. The light scorches the basket where it leaks out. It starts to turn edges black before they ignite and glow. There isn't any flame, just the red, glowing, consuming brilliance. It dances its way along anything that it can consume, leaving nothing but ash in its wake. Ash flakes from the disintegrating basket drift upwards on the heat from the fire within.

  The more it burns, the more the light coming out grows and grows until the basket is nothing but a pile of burnt remains illuminated by an uncontainable light.

  It's a prayer and a promise in imagery. 

  It's often said that our faith is the light we carry but I think the source is far deeper than that. Our light is also the life the Lord breathed into our being. It only shines brighter with the Lord fanning its flames, breathing on it anew for His glory and delight.

  I've often had bonfires in my back yard, burning yard trash over a couple of days. The second day's fire rarely requires a match. It only needs the ashes stirred up to expose embers that have been smoldering overnight. Some fresh fuel and patient blowing and the flames to burst into life.

  My fuel is a battered, cracked and stained old basket. 

  

  I've also had a bit of an epiphany about today's verse as well. I thought Jesus was talking about church leaders when He spoke about false prophets. But it's bigger than that.

  There are wonderful people who have the gift of prophecy, who speak God's love and life over someone. 

  False prophets are those whose words bring death and destruction. Not literal death, but death to dreams and hopes and the gifts God gives all His children. They do not serve God or Jesus or the Holy Spirit. 

  They build baskets. They slap something over the gaps when even the smallest ray of light dares to shine through. They rarely work alone. Basket builders know each other's handiwork and will take over  construction and maintenance with delight. In fact, they seek out people who are already inside of one. It makes their job much easier.

  And we also seek basket builders when we think that's where we belong. So dear Lord, this morning I offer a repentant heart for having looked to basket builders for my identity. Forgive me for not looking to You. In Jesus' precious name, AMEN!

  "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine! Let it shine, let it shine, all the time!" 

  A long forgotten children's song has taken on a far richer meaning. 

  Then there's another verse, "Don't you go and (blow a puff of air) my little light!" 

  AMEN to that!

  

  

  

  

  

  

Of Rocks, Lamps and Baskets

   "You are the light of the world--like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden. No one lights a lamp and then puts it under a basket. Instead, a lamp is placed on a stand where it gives light to everyone in the house." Matthew 5:14-15

  

  Sunday was an especially difficult day. The tears and grief kept coming in waves. It started in church the moment the worship music touched my soul. 

  Our pastor opened her teaching with the scripture about listening to the teaching of Jesus and following His ways from Matthew 7:24. That way our house, built on a foundation of bedrock, will be able to withstand the storms.

  My pen did what it does...and this image was created. I didn't really understand the significance at the time. The grief was overwhelming. To be fair, I've spent the last several days writing a letter to God about everything that happened in the last month of my step-dad's life. As of today, it's over twenty-three pages long. 

  Up to this point, it's simply been a record of events as they unfolded; a timeline to help me keep track of everything. Since I was in stress induced, hyper-vigilant mode the entire time, there is a lot of detail. And I am grateful for this survival mechanism. Writing it down is laying a foundation I can stand on in order to move forward.

  It's something I needed to do, to cement events firmly into my brain. It's about validating the experiences as well as building trust in my own senses and perceptions. For far too long, the effects of gaslighting have caused me to doubt so much. Having everything written down gives me ammunition to overcome those who would try to deny the truth. 

  Today my therapist asked the question, "If the Lord was talking to you now, what would He say about you?" It was near the end of our session and was a logical question in light of everything we'd discussed up to this point.

  I thought for a bit and with a cheeky grin said, "I am pretty freaking amazing." 

  Both of us laughed. I tapped my head, "This brain of mine is special. It's smart." I went on to talk about high school, about graduating with honours without having to try. There might have even been scholarships but it was more important that I didn't make people feel bad about themselves. 

  I confess to making fun of those who used all their smarts to succeed in school. (God forgive me for that.) As children, we only do what we've been taught, don't we?

  Then the bomb dropped..."It is important to not make mom feel stupid." 

  And all of a sudden my heart understood what putting a basket on my light meant to my life, my experiences, my choices, my behaviours and my mental and emotional health. I understood the damage of gaslighting because gaslighting now has a recognizable shape. It's a basket used to suffocate the light of someone else.

  And I crawled under it time and again because it was where the illusion of safety lived.

  As I sit here, metaphorically kneeling on the Rock of my faith, I hear the storm of echoes. The words said, which directly and indirectly infused my life with "THE RULES." But, hey, rules are made to be broken aren't they? Especially when the authors of those rules are the need for power and control, jealousy, cruelty, shame, blame, guilt, and the heavy, heavy burden of false responsibility.

 It has to be the ugliest basket ever made.

  I no longer want to hide under it even though it has provided a false sense of safety. It's not really safe. At all. Lord, fill me with resolve to never, ever, ever crawl under it again. In Jesus name, AMEN!

  

  

Echoes

   "There are six things the Lord hates--no, seven things He detests: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that kill the innocent, a heart that plots evil, feet that race to do wrong, a false witness who pours out lies, a person who sows discord in a family." Proverbs 6:16-19

  I was at a funeral this past weekend. It was for a young man whose life had been shaped by the wheelchair he was bound to. His mind was broken, his body, too, by an illness he was born into. I didn't know him personally but we went to support the family. He was the brother of my friend's nephew's wife. Family can be far reaching.

  The service was held at the graveside. A dozen or so mourners gathered around, thankful the rain had held off. It was a simple service, celebrating this young man and rejoicing in the heavenly gift of a new body and a new mind. 

  I don't think there's anything scriptural about my thoughts on this, but I think Jesus has created a special place for the innocents who are unable to speak or whose mental incapacity stops them from understanding the gift of the Cross. At least, I hope He has.

  This was the first funeral after my step Dad's passing. I was okay until they lifted the board. It was covering the small grave where a simple bag with the young man's cremated remains would be laid to rest.

  It wasn't the board. It wasn't the hole. It was the Astro-turf (the fake grass carpet) cemeteries use to hide "unsightly" dirt. The board was wrapped in it, too. 

  The tears started coming. For this young man and his family, for Allan and, surprisingly, for my own dad. 

  He died suddenly when I was 19. It was December, right before Christmas. The Astro-turf was out of place against a blanket of fresh snow. He wasn't cremated so the casket sat above a grave surrounded by fake grass. It was a visual incongruity that has haunted me for decades.

  Imagine Astro-turf being the catalyst that made my heart leak from my eyes. 

  It's still leaking. That's why I had to write today. 

  I never cried at Allan's funeral or at the grave side. Not that this is a bad thing or wrong. God poured a full measure of His peace and grace into my being. For that I am most grateful.

  

  I think Astro-turf is deception personified. It's "polite society" etiquette; of how not getting dirt on your shoes is more important; of not having anything offensive in sight; of making sure death is neat and tidy...it's swept under the rug so to speak.

  I am getting a sense Astro-turf symbolizes things that reach far beyond the cemetery. 

  Lord, I lift this to You. Help me understand in Jesus' name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

Love

 "'When they look, they won't really see. When they hear, they won't understand.' This is the meaning of the parable. The seeds that fell on the footpath represent those who hear the message, only to have the devil come and take it away from their hearts and prevent them from being saved.'" Jesus Luke 8:9-12

  Love, at its best, challenges us to be better than we are. That's what Jesus does time and again. He offers a better, a different way of living. Sometimes the lines in the sand Jesus drew involved words. But like I said yesterday, change requires permission to exist. 

  If we close our hearts to change, to doing things differently, nothing changes. We stay stuck in the current situation, destined to repeat the same things over and over again. Which is exactly where a narcissist wants us.

  Unless the Lord opens the eyes of our heart.

  Love. Four letters that contain the most complex emotional part of being human.

  So what did I think love was before today?

  I thought love meant staying small. Love meant accepting the cage and living life according to the bars that formed it. My life was defined by offering grace, making allowances, and accepting a role of servitude. It also meant giving permission to be treated badly, swallowing the hurts, and ignoring the injustice because love means being nice, being the bigger person. Love meant adapting my behaviour to meet the needs of the moment: placating anger, massaging an ego, propping up weakness...and turning a blind eye to it all.

  I didn't know there was any other way to love.

  That, and who was I really serving?

  It wasn't Jesus.

  I was exactly where the enemy wanted me to stay.

  he has had enough of my 61 years.

  Love doesn't ask us to stay under the power of evil. In fact, it is our God given right to draw our own lines in the sand. I think of Gandalf in Lord of the Rings when he fought the fiery beast on the bridge. "You shall not pass!" Maybe I need to get myself a staff.

  Is that what You mean, Lord, when we say the 23 Psalm? "Your rod and your staff protect and comfort me."

  His rod is discipline. His staff, a weapon formed by words. "You, the enemy, shall not pass!"

 

  AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

  

The Battle Goes On

   "I love them, but they try to destroy me with accusations even as I am praying for them! They repay evil for good and hatred for my love." Psalm 109:4

  Yah. The battle goes on but the Lord is ever faithful and leads me directly to the words that will guide and sustain me. All I need to do is open my Bible and my eyes fall on the appropriate scripture for the day. 

  I have continued to work on the letter to Him. So far it's over eleven pages long. A lot happened over a short period of time. Even though some of the days are mixed up, I feel it's more important to make note of important events before the memories fade. Time will do that. Sometimes.

  Sometimes events are seared onto the synapsis. Those are the kind of memories that wash over you in glorious technicolor. Sound, smell, light and shadow are forever captured in a 3D movie that plays over and over again. 

  I am trying hard to keep the emotions from taking over. But they often do. Understandably so. It really hasn't been that long since my step Dad went to Jesus. 

  I wish I had known him better. But mom never let him speak whenever I was there. Even if he tried, she would shut him down by interrupting and taking over the conversation. Even if she wasn't in the same room. I don't know how many times she told him he wasn't remembering something correctly. 

  After a while, he simply stopped trying to talk to anyone...

  I guess he was in his own cage.

  It's so sad. For all of us in the family. So much that could have been was lost. 

  It's easy to look back and wish things had been done differently. But how could they? When doing things differently means actually knowing there is a different way. 

 As late in life as it is for me, I finally understand it's possible to move forward on a different path. It won't be easy, but it is possible.

  Change can only happen when it is given permission to exist. 

  So whose permission do I need to change the rules of the game?

  1. God's.

  2. Mine.

  Whose permission don't I need.

  1. Mom's.

  I already have my step-Dad's permission to change the rules. "Walk On," he said. It means a lot, to have a father's blessing in this. 

  But, does "walk on" actually mean walk away?

  It would sure be easier. But is that what God wants me to do?

  At this point, I don't know. It gets confusing when Sunday sermons talk about forgiving and grace and all the good things we are to embody as believers. But how? How do I do this without returning to the cage?

  God's ability to love has no limits. But I am not God (smile)...so Lord, how do I show love, Your kind of love, to mom?

  Stop expecting, needing, her to change. Set limits and boundaries according to what is and is not acceptable behaviour. Define acceptable behaviour in terms of love, compassion, generosity, and kindness. Have zero tolerance for anything of the evil one, that reflects or attempts to inflict harm on someone else. Be on guard for misdirection, manipulation and dishonesty. 

  This is the short version of the heart of Jesus and all He stood for.

  Jesus helped me do this when Allan was dying. I stood up for one who could no longer protect himself. It's okay to keep doing this for not only others, but myself as well.  

  It's okay to hang up the phone if she refuses to honour these boundaries. It's okay to "walk on."

  This doesn't mean I have to call today. In time, perhaps. I have much to think about.

  

 

  

   

  

  

   

  

  

  

  

In His Presence

   "For someday the people will follow Me. I, the Lord, will roar like a lion. And when I roar, my people will return trembling from the west." Hosea 11:10

  During another season of therapy, my therapist had learned how to do Traumatic Incident Reduction Therapy. It's a structured revisiting of traumatic events that allows a person to revisit the event in a safe and controlled manner. It's guided by questions that allow the exploration of sights, sounds, smells, and feelings. 

  It's not easy. 

  But, here's the thing, my therapist was a believer. She included questions that allowed me to see the hand of God, His presence, in the midst of remembering the awful. 

  And God was good. He showed me where He was every single time we utilized this therapy technique. Now I can remember these events, hard and as terrible as they were, and I find comfort.

  That's not to say I don't feel the pain of what happened but it no longer overwhelms my senses. The traumatic event has been disarmed. Kind of like removing the firing pin from a gun's trigger mechanism. 

  I've started doing this on my own, well, not really on my own. Instead of writing a letter to my mom, I've started writing a personal letter to God. That's what I mean when I say it's not on my own. The letter is all about what happened in the days before, during, and after my step-Dad's passing. 

  The first step involves immersing myself in the details of events, trying to get it all down in some sort of sequence. It's going to take some time because a lot happened. And I can only handle so much at a stretch.

  I am already aware of the many precious moments when the Lord showed up in astounding ways, in answered prayers, in the strength and calm of my being during the chaos. 

  He showed up in a church's post card advertisement with a scripture verse. It was laying on the floor, just another piece of garbage that didn't make into the bin. Until I picked it up, deeply grateful for such a gift. It's still in my purse, a reminder that He is with me in everything.

  I find myself wondering how and why the post card ended up on the floor of the hospital lobby. Was it given to someone who simply dropped it, uninterested in what was being offered? Or was it part of a clumsily packaged pile of cards and it fell out, unnoticed? Was it dropped intentionally by the person seeking to expand God's kingdom?

  I wish the post card could talk.

  I think my next task is to reach out to the church and share what it meant to me. That among the hundreds of their printed post cards, God used one, cast off and forgotten, to touch someone's heart and encourage them in a time of trial.

  God is a God of small things, too. 

  Lord, help me see You in the small, the moments, the seconds You make Your presence known. Help me see the bigger picture in Jesus Name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

The Constant Presence

     "The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to and end; they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness." Lamentations 3:22-23

  "Instead of asking why did it hurt me--instead ask, what did it teach me?" Denzel Washington

  Denzel's quote is from a YouTube video I've watched a couple of times, "Why God let the narcissist hurt you. The answer will change everything." It helped. A lot. I am thankful the Lord led me there.

  It doesn't mean the grief has gone away. Not yet. 

  There's a part of me that is angry with Him. This too shall pass. It's more important to be honest about the space my brain is occupying today. With our feeble, time limited lives and finite perspectives, being angry with Him is likely a common occurrence. I am simply offering my feelings up to Him. It helps when a load is shared.

 

  I don't think many of us think about the fact that He is there when terrible things happen. Every single time.

  Even when we made our own poor choices. Choices that are often made from a place of damage, be it shame, guilt, self-loathing, despair, or searching to be loved.

  I've made many poor choices over the years. There's no guilt attached to acknowledging this. Truth has no guilt. But I am now in a position to make better choices through a confidence in a Lord who only wants my freedom from old and familiar ways that are detrimental to my well being. Or could it possibly be the ways that interfere with His plans?

  Behind my mother's voice in her phone message, I heard a cage door creaking open. As much as I have a God who wants me free, there is another who would absolutely delight in destroying the rights that freedom grants.

  That is the enemy. Not my mom. Not God.

  What makes it hard is the enemy will use Him against us. For example: what kind of Christ follower am I if I don't call my mom? That's not very forgiving or loving, is it?

  I shared with my therapist about parachuting out of a plane for the first time. It's never solo. You are tied to the instructor who has full control (hopefully) of the parachute.

  I've never done it but can only imagine the dry mouthed, screaming heebie-jeebies that come the moment the plane door is opened and you are in front, feet dangling, looking down at a miniature landscape thousands of feet below! 

  It aptly described how I am feeling about doing things a new way: the way of silence, of offering God space to do His will in both our lives.

  It's reassuring to know that it's Jesus who is strapped to my back and He's the one with a firm grip on the parachute release cord. His chute will not fail. Ever.

  You know something? I've jumped out of a lot of planes since becoming a believer. The kind that are on fire and about to crash into smithereens. Jesus was always there, in the nick of time to save me.

  

Happiness

   "Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and will not be afraid; for the Lord God is my strength and my song, and He has become my salvation." Isaiah 12:2

  "Lord, I long to know and experience happiness in my life. I'm not talking about shallow pleasures. Those come and go, and the wrong kind leave us empty and unfulfilled. The happiness I desire is so much more than skin deep. It's bigger than my circumstances and larger than my emotions. I want the kind of happiness that trusts you, obeys you and follows you regardless of where that path leads. Amen." www.biblestudytools.com

  A friend asked a tough question. "Are you happy?" 

  To be fair, it's only been a couple of months since we laid my step Dad to rest and I am still reeling from everything that transpired surrounding his passing. The five stages of grief swirl, wrapping my heart in chaotic and often conflicting emotions.

  I had to think about it for a bit before telling her I was content. 

  That was a couple of weeks ago. Since then, the question has been rolling around in my head. What does it actually mean to be happy?

  I sadly have come to realize being happy is dangerous territory. That's when the rug gets pulled out from under you. Tattered shards of joy twist themselves around your heart and squeeze the life out of it. And it hurts. A lot. 

  There was a long, tear filled pause after I wrote those last sentences. Sometimes the hurts leave scars that never seem to heal completely.

  But that's life with a narcissist. Another's happiness is like poison to them and must be destroyed at all costs because it magnifies their own unhappiness. All they can do is snuff out the joy by pulling the rug as far and as fast as they can. 

  It does me good to be reminded that narcissists are trapped by evil and as a result are tortured souls who only know how to destroy. That's when they feel most powerful.

  It doesn't absolve them of their choices. Choices have consequences.

  And the devil would like nothing more than for me to continue to be afraid to be happy.

  Because happiness is the offspring of hope and dreams. Happiness is being able to acknowledge a great deal of my life has been really crappy but that doesn't mean it will continue to be this way. 

  You know something? The crap keeps me running to Jesus.

  Perhaps I need to seek Your forgiveness, Lord, for looking to people for my own happiness instead of You...no...that's not right. We are wired to need human connections. It starts with the deepest intimacy of all: in our mother's womb.

  Perhaps, instead of repenting, I need to make the choice to forgive. Or at least, try to forgive the people in my life who took the joy found through connection and weaponized it. That would be my mom, my ex, the abusers, and one whom I called friend.

   Doing this makes me happy because choices have consequences, don't they?

  

  

  

  

Through the Valley

   "When they walk through the Valley of Weeping, it will become a place of refreshing springs." Psalm 85:6

  "It would make me happy if you'd call." Mom

   "Sometimes, when you are not getting the love you want, giving makes you think you will." Mitch Albom, The Time Keeper

  It's a gray, cool, rainy day. The kind of day where curling up with a good book makes sense. It's not something I've done lately but during some house cleaning, The Time Keeper landed on my bedside table. It's not the first time I've read it but re-reading a good book is always good. When I came across the above quoted line, my eyes stopped, frozen by words that leapt off the page into my heart.

  And I grieve.

  Old me would have called my mom back right away but the time for old ways is done. I've had to face the stark realization that, even if I did call, my mom would not be happy. 

  How very sad.

  But it is not my responsibility to make her happy, anyways. That's something only God can do. 

  And to be honest, I have no idea what to say. I wouldn't be working with the familiar script of all our other interactions. She talked, I stayed small and silent.

  I can't go back to the way it was. 

  Not now. 

  Not after everything that has happened. Especially since God's Truth has revealed the way of it all.

  It's not easy. Having a boundary. Or should I say, it's not easy keeping it in place. It feels unnatural, even selfish. But those are old voices: the ghosts of upbringing and marriage. 

  It's not that I don't care. I care deeply for a woman who is so ensnared by deception, she cannot do anything but resort to the old strategies, the old manipulations that once had me toeing the line. It must be confusing for an old woman that they are not succeeding.

  The old tactics aren't going to work because Jesus has drawn a new line. 

  There's that and I have nothing left to give, if giving requires me to be small. 

  That kind of giving is not an act of love anyways. 

  For either of us.

  

  

  

  

  

Time of Rest

     "Return, O my soul, to your rest; for the Lord has dealt bountifully with you." Psalm 116:7

  

  Imagine, if you will, the trees shimmering in crimson glory. All the shades of red from a delicate pink to deep magenta wrapped themselves in a mantle around the deep mossy greens and grays of tree bark. The rays of the morning sun, unusually warm for this time of year, bathed the landscape in flickers of gold and yellow that gave every single leaf its own halo. 

  The Muskoka chairs (or Adirondacks if you are American) provided pops of unnatural, fire engine red. 

  A heavy dew made the grass and rocks sparkle when you moved your head just so. It was like the stars had come to earth to rest for a bit before heading back into the sky come sunset.

  Autumn comes with its own fragrance. One that is impossible to describe but it smells wonderful!

  I was away this weekend at a women's retreat up in the Muskoka region of central Ontario. It's two hours north of here and the area has had a couple of light frosts. It takes frost to birth the reds that were everywhere. It was a beautiful place to be this time of year.

  The drawing was done in a little 3"x5" sketchbook that goes everywhere with me...even church. I spent a lot of time drawing. It helped ground me in the busyness and noise only a hundred and fifty (or so) women can make. The drawings also help cement a particular moment, like this one, that touched my artist's soul in a way a photo can't.

  I finished the sketchbook while I was there. It was started the end of March last year. The pages are full of images documenting the places I've been and prayers lifted to God. There are plenty of moments where pages have been filled with patterns and imaginary landscapes. 

  Attached to the back cover of the book is an envelope. I had no idea it was there until I tried to pull apart what appeared to be two pages stuck together. I asked the Lord what was in this empty envelope. He was quick to respond, as He always is. 

  It's anger.

  Then I put a small feather inside so the envelope wasn't empty any more, avoiding the issue altogether.

  But the time for avoidance is past. A friend, who knows what happened this summer with my step Dad, reminded me that anger is one of the five stages of grief. Her words gave me permission to feel this way.

  Why on earth did I need permission? That alone is infuriating! (Smile...isn't that ironic?)

  I don't like anger. Simply because anger unrestrained is so damaging. I've been on the receiving end of unjustified anger far too often. Oh. Does this mean that, sometimes, anger is justified?

  Perhaps.

  This is a conversation to have with my therapist for sure.

  And Cricket. The anger has been there a long time. 

  I never learned how to be angry without loosing complete control until I learned to control it all the time. Neither is healthy. Loosing control is awful. Maintaining an iron fist on my emotions is just as awful. But it's what I know. The control end of things, I mean. It's been decades since the anger got loose.

  Or has it? Has it appeared in passive aggressive comments? Negativity? Judgements? Bitterness? Depression? Despair? Withdrawal? Or in a thousand other ways I never realized?

  Ouch. That's a hard truth to swallow. Forgive me Lord for not realizing this before. 

 

  I am afraid to be angry, of loosing control and saying hurtful things...of being punished for letting it out...of what it will do to my own peace...and maybe there's some anger at God, too. But that is going to be a private conversation between us alone.

  Sometimes it's hard facing the truth about ourselves...

  

  

  

Impact

   "And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose for them." Romans 8:28

  Before getting into the meat and potatoes of today's post, . 

  There's something special about this time of year. As the days shorten and the sun sits lower, the sky turn this incredible shade of fathomless blue. The trees don their autumn finery. The crimsons, oranges and yellows appear all the more vibrant against a blue that defies description. It's beautiful. 

  I am thankful for beauty and for the eyes to see it in the midst of everything that is going on.

  A friend brought us an autumn selection of cut flowers a week ago. They are just about finished. I hate to throw them out because they've been lovely to look at.

  While looking for creative ideas for workshops, I came across a way to use cut flowers. It involves laying the blooms face down on a piece of  paper then covering them with wax paper. Using a hammer to pulverize the petals causes the colours to transfer to the paper. The end result is pretty cool. It's like taking flower fingerprints. No two are the same.

  But these imprints are a mere shadow of their original beauty.

  While experimenting with this technique this morning, it was interesting to realize the whole process was a description of how I was feeling. 

 

  That's what abuse, narcissistic or otherwise, does. It takes what is beautiful, hammers it to a pulp, and leaves nothing remaining but a vague impression of its original form.

   Too bad it's impossible to hammer a piece of the sky onto the paper as a back drop. That would be stunning!

 

  I did something unusual today. I spoke up.

  It took two weeks to prepare myself. I practiced. I made notes then made other notes then wrote something else down. I wept over the fact that this is so very hard. But most of all, I was afraid of what might happen. 

  Speaking up was part of making a decision. It involved the new therapist I've seen and what happened in our second appointment. I think I wrote about someone saying, "I don't like labels." It was my therapist.

  Before I decided whether or not to continue working with her, I needed her to know what that meant to me. She needed to know how it had put me on my guard. She needed to know how it left me feeling: compelled to watch what I say or how I say it. 

  That's what I know. That's what the hammer taught me.

  It went really well. She apologized and thanked me for saying something because the moment I did, she saw things from my perspective. It gave her a better insight into my messed up world. Next time, it's okay to email her sooner, if and when I get triggered, and am left feeling unsettled. It's bound to happen again. It's part of being human.

  

  It's been a huge relief.

  I will continue what has been started.

  Although, in writing about it, it feels as though I made a mountain out of a mole hill...or maybe I will simply celebrate this amazingly successful venture into unfamiliar territory: speaking my truth.

  Praise God! The One who guided the conversation and gave the strength to say what needed to be said. AMEN!

  PS. I was going to mow the lawn but I think I need to pulverize some more flowers first. Maybe even  raid the garden for some greenery. What would Japanese fern fingerprints look like? Or Hosta leaves?

Oooo, this is going to be fun! And that suits me just fine.

 

  

  

  

  

  

Falsehoods

   "I hate and abhor all falsehood, but I love Your instructions. I will praise You seven times a day because all Your regulations are just. Those who love Your instructions have great peace and do not stumble." Psalm 119:163-165

  "She's a liar!" I cried out in anguish. 

  It's an anguish wrapped in a deep blanket of grief. The kind that's been born in the pain of clarity and truth and loss.  

  The loss of an illusion is still a loss. It was an illusion upheld by hope. The kind of hope that is grace filled, forgiving and patient.  

  I've been thinking about this statement for the last two weeks. 

  Because those three little words ended up creating a massive upsurge of guilt. For even saying something mean about my mom. For not being the "bigger person." For not speaking in love. For using a generalized statement about her behaviour. For labelling her. For having no grace for her brokenness.

  And the cage bars rattle lies of their own; a familiar litany of responsibility and shame.

  But most of all, the bars rattle to drown out my voice. They sound like an affronted and contemptuous, "How dare you!!" that never stops. I can almost see the bars pursing their lips in distain. That is, if bars had lips.

  Maybe they do. But they are lying lips with a seductively beautiful, Romanesque curl. 

  If I am to embrace the knowledge that I am a child of God, I don't belong there even though it feels like it would be easier not to change.

  So I've been practicing conversations. Mostly the boundary setting kind. It's like learning a new language for someone who has never been able to enforce them or even realized I had the right to have them in the first place.

  And the cage door opens with a rusty, metal on metal shriek, "How dare you!!"

  I'm going to slam that puppy shut with three words of my own, "Because I can."

  I was advised to use some CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) practices to help dismantle the lies I've believed. It's basically capturing the falsehoods and replacing them with truth.

  CBT doesn't work for me. Maybe it's because I've been told my whole life that the things I think or feel are wrong. CBT feels like punishing myself for it. Maybe it also has something to do with not being able to believe the truth anyways.

  It also doesn't go deep enough for me.

  I want to understand the "why" behind the un-Godly beliefs. In discovering the why, it reveals fertile ground for repentance and forgiveness. They are the foundation of permanent healing. CBT feels like slapping a coat of paint on the cage. 

  It also doesn't leave room for conversations with Jesus about it all.

  But that's me. 

  While making my bed this morning, I mulled over the three words, "She's a liar!"  The toxic soup of cage whispering swirled all around.

  The Lord whispered in my ear. The cage fell silent immediately.

  "If she's a liar, then the mean and demeaning things she's said to you for all these years aren't true either, are they?"

  No. No they are not.

  AMEN! 

  PS. CBT is a therapy option that has helped many people find their way out of their own cages. Please, don't allow my own preferences to stop what is helping, We are all on a path of our own. If that's what works for you, it should be embraced. God bless you with joy and healing.

  

  

  

  

Life Outside

   "No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love Him." 1 Corinthians 2:9

  God is good.

  All the time.

  It's funny, how what you know can suddenly become something you understand. There's been a great deal of understanding as of late. It's almost as though the Lord has preselected the videos I have been watching. It seems the right one always comes across my path at the right moment. Who knows, maybe He has, or at least guides me in the right direction. True to His way, He lets me decide if I watch it or not.

  I am most grateful.

  But knowledge without wisdom is empty.

  So I need to know how to use what I've learned because the cage I've stepped out of is inside my mind and body. And because the primal, survival part of my brain has been running the show for so long, it's going to take time to help it understand it's not needed until it's actually needed. Like when a bear attacks or something like that.

  Right now, it sees bears absolutely everywhere and is acting accordingly. 

  And my brain responds by affirming, "Yup, there are bears everywhere and one might attack you in your bed so be aware and ready to run." 

  

  I don't think a simple, "Stand down, soldier." will be enough.

  Or maybe that's it. Three words to calm my soul. I like the idea of calling my survival brain a soldier because it's only tried to do what a good soldier does: serve and protect.

  Maybe I am angry with her, too. She didn't do a very good job...and now she's overcompensating for her failures.

  That's not really fair, is it? 

  Because bears can wear disguises: mother, husband, brother, friend, doctor, boss...

  And that is a hard lesson.

  The bears are real after all.

  Dear, sweet Lord Jesus, help my inner soldier learn to assess a situation before going full on battle ready. Help me discern what is real and what is not and grant me the wisdom to act accordingly. In Your name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

  

  

  

  

Deception

   "In my distress I called to the Lord, and He answered me. Deliver me, O Lord, from lying lips, from a deceitful tongue." Psalm 120:1-2

  If I am to embrace truth and honesty as core values, it means I must let go of lying. You see, the lying lips and deceitful tongue have been my own. 

  I've been lying to myself for a long time, convinced it was the right thing to do. It's what kept me small.

  There's a long list of self-deceptions disguised as "doing the right thing." 

  There's an even longer one disguised as humility.

  It's why confusion ruled. Truth has been at war with untruth. And as long as I believe the lies told to me either by someone else or by my own admission and acceptance, the cage exists.

 Justification is a slippery slope. Lies are easily justified when they come disguised as normal, the way things are, the way it needs to be, the way it is expected to be. 

 And as long as I play by the rules passed down by the generations before me, the grand deception continues.

  I am tired of living in the swirling turmoil of lies disguised by words like duty, obligation, compliancy, gratitude, submission, obedience, and loyalty. These are good qualities when God is involved but when the father of lies twists them into chains, they are punishing and cruel. These shackles are tightened even further by guilt and shame and politeness.

  Perversely, it feel disloyal to embrace the truth! But who am I being disloyal to?

  I've been thoroughly conditioned, enough so that I picked up the lies and carried on conditioning myself to only think of myself through a lens of dishonesty. Truthfully, it was the only lens I knew.

  Now, that's not necessarily true...smile...it's the only lens I looked through. Even though the Lord has been holding a new one up to my eye for a long time, now. 

  I guess I though I didn't deserve it. I'm sorry, my Lord. 

  Three days ago, I cried out to the Lord that I had no idea how to live outside the cage. There is a great deal of thinking to be done about what life on the outside means. Creating a piece of art might help to explore this new territory of finally being at home in my own skin. 

  Cricket is giggling in the background, "It's about time!" And she does a little, joyful spin.

  Forgive me, Lord, for the lies, for thinking You have been lying to me. Thank You for showing me the error of my ways. Thank You for the courage to look, not only in the mirror, but into Your heart. 

  

  

  

Out of Hiding

 "Can anyone hide from Me in a secret place? Am I not everywhere in all the heavens and earth?" says the Lord. Jeremiah 23:24

  I have a confession. No sense in hiding it. I am angry.  

  A friend shared a poem she had written. I am deeply honoured whenever she is willing to share her heart with me. More often than not, her words speak the truth of my own heart. We are kindred spirits in many ways.

  In the poem, she talked about her infant self, lying in a crib. The bars were a prison where she lay, forgotten and cast off. 

  Both of us are children of adoption. We have often talked about the impact it has had on us even though we were mere infants. Being adopted has a cost to the adoptee, even if the home is a loving one.

  I am angry for the abuse she suffered from her adoptive family. It was horrific beyond imagining. 

  I am angry because we, she and I, were both chosen by a family wanting a child.

  Only to be raised as though we were never worthy of that choice. 

  It's a debtor's prison with no way of earning enough to ever break free.

  I am angry because it has taken so long to finally see the bars of my own cage. Yet I am still being asked to step back inside. 

  It goes by many names, this re-entry...being the bigger person, being forgiving, being the stronger one...duty...responsibility...

  I simply can't do it any more. The cost is too high.

  And I am angry because I feel so crappy about not jumping back into the cage.

  Because I don't know how to live outside.

  

  I am angry because my friend is dying.

  Lord, show me how to live. Create in me a new mind. In Jesus Name I pray. AMEN!

  

  

  

Six Words

  "What sorrows await the world, because it tempts people to sin. Temptations are inevitable, but what sorrow awaits the person who does the tempting." Matthew 18:7

  "I love you. I really do."

  My mom left this message Saturday evening. 

  Her words have fallen on my heart like a stone.

  Maybe she does. God knows.

  However, recent events and revelations makes me very cautious. 

  She's never said this before, unprompted. It's always been in response to my, "I love you, mom." 

  It feels like bait.

  Her message put me back in the boat named Confusion. This morning, my hand is reaching for the hand of Jesus to help me get out again.

  You see? I want to believe her. But what would it mean if I did? What actions are required on my part, if any?

  Is she asking me to come back to the way things have always been? Is she asking me to be small again?

  Am I being asked to forget everything and carry on as though nothing happened?

  I can't do that. Not when the truth of who she is and what she is capable of has been revealed by God.

  Truth has set me free and no matter how prettily the boat has been decorated, I don't belong there.

  

  Nevertheless, the boat's crew are singing a sailor's song of obligation and duty and responsibility. 

  Who am I kidding? It's a full on orchestra!

  The bass drum is beating a rhythm of self doubt. 

  The strings are plucking a lecture for the audacity of my silence.

  The brass blares, "Just who do you think you are, anyways?!"

  The woodwinds whistle nasty names.

  I am tired of hearing the music written by my mom.  

  However, God is good and He gave me a heart of kindness.

  A smidgen of grace drowns the song out because I can't help but wonder, what song plays in her head?

  It doesn't mean I have to call her back. 

  She is in God's hands now.

  

  

Mourning Coffee

   "The heavens are Yours, and the earth is Yours; everything in the world is Yours--You created it all." Psalm 89:11

  It is an early morning. The sun is shining through the kitchen window, bathing me in its warm light. Breakfast has been eaten. A cup of coffee sits on the table and emits a pleasant aroma. I like coffee. Always have.

  Cricket would waken occasionally, go downstairs to the kitchen and crawl up onto Dad's knee. She would get a few sips of his last cup of coffee before bed. I don't know what woke us but that occasional, nightly cuddle with Dad was special. 

  She used to run down the driveway when he came home from work.

  "Daddy! Daddy! Can I drive?"

  He would stop the car, open the door and we'd climb onto his lap. He'd let us "drive" the car up the driveway. It was so magical. It filled our heart with joy and laughter. 

  I'm thinking I need to explain the use of the terms "us" and "we." It's a language of validation, not separation. Cricket is me. Her story is my story but for now, it feels important to acknowledge the experiences she had. It's my way of saying, "I hear you." Truthfully, I kept her under wraps for a long time. Especially the hard stuff.

  It's nice to be reminded there were some good moments in childhood. Simple moments. Mostly, it was with my dad. 

  He passed away suddenly when I was in my late teens. It was long ago but it seems like yesterday. I find myself missing the safety his presence created for Cricket.

  One of the things that came up in learning about narcissism was the question, "Do they know what they are doing?"

  The answer is yes. 

  The cruel things my mother said to me never happened when dad was around. She knew better. She also knew they were mean. Otherwise, why not say them when he was in earshot?

  I never told my Dad any of it. Nothing about the sexual or physical abuse. Nothing about mom. Because I believed all of it was my fault. Predators, the physical or emotional kind, are good at making sure their victims take full ownership. They place the burden of responsibility for the things that are done or said squarely on the ones they hurt.

  And I believed I would be accused of lying. How could a child combat adult authority?

  Cricket, love, it was never your, our, fault. 

  When I first saw my step dad lying in bed, during those first, few precious minutes we had together, I had a vision. I saw Jesus standing with His hands on either side of Allan's cancer wrapped head. The Lord's head was bent over and He was weeping. 

  I was so grateful to see Him there.

  It's hard, knowing mom knew exactly the harm she was causing, not just to Allan, to Cricket as well. She chose to do it anyways. 

  And Jesus wept for all of us. 

  Even her.

  

  

  

  

  

A Day of Thanks

  "We will not be influenced when people try to trick us with lies so clever, they sound like the truth. Instead, we will speak the truth in love, growing in every way more and more like Christ." Ephesians 4:14-15

  That's what I want. To be more like Christ. I want to know truth but I also want to be able to discern when I am being lied to. For far too long, the truths I've been told were lies masquerading as truth. It's hard not to grieve. Cricket has been very chatty over the last little while, bringing up the memories that forged the cage that defined how we were supposed to live, feel, think and sneeze. The bars are thick and cold, coated with rust but strong enough to break the heart and soul of a child.

  Jesus has broken the lock and the door is opened. We have stepped out but the cage is still there, behind us. It hasn't vanished yet. There's nothing I'd like more than to see it crumble into dust. 

  Metal doesn't break down over night.

  Perhaps it might be a day to give thanks for what has been achieved in the last little while. 

  I have learned a lot about narcissistic abuse and the damage it does. It's helped me understand Cricket's memories and why we remember them in the first place. There's a theme, a repeated pattern, of betrayal, being blamed for having feelings, and countless times when fear stepped in to silence any questions or complaints or even needs. The times when we needed help the most were moments of punishment.

  It happened in my marriage, too. Not just in childhood. But then, I'd already been groomed to utter compliancy. He chose me, not because he loved me but because he could control me.

  I am grateful that marriage ended a long time ago.

  It's hard to be grateful for a death but without my stepdad's passing, I would not have seen the truth about the one who raised me. I am still reeling a bit, trying to understand how anyone could be so utterly cruel. It's good to know my stepdad is with Jesus, now, and free from the pain of cancer and the hurt inflicted by the one who was supposed to love and care for him.

  I am grateful for taking the time to explore what creates a narcissistic person. It's very sad. This knowledge wraps the anger with pity. 

  They hate themselves so much that the only way to feel any sort of worth is to demean, hurt and control others. Their charm and sociable personalities make them a favorite of gatherings. It's the mask they wear in public. The people around them are their mirror because they can't look at their own reflection. They are unable to apologize because to do so means admitting fallibility, weakness or a mistake.

  And yes, they are cruel. It is a source of joy, the pain they inflict, because it means they are powerful.

  Thank you, Lord, for helping me recognize the source of such evil. 

  I am thankful that no sin is too big for the Lord to forgive. 

  I am thankful for the ability to ask for His forgiveness when He shows me the error of my ways.

  The term "flying monkey" came to light this week. It's in reference to the Wizard of Oz and the wicked witch who controlled a flying monkey army. She forced them to do her bidding. 

  I have been a flying monkey. In my marriage. It was a hard pill to swallow but I can't beat myself up for it. I didn't know any other way to be but submissive, dutiful, and respectful of my husband's demands. I thought I was being a good wife. 

  Lord, forgive me for being a flying monkey. Help me make amends to those I have harmed, especially my children.

  I am thankful for clarity; for seeing things the way they were and are. Deception has failed. The author of lies has failed.

  I am thankful for being freed of the confusion that has been a constant companion. Although, it would be nice to get the words that haunt me out of my head.

  I am thankful that despite the harm that was done, hatred isn't part of my story.

  The grief will pass. In time.

  Thank you, Lord, for new life. AMEN!

  PS. In case you were wondering about the sneeze comment, Cricket learned to smother sneezes because any other kind was too loud. This is really bad for the sinuses and can damage them. Nevertheless, NO NOISE THAT WOULD DRAW ATTENTION TO YOU IS ALLOWED was a RULE.

  Oh....that's an interesting revelation. It wasn't about the noise at all. It was about being the centre of attention and not the narcissist. Even if that attention was as brief as a sneeze.

  Oh, my Lord, this ole cage has a lot of bars! But one has crumbled to dust today. Praise Jesus!

  

  

Behind the Veil

  "As was the custom of the of the priests, he (Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist) was chosen by lot to enter the sanctuary of the Lord and burn incense." Luke 1:9

  I found myself amalgamating a couple of stories in thinking about Zechariah. It is in stark contrast to the one where Jesus overturned the tables in the courtyard of the same temple Zechariah had entered decades earlier. While there's no mention of them in Z's brief part in the story of Jesus, I bet they were there.

  There's only fragments of lessons learned about the temple itself. There was the public courtyard, the inner courtyard, stairs leading to the entry and a veil that guarded the door. The same veil Jesus tore with His crucifixion and death.

  

  I've been listening to Jordan Peterson a lot over the last little while. His YouTube teaching is life giving and affirming for someone working to break free of the cage narcissistic abuse creates. That's where the temple comes into play.

  

  I imagined walking into the courtyard. It is full of salespeople pitching their livestock, nearly perfect for the slaughter. If one isn't quite perfect, they have another, more expensive animal. The money lenders are loudly encouraging people to borrow money at criminal interest rates. It is the only way the desperate sinners could buy the ram, the calf, because a little pigeon could never wipe away the sins they committed. 

  Can you hear them? The lies? The guilt laid on thick? 

  The judgement?

  Can you hear the chaos of a thousand voices, each trying to be heard?

  But I am a believer. I have no need of livestock.

  The inner courtyard is an oasis, free from the stench of animals and crowds of people. There's still noise. Priests praying loudly, trying to outdo each other in holiness.

 

  But I am a believer. I have no need of such overt displays of righteousness.

  I climb the stairs towards the veil. I can hear the Lord calling to step into His sanctuary. I pull it back and step into the coolness of the shade. Silence is the only sound. 

  I enter into the stillness of my birthright.

  Because I am a believer and belong in this place of intimate conversation and connection. Where could be better but to be with the Lord, the Creator of all things, who breathed life into my mother's womb. In the stillness I feel Jesus wrap His arms around my soul and peace comes.

  It's a peace that will need protecting. It will require learning to speak a new language: the one of unbreakable boundaries. It will require forgiveness and repentance. It will require time to break the bars of a cage that is still very much a part of my life.

  But best of all, behind the veil I experience joy because I left the money changers, the liars and the thieves behind.

  

  

Unlocking Truth

   "We thank you, O God! We give thanks because you are near." Psalm 75:1

  I cherish these moments, dear Lord, and thank You for allowing the truth to rise.

  On the way to work yesterday, a memory rose from the depths of forgotten days. Within it is a key that has helped me unlock the truth I so long to know.  

  Once again, it's Cricket who suffered. It may seem like a small suffering compared to some of the things we...I...have experienced. But, small keys can unlock big things. 

  Is that what suffering is, my Lord? Keys that unlock transformation? I suppose they are. In Your hands, they are. So I surrender this memory to You. Help me find the truth.

  I was playing with a pair of brothers in their front yard. They lived a couple of doors down from our house. We were playing tag or maybe kicking a ball around. It doesn't matter. We were having a great, fun time just being kids and enjoying the game. 

  Their dad was in the driveway doing something with their car. 

  The driveway was lower than the yard. A small, wood retaining wall lined the edge. The boys started bugging him, wanting him to be part of the game. I joined in, too. He laughed and gladly took on the role of bear/monster and began chasing us around the car. I was laughing. The boys were laughing. 

  I jumped up the retaining wall onto the grass and fell. The dad-monster caught me! I was still laughing, feigning mock terror. Until he grabbed my foot by the heel and toe and twisted it sideways. 

  He was still laughing.

  Pain has a way of silencing joy. 

  I cried out he was hurting me so he let me go. It had been excruciating and brought tears to my eyes.

  He let me go and I got up, limping.

  

  The memory stops here. It's a wall of nothingness.

  I was asked the other day if I had disassociated as a child. While I knew for sure of one event, this has surprised me. 

  So this morning, I am going to lay beside Cricket on the grass while a grown man/dad inflicts pain on her poor, wee ankle. What is going on in your heart and mind, love?

  "He's a dad! He's not supposed to hurt me!" (Betrayal.)

  "Having fun isn't allowed." (Punishment.)

  "It's my fault. I shouldn't have bothered him." (Guilt.)

  "No one will believe he is doing this to me." (Shame.)

  "It's okay for grown ups to hurt me." (WTF??????)

  "I mustn't tell anyone because I will be blamed or accused of lying/exaggerating." (Despair.)

  

   The attached emotions were added after I'd finished writing Cricket's story.

   It's no wonder I shut down in the face of such a toxic soup of emotion. Especially since it's only as an adult can I voice what was going on inside. God knew there would be a time and a season to revisit this particular memory. He had to prepare the way for me to be able to face it..

  Sigh. This hasn't been an easy exercise.

  My apologies for the profanity but that one line rocked me.

  It's a core belief, albeit a toxic one. "It's okay for people to hurt me." And, "I have to make allowances for their behaviour because inevitably, it's my fault anyways," is part of it, too.

  I am going to sign off. There's a whack of grief in knowing a lie that has shaped so much of my life. 

  The best part? I know it's a lie.

  I have one request of You, dear Lord. As this memory bubbles around in my head today, help me see where You were. I know you were there but Cricket needs to know, too. In Your name I pray. AMEN!

  PS. I'd barely finished typing the AMEN and He answered.

  Jesus was the author of the disassociation. He wrapped His love around me. It was a gift for a child utterly overwhelmed by the shadows that lurked in the bright sunshine of a summer's afternoon.

  PPS. A Christian once told me disassociation is sinful because what caused it wasn't taken to the Lord. Thank You for showing me, dear Lord, that it is Your gift for suffering children. AMEN. And it's a wonderful day knowing lies have been shattered into oblivion. Help me walk in Your truth, dear Lord. AMEN again!!

   

Into the Open

   "For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed that will not be known or brought out into the open." Luke 8:17

  My friend and I went to the local plant nursery. We were looking for a basil plant. This late in the season, there weren't many. We spent some time wandering around, checking out the season end specials.

  There were several Japanese Maples marked down considerably. It is a tree I've always admired. There's something special about their red and delicate leaves; how they move in the wind with shimmering crimson beauty. 

  It didn't take long to choose one. Somehow, the one meant to grace my yard had an extra level of personality and presence. And I felt somewhat sorry for her, too. The extremely hot summer had not been kind. Some of the leaves were dried and curled at the edges from too much sun despite the nursery's best efforts to protect the trees from the worst of the heat. 

  With guidance from staff on the best way to give her the best possible chance, it meant buying the right soil and a transplant fertilizer to give the roots a good start. I've chosen a sheltered place, both from the wind and the hottest part of the day. This beauty will get ample watering until the frost rolls in. It didn't hurt to pray a blessing on this newest addition to the gardens. (She has just now been named, too. "Beauty.")

  Maybe I chose this one because she represents how I am feeling: battered by the things I had no power over.

  There's grief in the stillness of being. It's a heavy, heart wrenching, profound sense of loss around what was never mine in the first place.

  I've learned something about trauma in all of this reflection. The Lord has brought some amazing teaching my way about the difference between PTSD and Complex PTSD.

  When there's an expectation of safety and that safe place/person/situation ends up going sideways, it's a traumatic event. Even when there is no actual physical harm.

  When the loss, or perceived loss, of safety is repeated over and over again, it can cause Complex Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. It is far reaching and not isolated to a particular event with a distinct beginning and end. That's what can cause PTSD.

  The child...I...did my best to manufacture the safety I longed for by staying small. 

  It didn't work. 

  I have been afraid my entire life, waiting for the other shoe to drop. After a lifetime of dropped shoes, it's not surprising.

  There have been well meaning people who have told me that fear is pride based. It's something I've struggled to relate to this situation. 

  The fear I struggle with is primal because it began before I had the vocabulary to even describe how I felt. If a toddler or child looking for comfort finds none, or worse, is rejected, what could they possibly know except to be afraid?

  And I learned to be afraid of myself because my emotions betrayed me and left me vulnerable.

  

  Into the open, dear Lord, with my singed leaves, no matter how painful it is. In You I trust. AMEN!

  

  

   

  

Being Small

   "I (Paul) pray that your hearts will be flooded with light so that you can understand the confident hope He (Jesus) has given to those He called--His holy people who are His rich and glorious inheritance." Ephesians 1:18

  My life has been an exercise in smallness. Smallness meant survival. Smallness meant peace. Smallness meant giving no one reason to criticize or ridicule. Yet inside my heart were big things. Big ideas. Big feelings. The biggest thing kept locked deep within my mind and soul was truth. It had to be made the smallest of all.

  To survive.

  I am in the unenviable position of reflecting on how the smallness was forged. 

  I can't remember when being small became a way of life. It's always been with me. As a child, I didn't understand why it was so important to not appear big. I only knew my bigness would hurt others.

  Smile. Perhaps there needs to be some clarification. 

  A young and talented artist who had capabilities beyond her years at five slowly held those skills back. By the time she was seven, her work was on par with her classmates. 

  I remember clearly doing a drawing in Grade 2. The task was to use straight lines to create the image. A horse happy girl drew, of all things, a horse. I thoroughly enjoyed the challenge. The mare's tail was drawn with short, straight, ruler guided lines that created the arc and flow of hair.

  The teacher held it up to the class to show them what could be done with a straight line...and I cringed inside. (This memory is so incredibly vivid, I can even smell the chalk dust in the classroom.)

  I cringed because my work made others feel bad about their own.

  I think the teacher held up other pictures, ones that "cheated" by using curves.

  And so began a school life of mediocrity. I stayed small.

  It's sad to think a child would even think this way. 

  Bigness meant believing you were good at something. Bigness meant showing emotion. Bigness meant being smarter. It was believing you were beautiful. 

  I didn't understand why it was so important to hide the truth of who I was or what I could do. I only knew it was a punishable offence when the truth leaked out. 

  My lifetime partner of confusion set up residence. He was nurtured and fostered and encouraged to grow because the ones who were most threatened by bigness had none of their own. And as long as they pulled the strings, the horse happy little girl stayed small.

  For sixty years. 

  But now I have entered the stillness: the place of being big...of being true. 

  Smile. This bigness is not borne of conceit or arrogance. That sort of bigness is built on lies and deception.

  This bigness is a simple, grateful celebration in two small words: i am.