A Different Kind of Bully

There is a big bully attacking the body and soul of my very, very precious 12 year old. It requires sacrifice after sacrifice from her. “Give me this and this and this,” it greedily demands. She grows weary of the price it exacts from her. She is very long-suffering, but at times, she cries out, “It isn’t fair! Why me? I don’t like it!”

In these moments, my heart grows so heavy it feels like a stone is sitting on my chest. It is hard to bear. I desperately want it removed. Pressure builds behind my eyes as they are assaulted with an onslaught of unshed tears. I hold them back as I look into the pained eyes of my little girl. The corners of my mouth lift into a weak smile and reassuring words flow out. “It will be okay. I love you and others love you and we will be with you through this thing.”  The words are true and easy to speak, but the reason they are being spoken is very distressing. 

You might be thinking at this point that something needs to be done about this terrible harasser.  I agree, but there isn’t a simple solution because her foe is not a person, it is a medical condition.  This particular type of condition is very elusive. The hows and whys of its appearance and subsequent behavior remain a mystery. The kicker is that in most cases, as in hers, the culprit doesn’t appear by itself, but feels the need to bring a couple of other like-minded friends along with it - which is typical of a bully. As we all know, there is strength in numbers, which usually works to one’s advantage, but not in this case.  

Through medication, two out of three of our daughter's attackers have been subdued – not eliminated. The one that remains is a real stinker and is resisting the prescribed treatment. We as a family have had to make some very big temporary adjustments to our day-to-day routines, knowing that there is a possibility that some of these adjustments may become more permanent. As a result, other things have had to shift as well, certain mindsets, expectations, short-term vs. long-term views, to name a few. 

As I rail against this enemy, I have found that my greatest weapon is in the wonderful promises of God, which I happily share with my child. Romans 5:1-5:

 1 Therefore, having been justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, 2 through whom also we have access by faith into this grace in which we stand, and rejoice in hope of the glory of God. 3 And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; 4 and perseverance, character; and character, hope. 5 Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

We will get through this trying time. There may be a few more (or a lot more) tears and hurdles that need to be jumped, but in the meantime, we will rejoice in knowing that God is using this circumstance to create and/or refine some very wonderful things in the hearts of our family. If we as parents remain steadfast in God’s love, we will have the awesome privilege of teaching our child at a very young and impressionable age about His great faithfulness. We cling to the indication that things like compassion and empathy for others are being sown into her life now. We expect that sometime in the near future, she will be able to share about her experience, and through her experiential knowledge, bring hope into someone else’s difficult circumstance. 

I love how cathartic writing my feelings down can be. The stone has been lifted from my chest. I sincerely thank you, Lord, for your presence with me tonight and your listening ear.

Ode to a Friend

I have a new friend in my life and she is already so, so precious to me. We had shared a few short conversations over the past several years, but this year all that changed. We became more intimately involved in each other’s lives as a result of a shared experience – one that I had gone through and one that she is currently going through. Conversation after conversation took place and wondrously, we began to see that we had so much more in common than our trials.

Though we are alike in many ways, there is a distinct difference between us. She has the gift of mercy and I have the gift of prophecy. As a result, we see many situations from different perspectives. I will be quick to speak truth and she will just as quickly extend mercy. I am not saying that she doesn’t speak truth and I don’t extend mercy, but I am saying that these are our first response reactions. The difference is so apparent at times that we laugh out loud, finding humor in it. The thing we both share that helps balance out both our gifts is our desire to do all things in love.

A couple of Sundays ago, I was sitting beside this friend in church when a revelation hit my heart like a beautiful, energizing bolt of lighting. I turned to her and said, “I have to tell you something.” The power of the revelation was so strong that it took me a minute to be able to speak. Finally, I said, “You are a gift to me. You are going to teach me how to love fearlessly. ” We shared a special moment and then went our own ways. A short time later, I got a phone call from her and she said with excitement in her voice, “I know what you are teaching me.” I said, “You do?” She said, “Yes. You are teaching me how to have courageous hope.” How marvelous is this: “Tender Mercy teaching Fearless Love” meets “Lover of Truth teaching Courageous Hope.” What a pair!

I wrote this poem to honor the lovely thing God is doing in my friend and me.

The Meeting of Two Hearts

Tender shoots of Fearless Love

Stretching toward the Light above

The beating wings of a gentle dove

Deliver freedom yet dreamed of

Binding roots of Courageous Hope

Clinging to life’s most grueling slopes

Though in darkness you may grope

In God’s brightness you boldly lope

Here we have two lives intertwined

Connected by Perfect Love divine

Broken bread and poured out wine

Firming your heart, softening mine

After I wrote my poem, I found this amazing verse which sums up my thoughts perfectly.

Psalm 85:10 Mercy and truth have met together; righteousness and peace have kissed each other.

Love Offerings

During a time when light was quickly fading from my world as I descended deeper and deeper into a dungeon of despair, God gave me Jeneva.

She was a walking, talking gift of love. Without her to love and to receive love from her, I am not sure how much longer I would have been able to hold on to the lifeline that connected me to this world. One of the simple, yet profound, things that brought me joy was my frequent walks with Jeneva. I loved being outside (I have always viewed four walls as a confining environment for many good reasons) and feeling the freedom in the vastness of the space around us. Though I was not intimately relating to Jesus at that time, I now recognize that He was still there with me and was for me. This poem is a glimpse into that precious time and a thanksgiving offering to the Lord for such sustaining moments when I needed them most.

Love Offerings

Walking hand and hand, fingers entwined, feeling the smallness of your palm in mine,

Watching your eyes looking to and fro in search of a treasure worthy of your gaze,

Feeling the warmth of the sun’s rays as they rush forward to kiss the tops of our heads,

Laughing as the mischievous wind sneaks up and tickles our skin and ruffles our hair,

Pressing hard against our flesh, our souls move us toward our own private corner of the world.

Arriving, I disappear into a world of chocolate brown eyes, rosy cheeks and girlish giggles.

Exhaling, all my cares evaporate and rise into the sky to be carried away by the clouds.

Smiling, I bask in the pleasure of your small offerings of love - a rock, a flower, a leaf

And all is made right in my imperfect world.

Seeing in a Mirror Dimly

Many of my friends have recently asked me about how things are going with the writing of my life story. It brought me pleasure to know that people are interested in my story. I too have contemplated this same question, particularly since I have not approached it with any measure of purpose, i.e. pen to paper. After a few days of self-exploration, I discovered that I had been writing my story – just not in a direct way. This is the insight I believe I received from God. Because of the intimate and sometimes painful nature of many, if not most, of the parts of my story that I want to share, I have devised a way to glance at the memories, looking at them indirectly or through a mirror dimly first – gently stirring, slowly processing – through the forms of poetry, song lyrics, and memoir snippets. I am writing in my comfort zone, releasing steam from my “writing teapot,” all the while looking forward to the day I can pour out everything in its full measure.

Here are some of my writing samples. I invite you to see if you can spy the hints or arrows that point to other, greater, things to be told?

This poem, “Liberation” was written out of the memory of one of the darkest nights of my soul. It tells of one particular encounter I had with my childhood abuser – the night I decided no more. It is seeing evil through the eyes of an 11-year old.

Liberation

Evil comes to me, his face cloaked in the inky black darkness of night.

I feel his fiery breath against my cheek. I hear his crude whisperings in my ear.

I smell the sour odor of his wickedness hanging in the space between us.

He makes his demand – “Follow me” - then retreats to his hiding place.

His voice comes to me again, frightfully insistent, drawing me to him.

My pulse quickens as the icy feeling of dread courses through my veins.

For a brief moment, I am paralyzed by the notion that my fate is in his hands.

Terrified, I follow the path of his unearthly stench into a realm of perversion.

He greets me with a triumphant smile. His eyes glow with anticipation.

The breaking of my spirit and the shredding of my soul is just a game to him.

My suffering satisfies his appetite. My cries for mercy fall on deaf ears.

To resist is to invite his fury. To submit is to die a thousand deaths.

My desire for freedom valiantly battles my fear of death.

The stronghold of despair tries to silence the voice of hope.

Even so, visions of liberation flood my mind with shocking clarity.

Courage works its way into my heart. My spirit rises up within me.

Look! I dare to flee into the light holding the hand of promise.

Here is a stanza and chorus from one of the songs I wrote. It tells of an emptiness of a past life and the search for a place of belonging.

Looking at the backside of my yesterday

Trying to find my way back home

Nothing left here but forgotten thoughts

Things once learned and things once taught

(Chorus)

It’s hard to find your way back home

When you don’t know where you’re from

It’s hard to find your way back home

When no one knows where you belong

This memoir snippet tells of a literal childhood place, but I have lightened the tone a bit, that is before I drop the hint that things are not always as they seem. Many of my memoir snippets create a picture of childhood innocence that is then defiled by some unspeakable evil.

A fence surrounded my house. Not a very good one mind you. It was made from wire and wooden posts. My imagination would have it be a chain-linked fence with metal posts and a nice gate, but in my heart I know that isn’t so and, actually, I am glad. There's no character in a well-put together fence. A fence of good character needs evidence of having been climbed over dozens of times, leaning slightly here and there, toe holds a plenty, and spots sagging under the weight of blackberry vines and wild, running rose bushes.

Another thing - what is a gate that doesn’t announce one’s coming and going with a faithful creak? Rude, that’s what. No, my gate was nice and polite, greeting those that came in and speaking farewells to those that left. In addition to its role as greeter, it also served as a sentry. It alerted me to the people who were about to enter my world, giving me time to think about how I was going to respond – a warm welcome or a quick exit out the back door. Sometimes, according to who was walking through that gate, it was very important that I not be caught unaware.

I hope I have given all my friends/supporters a glimpse into my writing life. I leave you with this: I am discovering that as I approach this style of writing, one that causes me to reflect about things in my past, I often feel like an outsider looking into someone else’s life, trying to make judgments about things I really no longer feel a part of or never really understood in the first. It is a journey – this is for sure.

Is God a Meanie?

Have you ever been mad at God? I have. Over the years, He and I have had a few tussles. They usually involved me wanting Him to rescue a loved one or me out of some kind of pain and suffering and when He didn’t, I would get angry and let Him know about it. Over the last several years, I have let my defenses down; believing that my suffering cup had been filled to capacity. I had survived my own personal childhood trauma and my older daughter and I survived the trauma of divorce and custody battles and the whole family suffered as we watched my younger daughter fight for her life from a condition called “failure to thrive.” These were all incredibly painful ordeals - surely our family would be exempt from any more major trials. I was wrong. My younger daughter had yet one more trial to endure. She was diagnosed with a chronic medical condition that was not life threatening, but it could, and currently was, interfere with quality of life with regard to daily functioning.

My first reaction was to get mad at God. Sort of like, “Are you kidding? Haven’t we been through enough?” I soon realized that getting mad at God was not a very good use of my time. My emotions were getting so high that my self-protecting mechanism kicked in subduing my emotions and allowing my functioning-self to surface. My functioning-self got a lot done. Doctor appointments were made, counsel was sought, school issues were addressed, etc. This was good. It helped me not feel helpless and it was productive. Even though I felt better, I continued to pray to God because in my heart, I knew that He was the only one that could deal with the inner turmoil my daughter was going through from this very public and uncontrollable, outwardly manifesting, disorder. The anger faded and, truthfully, I went a little numb so that I could do the things I needed to do for my daughter.

Finally, after 3 long weeks of an intense situation, things began to rapidly change for the better. God did specific things for my daughter that were so unusual that it was clear to me and others that He was aware and cared about our daughter’s troubles. Here is the odd thing and the confession I want to make. The first night that it became clear that the trial was easing up, I cried. You are probably saying, “What kind of confession is this? Why is this odd? Of course you cried.” The burden our family had been carrying for those several weeks was so heavy that when the lifting came, the whole situation seemed anti-climatic to me. As quick as the trial came, it also left. (Sara is still dealing with a chronic medical issue, but the severity and life-limiting aspect of it is under control at this time.)

As I was laying in bed that first night that I realized things were turning around, out of nowhere, I began to cry. The emotions I had kept at a level that allowed me to function now came to the surface with full force with a little surprise hidden in them. I confessed to my husband that I was having a very awful thought. I was thinking that God was mean. Yes, mean. Literally, I thought it was mean of God to put us through such an intense ordeal just to lift it like it was nothing. I was thinking, “Was that really necessary God?” You might say, “What? You should be glad that it is over.” I was glad, but these were my honest feelings. I had made a promise to myself not to suppress my feelings (something I had been doing for years) and to give them a “voice” when the time was right. It was right.

My husband was so kind when I asked him what he thought about what I said. He said, “I think God can handle that.” Even so, I felt like I needed to ask for forgiveness for having such a ridiculous thought. How I could think God - my heavenly, perfect, Father, whom I loved - could be mean was beyond me; especially when I knew in my heart that it was also impossible.

As I began to pray, if was as if God put up His hand to stop me. I felt His words wash over me telling me that forgiveness was not needed because there was nothing to forgive. “How could that be?” I asked myself. He went on to impress upon me that it wasn’t needed because there was a good reason I felt the way I did. He went on to reveal the source of this line of thinking. He reminded me that, as a child, I had a father who would often threaten my life – literally saying, “I will kill you if you do …. or don't do....” or even worse, he would threaten to kill my mother For me to think that a father, even a heavenly one, could be mean and threatening to me and my loved ones was very understandable in God’s eyes and, therefore, did not require forgiveness. However, it did require healing. A few healing words of Truth from my Father and this incident was put behind us - as far as the east is from the west, but there was one more thing that He wanted to address.

While I was helping my daughter though her trial and enduring the pain of it as only a parent can, my ability to hear God’s voice was nearly impossible. There was a voice that was coming in loud and clear and it was from the enemy. He kept whispering in my ear, “I told you He could not be trusted. I told you He would pull the rug out from under you when you least expected it.” These were familiar lies I had already overcome and I recognized them as such, but the pain remained.

One night during all this turmoil, I was dreaming and a messenger came to me in the dream. His voice was competing with other voices, but I did hear him say the words, “Second Corinthians” several times. When I awoke, I intended to look up the book and see if there was something God wanted to show me. For some reason, a distraction of some sort, I did not follow through. It was a few days after this dream, on a Saturday night, that I made my confession to my husband and to God. The next day in church, as I was listening to the worship music, it occurred to me to look up Second Corinthians. This is what I found:

18 But as surely as God is faithful, our message to you is not “Yes” and “No.” 19 For the Son of God, Jesus Christ, who was preached among you by us—by me and Silas and Timothy—was not “Yes” and “No,” but in him it has always been “Yes.” 20 For no matter how many promises God has made, they are “Yes” in Christ.

This passage may or may not make sense to you, but to me understanding flooded my mind. The message was loud and clear. When the enemy comes and tells me that God is untrustworthy and unfaithful and will not do what he said he would do, it is a lie. The truth is that God does not go back and forth speaking promises and then breaking them. His yes is yes. His promises are sure. I began to ask myself, “What are the promises God has made me?” The first two that came to my mind had nothing to do with specific circumstances, such as promising me earthly riches or perfect health or that a loved one or I would not endure suffering. No, the first two promises I remember God making me are these: “I will never leave you nor forsake you” and “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” Overall, God’s promise to me is Himself. The promise is not just a heavenly promise - it is a promise for the here and now as well.

A “meanie” would never make the sacrifices that were necessary so that this promise could be fulfilled. Thank you God for your understanding and your kindness. Thank you that I was not alone in this trial even when I could not hear your voice or feel your presence. My assurance is not found in my senses. My assurance is found in who you are and my promised access to you.

Phoenix Rising

I am taking an on-line writing class called "Write Your Story." My cyber classmates are wonderful. We share our writing assignments and encourage each other along the way. Many of the stories are heartbreaking, but all of them are inspiring. For one assignment, we had to make a list of events and cultural and personal history that made a significant impact on us. One classmate's list in particular made a huge impact on me. It was so full of imagery and emotion that "poem" jumped out at me right off the page. I took her list and wrote a poem in her honor.

I sent her the poem, but I did not hear back from her. I thought, "Oh no, I have crossed personal boundaries and offended her." Then yesterday I receive a note from her. She had been out of town at a hospital helping care for her mother who has cancer. Apparently, she and her mother still have some unresolved issues and the visit just stirred all those things up. She also shared with me that she was on the verge of giving up on the class and writing her story, then she saw my poem. Quoting her:

"You have given me so much with this poem. You've shown me I do have the strength and the determination to succeed. Thank you, thank you, thank you."

This is why I write. Maybe it will speak to someone else today. I know I identified with it.

Phoenix Rising

Visible cracks appear in the foundation of my life

Insanity pushes its black, moldy head into the light of day

My emotions are bankrupt and I am left without feeling

Towering walls are ever before me, blocking my escape

A quiet mind opens the door to memories - tears flow

Hope is found in love remembered and love offered

Like a phoenix, I rise out of the ashes of my circumstances

Free to fly into the future, unfettered by the past.

A Work in Progress

Hey Everyone,

I am in the process of applying for a volunteer position with an organization called Interact. This organization provides support and services to abused and battered women and their children. Actually, this is the same organization I had to turn to many years ago when I "escaped" my first marriage and, without going into any details, trust me "escape" is the right word. My daughter and I lived in a shelter provided by Interact for 6 weeks. It is an experience we will never forget. Perhaps I will write more about that later.

Pray that I will get the position at Interact that I am going after. I am applying to be a spokesperson for them. This entails going out into the community and informing groups and organizations about the services that Interact provides and its impact on the lives they serve. Here is the website for Wake county (NC) if you want to visit it: http://www.interactofwake.org/

After researching Interact's website and reading/watching some of their Facebook posts, I was inspired to write the following poem. It is a mixture of what I actually endured, thoughts, feelings, experiences, and what I have seen others endure. I am posting 3 stages of this poem. I thought someone might like to see how I end up with some of my poems - an inside peek into a writer's world. Much of my writing comes like a direct download and I make few changes, but some writing I ponder and change a lot to find just the right feel. I would be curious to hear from you what you think about the process and which version of this poem spoke to you the most.

Blessings!

Carol

#1

The Answer Revealed

Broken bones and battered flesh

Pain running through my veins

Fear inhabiting my every thought

A walking prisoner in a free world

Where do I go from here?

Stretching forth my hand for rescue

Finding nothingness for my effort

Trust a shadow in the recesses of my soul

Freedom a fantasy of biblical proportions

Where do I seek refuge?

Numbness slowing infiltrating my heart

Death methodically encroaching on living tissue

The light of my spirit ever losing ground

Existence melting into a pool of lost identity

Where is life to be found?

A spark of desire for something more

Pursuing the elusive gift of purpose

Yearnings for a destiny unveiled

Whisperings of potential and possibilities

Where can I be known?

Drawn out by a beautiful song of hope

Uncertainty crushed by the power of faith

Seized by love in its perfect form

Jesus, Son of Man and God

My answer revealed

#2

My Questions Answered

I am broken bones and battered flesh

Red-hot pain courses through my veins

All consuming fear inhabits my every thought

A prisoner in a world void of meaning

Where do I go from here?

I have been taken captive by lies and circumstances

Desperately searching for a way out of this dark pit

The gravitational pull of uncertainty is too strong

Trust remains a shadow hidden in the recesses of my soul

How do I escape this place?

Numbness slowly infiltrates the chambers of my heart

Death methodically encroaches on my right to live

The light of my spirit is losing ground inch by inch

My existence is melting into a pool of lost identity

Who will save me?

Dormant desires for significance flare up within me

Fanned by the whisperings of potential and possibilities

Yearnings for a destiny fulfilled are suddenly birthed

Pursuit for the elusive understanding of purpose ensues

What now?

The song of the Master restores my empty hope

My inhibitions are crushed beneath His dancing feet

Liberation comes to me through His perfect love

My questions are answered

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…

#3

The Captive Set Free

Flesh battered and bruised

Veins full of red-hot pain

Thoughts infected by fear

Fighting for survival

A heart crushed by despair

A soul numbed by hopelessness

A spirit robbed of joy

An identity long forgotten

Restrained by lies and circumstances

Desperately searching for liberation

Uncertainty a constant companion

Confidence a figment of the imagination

Yet, in the heat of battle, I remember…

Dormant desires flare up

Yearnings for destiny ignite

Whisperings of possibilities erupt

Purpose looms on the horizon

The heavenly Master sings a song of deliverance

Shackles are crushed beneath His dancing feet

Escape comes through His perfect love

Jesus, Jesus, Jesus…