Anger

   “Look! The Lord’s anger bursts out like a storm, a whirlwind that swirls down on the heads of the wicked. The anger of the Lord will not diminish until it has finished all He has planned. In the days to come you will understand this all very clearly.” Jer 23:20

 

  “Here’s my heart, Lord.
   Here’s my heart, Lord.
   Here’s my heart, Lord,
   Speak what is true.”   Casting Crowns

 

  Today, the lady’s womb wasn’t big enough to contain the size of her burden. I wanted to illustrate the seething rage and fury that resides within my heart. God, in His faithfulness, provided an iceberg made out of fire. Most of the anger is hidden beneath the surface but it is there, stoking the flames of the visible.

  My last post left a bad taste in my mouth. Name calling serves no purpose. I felt disconnected from the love I know God has for all His creations, even the ones who do unspeakable harm to others. This is such a tough thing to wrap my head around.

  The Casting Crowns’ song was sung at church yesterday. I offered a heart full of rage to God. He began to speak with me about anger and peacemaking.

  Unless we are able to identify the areas of conflict, anger and disconnect, there can be no peace making.

  Peacemaking is not denying the feelings which keep us apart from God. It is offering them to Him.

 

  My sons were wrestling in the living room. This wasn’t an uncommon situation. Being five years apart, personality differences, sibling rivalry and probably stuff I had no inkling about had the two of them butting heads regularly. I would frequently, crossly, put a stop to it before things got out of hand.

  The youngest son put his foot through a glass pane on the antique pocket door dividing kitchen from the living room. The weak and bubble filled glass shattered. His foot was fine. No cuts.

  Something went out of me that day. I felt it leave as I looked at the broken glass on the floor.

  I stopped caring.

  I stopped being angry.

  I stopped trying to stop the conflict between them.

  The fiery iceberg sank beneath the surface.

  Most of it was already submerged anyways. I’d learned very well that any expressions of anger were completely unacceptable. At least for me they were. Double standards are the posts that hold a gaslight.

 

  Of all the emotions in my heart, I have the greatest difficulty expressing anger aka rage. There’s a deep fury fanning the flames of some very ugly ideas about how to punish someone for the pain they have caused. Not just to me, but to others as well.

  Maybe I am afraid anger will consume me like the tears I am afraid to let fall because I don’t know if they will ever stop. I am afraid the anger will spill over onto those who don’t deserve it. I can’t do to others what has been done to me.

  A lifetime of anger denied by self, minimized by others, mocked and shut down by the dictates of social structure (it’s so unladylike!) is rising up from the depths.

  I honestly don’t know how to handle this desire to lash out and destroy. It is utterly offensive to me, a person who had to crawl out from under the relentless and unabated rage of others.

  Now that’s an interesting thought.

  Bullies, chauvinists, sexists, bigots, sexual predators, liars and thieves are fueled by hate, the evil twin of rage. It might even be worth thinking about how much they must also hate themselves.

  The shocking statistic states 99.9% of the time someone who has been sexually abused goes on to abuse others in the same way. It’s beyond me to understand why they do this when they have firsthand experience of the pain such things cause. (My inner, angry voice says, “What is WRONG with these people?!!!!!)

  Is it because such things have been sickeningly normalized in their lives?

  My angry voice says, “Don’t care. It’s wrong. It’s sooooo wrong!” But I must admit this makes me pause in my tirade.

  What is normal for a pedophile? A sex trade worker? A pimp? A drug dealer? A con man? A thief?

  It has to be so different from anything I have ever known. In ways I can’t possible begin to imagine.

  Maybe God can channel anger into a cry of outrage. Maybe anger is needed to de-normalize this crap.

  Isn’t anger also a love language?

  Hate isn’t, but anger?

  Anger turned tables over.

  Anger destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah.

  Anger defeated Pharaoh.

 

  Anger killed Jesus.

  God redeemed the last one, didn’t He?

  So we could be redeemed.

  We means everyone, even the ones caught in the ageless lies and snares of the devil.

  Maybe I am angriest about the evil that is thriving in our society. A satanic prayer recently opened the Alaska legislature where the Lord’s Prayer has been banned. (Yes. It did.) It's no wonder my lady is crying.

  Evil is getting bolder.

  Maybe I am angry because of the damage evil does.

  And maybe, this will enable me to warm my hands on the flames inside instead of trying to extinguish them—it’s more than okay to feel this way about evil that creates nothing but destruction, devastation and death.

  There are so many trapped by it, just like I used to be.

  May God use my anger as a righteous fire to light the path to peace.

 

 

Gaslighting Ignites Fury

 

  “The sacrifice You desire is a broken spirit. You will not reject a broken and repentant heart.” Ps 51:17

   God’s timing is perfect. Always. God will use all things to His glory, even social media. 

  The term, “gaslighting” originated in a 1938 play by Patrick Hamilton called, “Gas Light,” which was made into a movie in 1944. That’s how the term gained exposure although it’s not one I was familiar with until reading the post above.

  I have been on the receiving end of every single one of these abusive tactics. Seeing this appear on FB, identifying what Gaslighting is, I shared it with the sad realization I am not alone.

  My ex never hit me. He didn’t need to. See? He was a good man!

  Not. There’s something terribly sad that this single quality was my only understanding of what defines excellence.

  The arsenal of gaslighting is why I was unable to see my ex for who he was. It’s why it took so long to see the truth. By the time he had finished grooming me into submission, the self doubt and confusion fostered over the course of twenty years lasted a long, long time.

  I keep hearing stories from women who went to the police to press charges. How they were treated, how they were gaslighted by the officers makes me absolutely furious.

  A pastor did it to me, once, when I turned to him for help, in crises and reeling from information about my ex coming into the light. “It’s good to see you’re not angry at him,” he gaslighted. It took a long time to recover from the damage this pastor caused. His words left a swathe of confusion and self blame around my very valid emotional state. These terrible words denied my right to feel the way I felt.

  It could have been my ex I’d been talking to.

  Women don’t need to make anything up. That’s the hard, cruel truth.

  I don’t need to see an avalanche to know the dirt and boulders blocking the road were put there by one. I know the puddles left in my driveway are there because it rained, even if I didn’t see the drops falling. I have come along side woman who share my challenges with PTSD and know it’s because some awful, terrible and unimaginable things happened to them.

  Gaslighting is an effective weapon whose sole purpose is to subdue and discredit victims. Heck, I didn’t even know I was abused until a few years after leaving the marriage. God’s timing brought a small pamphlet my way so I could begin to see the truth. My therapist used stick figures.

  It’s why I continued to defend my ex for so long. The sick and twisted SOB that he is was buried by my ingrained inability to discern what was true or what wasn’t. He made sure of it so he could keep on trucking. He made sure I was very good at making allowances for his horrible behaviour; allowances that gave tacit permission for it to continue, unabated.

  I have much to repent of: for not standing up to him, for failing to protect my children from his poison. I don't find any comfort to realize, at the time, a gas light made me a moth hypnotized by a flame.

  I can’t begin to tell you how important this recent information is in validating all God has shown me over the last several years. It has eradicated the seeds of doubt entrenched in my understanding. It’s stopped the second guessing and self blaming triggered by memoires of this long, hard season. It’s exposed the ingrained lessons that were still shaping unhealthy relationships.

  Gaslighting is a brainwashing weapon. It’s the foundation for Stockholm Syndrome where the abused, the trapped, the prisoners end up “loving” their abuser to the point they continue to have them in their lives. Maybe part of it is because of what role they fulfill in our lives. We continue to hope they will be true to their calling as spouse, mother, father, sibling, friend…they won’t. Not if they are gaslighters.

  The worst of it is the crumbs of kindness that get tossed on the floor for us to eat. A crumb of kindness is a feast for those starved for affection and validation. It allows us to believe the one who is crumb tossing is truly the person we imagine them to be. And maybe, just maybe, we hope things are going to change.

  They aren’t. It is merely the start of yet another cycle of abuse and manipulation.

  Knowledge is power. I hope in sharing this with you, dear readers, you can take your life back.

  God never meant for Scriptures to be used as prison bars. Honour your father and mother and obeying your husband should never, ever be used as a weapon of control.

  If you are in a relationship with a gaslighter, run, leave, flee for your life. Throw yourself into the arms of Jesus.

  Leave the reconciliation to God. Leave the fixing to God. Leave the people who will fill your vacancy to God. Pray for the SOB's who use these evil tactics and for others held hostage by them.

  The only way to extinguish a gas light is with the wind of your departure.

Gates

 

  “Open up, ancient gates! Open up ancient doors, and let the King of glory enter. Who is the King of glory? The Lord of Heaven’s armies—He is the King of glory.”  Interlude    Ps 24:9-10

 

  “Interlude” in the NLT Bible translation replaces, “Selah.” It’s the Hebrew word for pause, reflect, to meditate on. It’s taking the time to have God’s word filter into our hearts. It’s embracing a moment of peace and stillness where worldly distractions have no place. It defines when it’s time to stop reading or listening to scriptures for a moment to give what we heard or read the opportunity to sink in.

  It’s a Selah day today, a rest day. I might paint later. I might not.

  The weather has finally warmed up enough to make me want to, need to, get into the garden. There’s a lot to do outside. The pond needs cleaning and refilling before the winter, leaf filled water gets too smelly. The small, split rail fence I built to disguise a stack of bonfire wood has fallen over. There are many plants needing last year’s dead growth cleared away. The grass needs cutting.

  It’s a different sort of rest, being outside and getting covered in dirt. It’s still too cold for bare feet. That’s the best. Feeling the warm earth and soft grass beneath my feet is one of my simplest pleasures. (I wear shoes when mowing the grass.)

  By the time I am done, there will likely be smears of dirt on my face. My nails will need scrubbing because I don’t like to wear garden gloves. I’ll likely be tired, too. It’s a good tired, a physical tired which is so different from equally exhausting mental and emotional work.

  Opening ancient gates is tiring especially when the metal has rusted and seized; when corroded and solid hinges groan and resist movement.

  Until you anoint them with oil.

  Selah.

  Yes, wait. Give the oil time to soften the rust, to break down the corrosion.

  I have decided to take another couple of weeks off work. Things are still up in the air because of the fire. A temporary location has been found but to be in the chaos required to set it up is more than I can take on at the moment.

  That’s okay.

  It gives me time to focus on stepping through the gates God has opened; the ones that have been shut for so long I forgot they were there. It gives me time to invite others to walk through gates of their own.

  The grass is greener over here.

  Selah.

  Stepping through the gate leaves barren and desolate wastelands behind.

  I love that God gives me the choice. He doesn’t force me to go. He doesn’t demand I paint or write. He doesn’t chain me to the table.

  He called me. So I came. (Smile. At least this time I did!)

  Selah.

  This is a different sort of compliancy. It holds no fear. It isn’t filled with the despairing alone/lonely aloneness that fed its need for existence. It isn’t there to keep the peace at all costs.

  This time compliancy is needed to make peace.

  A friend FB posted a photo of a pot full of seedlings. She forgot to label them so she asked, “Does anyone know what these are?”

  I responded with a smile emoji, “Seedlings that have yet to identify themselves.”

  Every seedling has a round, double leaf before the unique leaves that identify who they are begin to appear.

  I guess the old, outgrown version of compliancy looked like round leaves. The plant never had a chance to grow out of this beginning stage.

  Selah.

  I’ve learned a lot over the last several weeks; far more than I could ever sum up in words. The result is a deeper understanding and acceptance of my imperfect self.

  One of my early diagnoses was Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s a terrible label. It screams, “There’s something wrong with you!!” There’s been a movement towards naming it a Socialization Disorder which is a far better description. Not being taught how to properly cope with life creates a breakdown of personhood, never mind a whole whack of unhealthy and toxic behaviours which further compound the problems.

   When traumatic events are not addressed or are silenced, the piece of us who lived when it happened never gets to grow up. It’s why I still want Bear when life gets really tough. It’s why the closet door has to be closed before bed.

   I probably don’t fall under this diagnosis any more. I will probably continue my nightly routine of door closing as an expression of love, not because of fear. The last few weeks of letting Cricket finally share her story has unified the parts of me that were, basically, divorced from each other.

  God opened the gate to her, our, traumatic experiences because He knew I was ready to step through it. The border lines were opened; the guns protecting them were disarmed. God made peace between two countries, hers and mine.

  “He restoreth my soul.” Ps 23

Overturned

  “Don’t you realize that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit, who lives in you and was given to you by God? You do not belong to yourself, for God bought you with a high price.” 1 Cor 6:19-20

 

  “He (Jesus) knocked over the tables of the money changers and the chairs of those selling doves. He said to them, “The Scriptures declare, ‘My Temple will be called a house of prayer,’ but you have turned it into a den of thieves.” Mat 21:12

 

  Today’s painting was done without photo reference. Google contained no images of a woman turning over a table. So, even though I am not overly pleased with the final product, it’s a global first! 

  I feel like knocking over some tables of my own. The unbelievably deep and smoldering rage seething through my heart is begging for an outlet.

  How I imagine venting this anger is not very Christian of me.

  My church is doing a series on Peace Making.

  Go figure.

  Just when I am ready to explode in a violent outburst, God says, “Make peace.”

  The good thing about Sunday’s teaching is I now understand that peace making is not the same as peace keeping.

  Peace keeping is maintaining the status quo by all means necessary. From a military standpoint, they use guns. From a personal standpoint, I used compliancy and submission.

  Peace keeping’s sole purpose is to keep tables from being turned upside down.

  Some tables need to be.

  Is there a wood named evil used to build huge conference tables where the corrupted gather? Is this where they meet to share unimaginably twisted schemes? Is the evil-wood conference table a gathering place for people who built their corporation out of filth? Does its gleaming surface reflect the dark and murky shadows of things done in darkness?

  Sometimes this evil-wood table is much, much smaller. It makes it less obvious.

  I have reluctantly sat at such a table far too often, forced to eat the rancid feast being generously passed around by the others sitting around it. The food was seasoned with hate, cruelty, lust, alcohol, prejudice and conspiracies of secrecy.

  Jesus pulled my chair back so I could leave. Nobody stood up when I left. They just carried on feasting on their own poison.

  It takes a long time to get poison out of your system, especially the kinds that are absorbed through the skin.

  God has me here, at my solid, tiny, and pretty kitchen table surrounded by safety and trust. The words He gives me are offered in the hope that they are helping others like you, dear reader, pull away from a table you no longer need to sit at. I will even put out my arm to steady you in case your legs are stiff from being in one place for so long.

  This is peace making.

  It’s writing, speaking, sharing the hard truth that sets a match to burn evil-wood tables from the face of the planet. It is giving the board members a chance to escape the flames even though I would give anything to see them consumed by fire.

  There are no such things as coincidences. I must give thanks to another artist for a series of paintings entitled The Footwashing Series. They spoke to my heart in ways that exceed words, in ways that help me step away from wanting vengeance. www.saltandgoldstore.com 

 

  Jesus didn’t throw people around, just the table, spilling their corrupt and stolen earnings onto the ground.

  He set the innocent and flawless doves free; the ones no longer needed to pay for another’s sins.

  I finally understand why a dove is a symbol of peace.

 "And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Phil 4:7

 

One in Three

  “They come out at night, snarling like vicious dogs as they prowl the streets. Listen to the filth that comes from their mouths; their words cut like swords. “After all, who can hear us?” they sneer. But Lord, you laugh at them. You scoff at all the hostile nations.

  You are my strength; I wait for you to rescue me, for You, O God, are my fortress. In His unfailing love, my God will stand with me.” Ps 59:6-10

  “For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and of spirit, of joints and of marrow, and discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.” 1 Cor 6-8

 

  What can I say? It was a teddy bear kind of day. Fuzzy comfort eased the chill in my soul and body that the furnace was unable to touch. Setting Bear on a kitchen chair so he could watch, Cricket sat and painted before our Abba Father.

  The low, ash gray clouds poured out God's tears for His daughters, His children, His beloved. His tears rained down for the ones who do tremendous and lasting damage.

  Many different things came to mind as painting number twenty-one began to take shape. I am not bored with the image even though it’s been repeated so often. Boredom is a sign I have taken the lead from God and am pushing my own agenda onto the process. When God says, “It is finished,” it will be.

  I thought about how my body remembers what happened even if my mind doesn’t. It’s like when an amputee has an itchy hand that is no longer there. The nerves remember when the hand existed. I wish my body didn’t remember when someone’s soul was tied to mine.

  As the image of the little girl holding a teddy bear took shape, Cricket remembered the hands that hurt, specifically the monster from the closet. The baby-sitter’s forced intimacy left a piece of him behind.

  It left me feeling very dirty but it’s the kind of dirt a shower will never wash away. It’s the kind of dirt only a victim of abuse can see and feel. Our souls have been soiled with invisible filth.

  Over the years I have stood under a scalding shower and prayed that somehow I would feel clean. That was before I learned about soul ties. The shower became the place to speak the names of people my soul had been tied to through forced intimacy and assault. I said the names of people who had gotten close because of my consent, my desperate search for love in all the wrong places.

   I gave them back the piece of them they gave to me. I reclaimed the piece of my soul that was not theirs to keep.

  It was surprising to find there were women in the mix as well; women who had become attached to my soul through no fault of their own.

  It’s like having a spiritual STD.

  Even if I wasn’t able to name them, pieces of other women who had been intimate with the men involved were attached to me. I gladly returned what wasn’t mine to have.

  These women, too, had a piece of my soul needing to be reclaimed.

  As God led me through this gathering together and restoration of my soul to its rightful owner, I stopped feeling so thin, so vaporous, so translucent.

  God used repentance and forgiveness like a body wash. That’s part of it, too. He showed me where this was needed to complete the process of reclamation. Bear was my witness a lot of the time when we had these difficult conversations.

  Forgiveness was frequently spoken through clenched teeth, with a bitter and angry heart. Sometimes it still is that way. God honors the verbal sacrifice offered to Him in speaking His language of love. 

  I give the anger to God because He is the only one who can change how I feel. It’s an ongoing and wonderful process especially when, “I forgive,” means just that. Some days I can, some days, not so much. Some days forgiveness happens but a few days later dives right back into anger mode. God knows my heart and my deepest desire to want to be forgiving. Forgiveness is giving someone else's soul to God.

  Now the shower is for when I am visibly dirty. My skin is eternally grateful.

  My body still has memories although they have grown less powerful. I wonder…does the forced creation of unwelcomed soul ties create another layer of trauma? Well, yes! Spiritual and emotional trauma creates the greatest damage. Our bodies can heal from injury far quicker than our soul…most of the time.

  Lord, be with the women and children whose bodies have been and will be irrevocably damaged by violence, hate, and evil.

  Thank you, Lord, for reminding me about soul ties. It’s an ongoing process as things come into the light. It’s important to tie up loose ends because breaking soul ties doesn’t only heal me; it helps restore other souls even if they are unaware of what’s happening.

 

  The hands holding the child in today’s image belong to women. The photo reference I used was of a teddy bear cuddling, blond, fair skinned child. I made her hair brown and her complexion darker for a reason. It’s not just fair-skinned, blonds who are subjected to abuse. It’s not just women of colour. It’s not just the young, or the old or the beautiful.

  It’s one in three. This number is what binds so many of us together.

  The sisterhood of experience is creating a force for good unlike anything evil has ever faced since Christ laid down His life for us.

  Until very recently, the statistic was one in four. Filthy, evil secrets are being exposed and talked about. There is still a long way to go. There are still prejudicial and ignorant attitudes about victims of sexual abuse. The police have much to learn.

  These are the terrible and unthinkable odds that proclaim the truth for many women shaped by abuse and trapped in its vicious cycle: thirteen or thirty or three hundred to one.

  Heaven is still crying today.

The devil's eye

 

  “How precious is Your unfailing love, O God! All humanity finds shelter in the shadow of Your wings. You feed them from the abundance of Your own house, letting them drink from Your river of delights. For You are the fountain of life, the light by which we see.” Ps 36:7-9

 

  “Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus, the light of His wonderful face.” Hymn

 

  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death.” Ps 23

 

  I will fear no evil.

  I won’t.

  There is nothing the Lord cannot redeem. There is nothing He cannot heal. No evil can stand before His holy righteousness. The Lord scatters evil on the wind as easily as we blow the seeds off a dandelion.

  No evil can live when the Breath of Life suffocates it; when we keep our eyes upon Jesus.

  There is great evil in this world. Gentle soul that I am, I have a hard time understanding why people hurt someone else in ways that far exceed the darkest imaginings this ole gal is capable of. I’ve had my share of darkness but my heart breaks for those who have looked the devil in the eye over and over again.

  There isn’t going to be a painting today. I sat down to type, thinking I needed to explore yesterday’s epiphany about broken trust; about how it is at the core of every traumatic memory/event I’ve ever experienced.

  Is this other’s truth? Does this ring true in your story? Is this a universal human experience? Is this the bond of mutual experience that binds my life with the lives other abused women?

  We are a collective of God’s children who knows, up close and personal, what it is to be betrayed.

  A child whose only safe person is their teddy bear knows it well.

  Before I went to bed, I caught myself making sure the pantry barn-style door was closed. It’s been part of my pre-bed routine since it was installed. Logically, it wouldn’t hurt to leave it open. Cricket says it has to be closed. (Smile.)

  So I close it for her without judgment, without chastising her for such foolishness, without shame. I now understand the sense of betrayal that exploded into my little heart the night the monster came out of the closet.

  Mom and dad didn’t keep me safe. They weren’t there the first time I remember looking the devil in the eye. (Adult me doesn’t blame them. I left my own children with baby sitters, too, for a rare night out.)

  Not being believed about the monster betrayed my need for comfort and assurance. They didn’t want to keep me safe. (Oh. That sentence was a surprise.)

  Believing my senses had betrayed me had a devastating impact. It’s why I doubted seeing the devil’s eye in others who betrayed me in terrible ways. It’s why I was so vulnerable to future abuse.

  So no. I wasn’t stupid or naïve. Since my senses were not to be trusted, how was I supposed to believe them at all? Ever.

  Get thee behind me, satan.

  My ability to discern the evil intentions of others was shot to crap. My ability to see the evil in others followed closely behind. It was a set-up to drive me as far from Jesus Loves Me This I Know as possible.

  This is the sole purpose of evil. It serves no other master except itself.

  I serve God, the healer, the redeemer, the teacher, the listener, and the faithful.

  I serve God, the restorer, the refiner and finisher. 

  I serve God, the author of my faith.

  I serve God, the trust worthy, the gentle, the forgiving, the loving and awesome Most High.

  The devil made me do it.  Hah! I can finally trust myself to discern when evil uses the only weapon in its arsenal; the one Jesus knows so well, the one called betrayal.

  I will try and leave the judgment to God.

Strong One

     “God is my strong fortress, and He makes my way perfect.” 2 Sam 22:33

 

  “Strength is putting a smile on your face when you want to cry a river.” averstu.com

 

  “A Guide smiles and sings even under difficulty.” Girl Guide Law

 

  The second quote came from one of those inspirational posts on FB. I read it and was left feeling angry. There are countless others shared along the same line.

  For ages, there have been songs sung about this very idea…

  ”Smile, darn ya, smile…”

  “Put on a happy face…”

  The Girl Guide Law was a massive part of my life from Brownies right through to my teens before I was able to quit going. There’s been a massive amount of prayer work to overcome these “Laws” to live by. I may have even blogged about some of it a few years ago.

  I’ve started flinching internally whenever someone offers the “you’re so strong” compliment. It is meant as an encouragement but I’ve come to realize that being strong is not necessarily a good attribute.

  It’s why I have ended up here, in my late fifties, writing about things that happened when I was three, a teen, a young woman and a married one. I was strong because any sign of weakness left me vulnerable. Weakness was the worst possible attribute anyone could have. It’s right up there with being “needy.”

  I rather like being vulnerable now. It means I am surrounded by people I trust.

  The smiles I smiled meant forcing down and subduing any type of sadness or hurt. Ironically, this only adds to the burden of sadness. Un-cried tears have a way of gathering behind a coffer dam. In my case, it was more like the Hoover Dam.

  It could be one of the reasons I live with PTSD.

  Trauma is defined as a deeply distressing or disturbing event that overwhelms an individual’s ability to cope.   

  I’ve learned that trauma is subjectively personal. There is tremendous potential for anything outside our range of experience to be traumatic. If I had tears, circumstances justified them. I know this now.

  I was in my late teens when my dad died. Mom handed out Valium. Her way of coping was passed on to me. Numb it, shut it down, ignore it, by no means talk about it cause, girl, the feels you feel are no good.

  Smile for the camera!

  Dad died suddenly and unexpectedly on December 21st. I have a few photos of the holiday where we were smiling. The sadness in our eyes, the strained and tense jaws, and the unspoken grief turned smiles into deathlike, hollow grins captured forever on film.

  Mom went to a lot of trouble to make Christmas happen despite her, our, abrupt and shocking loss. We went away the next year.

  I never took Valium again but learned to rely even more heavily on numbing and disassociation whenever emotions got too much. It was my way to stay strong.

  Alcohol was my drug of choice when the first two seemed to be failing. God freed me before I even knew He was there. It’s been over two decades since my last drink because God knew (and I know now) how close I was to becoming an alcoholic. It’s not at all surprising, considering everything. All addictions begin with a need to turn off pain.

  Then came the day when I couldn't be strong any more. It's called a "nervous breakdown" even though it's nothing to do with nerves.

  How on earth did writing about being strong end up here, Lord?

  Maybe it’s because I have a better grasp of what being strong really is. Thanks be to God for that, too.

  Strength is admitting I am not strong.

  It comes from being able to say, “I don’t feel like smiling right now.”

  It is found in the prayers to my Abba Father saying, “I have a need.”

  It’s being just fine with telling others the same thing and asking them to pray!

  Strength comes from knowing there are days when there is nothing left in the tank. Sometimes I am okay with this, sometimes not. Sometimes I get annoyed at my lack of fortitude...hah...it's a process.

  Strength is admitting I can’t do it alone.

  The old way of being strong was fostered by an inability to trust because too many people broke my trust in terrible ways. Oh…listen to this!

  It’s far better to identify trauma as a time, an event, a circumstance, when trust is broken.

 

  Wow. 

 

  It all makes sense! It’s why there was so much shock! It’s why I couldn’t cope! It’s why so many events involving people have been seared into my memory! It’s why I have PTSD! It's a why, why and why everywhere and everywhen!

  Thank You, Thank You, Thank You, Jesus!!

  A for real, gen-u-ine, ear to ear smile erupts on my face! 

  There is my greatest strength of all: trusting God, my rock and my fortress. He never fails to come through with answers to questions I didn't even know I was asking!