A few months ago, in the too-tight back room of Starbucks, after a hectic night of slinging coffee, a co-worker guy asked me, "So, what's your secret? Like, how is it possible to stay happy all the time?"
Somehow, I have this reputation for being happy.
all. the. time.
I am not sure how I got this. I am definitely sure I don't deserve it. But somehow, some way, Jesus is shining through despite the one thousand ways I could screw it up.
I stared at him for a minute before responding, trying to decide if he was serious (he was) and if that even mattered (it didn't) because I wanted to give my answer either way.
I could have gotten all spiritual. I could have. But I know a lot of spiritual people that are stiff Crabbies, with a heart of granite, and when they give you an answer about something, you walk away feeling a little bit like you left the twilight zone. Something got missed. An interpersonal connection did not happen even though there is the distinct feeling it should have. And honestly, I think he kind of expected that answer from me. So I dug a little deeper - past all the pat answers that can be found in the Christian 101 handbook, past all the cliches that get memorized and flung across relationships more than actual Jesus words do, and I got real instead.
My answer was simple. Just three words.
A grateful heart.
He repeated it back to me but when he did, he said it a little loud and a little slow, like I was suddenly not speaking English. Like he couldn't believe that was the best I could do. A grateful heart??
Yes.
Look around. Look every day and notice all the really rad things that are happening in life because they are there, and when you see them, when you really let them capture you and you soak yourself in it, the gratefulness lifts you and there's just not any space to be anything but happy.
Pretty good stuff.
right?
I woke up this morning and turned 38.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be.
I woke up this morning and turned 38 without a grateful heart and went to make coffee in my kitchen that does not work and saw balloons and roses with a card surrounded by nails and dust and empty spaces where sinks and drawers should be and instead of reading the card my sweet husband gave me,
instead of smelling the roses ripe and red,
instead of smiling up at balloons that bounced,
I stood in my kitchen and did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do.
I began to cry.
It wasn't anything dramatic. No wailing. No snot. No red face. Just a few silent tears that zigzagged around my 38 year old eye crinkles, and before I could erase them from my face, before I could take a breath and stop feeling sorry for myself,
my husband saw,
and just like my tears fell to the floor, I saw his heart drop from his face.
And I did what anyone with an ungrateful heart would do,
I walked away.
Too consumed with myself to give any grace, any kindness. And I left him in the kitchen that does not work, alone, staring at the balloons, and the roses, and the card I had not opened.
I. know.
I am definitely not the hero in this story.
Thank God we take turns at loving each other best.
Thank God it's Sunday and I was headed to church to get smothered in some Jesus.
Thank God when Jeff and I stood singing and I grabbed his hand,
ashamedashamedashamed
he grabbed mine right back and squeezed. Hard.
Thank God I was reminded of the power of a grateful heart.
I am now sitting on my couch, with my feet up on my office chair, surrounded by drawers and cabinets wrapped in plastic, my dishes piled next to the bathroom sink, pictures of all whom I love are covered in dust, and my food is somewhere in a box in the garage, along with a dustpan I cannot seem to find to scrape up all the dirt I swept but has no place to go.
Yesterday this made me angry. Two days ago - angry. Three days ago - the thought of it - angry.
But today, my windows are open and I feel the breeze on my skin. I can hear the birds, chirping and squawking and making more noise than I have ever noticed before. I see green trees in my window. A metal cross my husband made for me hangs on my wall.
And I am relaxed.
I am texting my daughter, who still calls me "Mommy", who is somewhere near Alaska, about birthday tattoos and secret Starbucks frappacino recipes. My other daughter honored me on Facebook - which is pretty much equivalent to a billboard rental over the freeway, so yeah, my kid is cooler than yours and I am officially cooler than you. For now. I ate lunch with my son who made me laugh so hard I snorted. My husband is currently making the sink work in our kitchen, but earlier he stood behind me in the bathroom and kissed my neck and whispered into my ear that has a giant, scabby, mosquito bite on it making it hideously unsexy, how much he loves me and how beautiful I am.
I am blessed. I am rich in all of this goodness, all of this life that has been so graciously given to me.
I am grateful for the reminder ...
I can see it
or
I can not see it.
My heart will beat either way. But it beats better when it beats grateful.
May 18, 2014
May 9, 2014
highhighhigh and higher still
I got saved in a Pentecostal church. I know - that sounds very Christian-y doesn't it? What does that even mean?? It means I met Jesus and decided yes, I am a sinner, yes, I need forgiveness, yes, I am going to go ahead and ask him for it, yes, I am going to ask him to change me from the inside out. And I did this in a church where I heard people talk in words that were not words and they sounded like crazies, in a place where people clapped and sometimes shouted "Wooo Jesus!!! Oh my Jesus!" and then danced, in a place where people would shake and fall to the floor and others would walk by and lay a blanket over the legs of the ladies so they wouldn't accidentally show their stuff when they got back up again.
it was weird. and scary. and i used to just watch. i would scan with my eyes and pick out the people i was sure were faking it. at first it would bother me but now i think, so what? So what if they wanted something to happen so much, if they thought they needed it so bad, they cried and flapped their hands and dropped to the floor themselves?
There are worse things.
I would talk to my friends that experienced all this weird stuff and those that didn't. I thought it was cool we could just sit in the same place with Jesus, together.
And then one day it happened to me. I got laid out. I felt this thing, surge through me so hard, my body could not remain still. I cried. This is not unusual. I almost always cry when I worship God. It's my way. But the rest? The rest was not my way.
And i fought it.
There was no way I wanted to fall to the ground. I didn't want someone to walk by and cover me with a sheet. I didn't want anyone to look at me and wonder, is she faking? Is that girl for real?
And then I went down. I laid there, pulsing and shining with .... God. And I didn't care anymore who saw me or what they thought or if i looked awkward laying there or if I sounded like a freak show with all this weird stuff coming out of my mouth. All i knew was I was being immersed in Him. dunked to the core, and I thought to myself - this is what people who get high try to feel. And I'm getting it from God!
And then, a few years later, a lot of bad stuff happened. My life crumbled apart. Not only did I not feel God anymore, but I was pretty convinced He had left me hanging, and so I did what a lot of people do when they feel like God has stopped listening to them.
I tried my hardest to self-destruct.
Some people believe in Karma. I don't think so. Karma says you get what you deserve. And although I believe completely what you put out there comes back around a lot, I also know, mercy and grace beats out what we deserve
every
single
day.
Because most of us are a-holes. Some of us are recovering a-holes and so it only comes out every now and then. Some of us try really hard to beat the a-hole inside of us down and we pushpushpushpush, but eventually it springs back up and punches us, and that other person that knocked on your sleeping a-hole's door and woke her up, in the face. The trick is to look at the inner a-hole - eye to eye. Don't pretend she's not there. Acknowledge her. And then lift her up.
highighhigh higher still.
And just say, "Ok God, I'm not sure why you want this a-hole but I'm giving her to you". And you know what?
This makes God's heart beat faster. He loves this stuff.
The key is to do this
every
single
day
His mercies are new every morning. That's 24 hours peeps. Some of us need new mercies every five minutes. That's cool too. Lift up that a-hole however many times you need to. God never refuses to take more.
So I found myself at church last night. Well, that sounds funny right? I didn't find myself there. I went there purposefully with my husband. There is a conference going on about the moving of the Holy Spirit and we wanted to check it out. My husband is fascinated by healings. I am wary of them. My husband prays in tongues all the time. I do it rarely. He hears stories of people being healed, falling in the spirit, demons coming out, and his face lights up. I hear the same stories and my face closes up.
Obviously we are not on the same page as we walk inside. Honestly. I wasn't even sure why I agreed to go.
Before I continue, some of you are thinking, "oh here she goes. Now she's going to say God laid her out and everything is sunshine and butterflies".
Nope. Just so we're clear.
I love worship. I love the music, all the voices rising together, everyone in one place focused on the same thing - Jesus. It is so beautiful to me. And so I cry.
I'm crying, singing, hands up ... and the worship leader says something about "wanting more from God". You know, believing God has more, desiring to get more, being open to all God wants to do in your life. And i thought to myself,
"When did I stop wanting more?"
And my mouth went a little dry.
And just like i try to give God my a-hole every day, I think it's pretty important to give him all my not very Jesus-like, good religious girl thoughts, as well. And so I lifted it straight up. I mean, He already knows I thought it. I don't really say much when I give it to Him, just toss that sucker in the air.
Worship ends and this visiting preacher starts speaking. I was tense. I expected not to like him. I expected him to rant and rave and shout and flail his arms around, trying his dang-est to convince us all God was going to do miracles last night.
He didn't do that.
He was the opposite. Mellow. Funny. Honest in his short-comings. And I felt myself relax, heard myself laugh, and I thought to myself, "Ok God. I'm listening."
God really likes that. When we listen.
It was towards the end, when I began to get sleepy and my legs were cramping, when my heart was shot. People were standing up and getting prayed for and walking to the front and talking into the microphone about how God had just healed them. Like in that minute, that five minutes. I felt my eyes narrow. I am sure my face said, "Skeptic"! Because I was. And then the preacher said something, said something about a woman being healed who wasn't expecting it and another woman that was healed who was. God does whatever he wants. He can heal. Or not. He can heal those that love him. And those that don't.
He's God. He gets to choose. But if you can, expect. If you are open to it, expect. If you want it, expect. That doesn't mean what you are asking for will happen, but something will. Expect something from God.
I was caught up though, not in the healing or the not healing, I was tangled up in the word "expectation."
I thought of all the things in my life I had expected.
I expected to have a mother that protected me.
I expected to have a father that didn't leave me.
I expected to have a grandfather that didn't take my clothes off.
I expected to have a family that I could count on.
I expected to have a husband that kept his vows.
I expected to have a valentine's day with love and chocolates and flowers.
I expected to have a romantic dinner with conversation.
I expected to have a marriage that didn't fall apart.
I expected to have friends that didn't turn their back on me.
I expected to have a church that would lift me up and help me keep moving forward.
I expected a lot of things. And every single one of these expectations left me feeling ripped apart and shattered. Not one of them came true.
I began to cry a little in the car when Jeff and I left. You see, Jeff's face glowed with expectation. He was like a kid on his birthday, just knowing, something good was going to happen.
I knew my face didn't shine the same way. Or at all. My heart hurt.
I looked at Jeff and said, "How am I supposed to learn... how i can allow myself the luxury of expectations when my whole life has taught me to never expect anything but ... disappointment?" I almost couldn't get the last word out. The raw clutched my throat in a fist.
It was awful. It was beautiful too.
God can do anything. I know this. He can heal us all up ... or he can let us recover slowly. Or sometimes, we don't heal completely or at all, not in our bodies. Not the way we may ask for it.
It's our insides that matter. Our soul stuff.
So I'll take it. The awful and the beautiful and the raw.
I'm going to lift it up
highhighhigh and
higher still
and expect him take it from me.
it was weird. and scary. and i used to just watch. i would scan with my eyes and pick out the people i was sure were faking it. at first it would bother me but now i think, so what? So what if they wanted something to happen so much, if they thought they needed it so bad, they cried and flapped their hands and dropped to the floor themselves?
There are worse things.
I would talk to my friends that experienced all this weird stuff and those that didn't. I thought it was cool we could just sit in the same place with Jesus, together.
And then one day it happened to me. I got laid out. I felt this thing, surge through me so hard, my body could not remain still. I cried. This is not unusual. I almost always cry when I worship God. It's my way. But the rest? The rest was not my way.
And i fought it.
There was no way I wanted to fall to the ground. I didn't want someone to walk by and cover me with a sheet. I didn't want anyone to look at me and wonder, is she faking? Is that girl for real?
And then I went down. I laid there, pulsing and shining with .... God. And I didn't care anymore who saw me or what they thought or if i looked awkward laying there or if I sounded like a freak show with all this weird stuff coming out of my mouth. All i knew was I was being immersed in Him. dunked to the core, and I thought to myself - this is what people who get high try to feel. And I'm getting it from God!
And then, a few years later, a lot of bad stuff happened. My life crumbled apart. Not only did I not feel God anymore, but I was pretty convinced He had left me hanging, and so I did what a lot of people do when they feel like God has stopped listening to them.
I tried my hardest to self-destruct.
Some people believe in Karma. I don't think so. Karma says you get what you deserve. And although I believe completely what you put out there comes back around a lot, I also know, mercy and grace beats out what we deserve
every
single
day.
Because most of us are a-holes. Some of us are recovering a-holes and so it only comes out every now and then. Some of us try really hard to beat the a-hole inside of us down and we pushpushpushpush, but eventually it springs back up and punches us, and that other person that knocked on your sleeping a-hole's door and woke her up, in the face. The trick is to look at the inner a-hole - eye to eye. Don't pretend she's not there. Acknowledge her. And then lift her up.
highighhigh higher still.
And just say, "Ok God, I'm not sure why you want this a-hole but I'm giving her to you". And you know what?
This makes God's heart beat faster. He loves this stuff.
The key is to do this
every
single
day
His mercies are new every morning. That's 24 hours peeps. Some of us need new mercies every five minutes. That's cool too. Lift up that a-hole however many times you need to. God never refuses to take more.
So I found myself at church last night. Well, that sounds funny right? I didn't find myself there. I went there purposefully with my husband. There is a conference going on about the moving of the Holy Spirit and we wanted to check it out. My husband is fascinated by healings. I am wary of them. My husband prays in tongues all the time. I do it rarely. He hears stories of people being healed, falling in the spirit, demons coming out, and his face lights up. I hear the same stories and my face closes up.
Obviously we are not on the same page as we walk inside. Honestly. I wasn't even sure why I agreed to go.
Before I continue, some of you are thinking, "oh here she goes. Now she's going to say God laid her out and everything is sunshine and butterflies".
Nope. Just so we're clear.
I love worship. I love the music, all the voices rising together, everyone in one place focused on the same thing - Jesus. It is so beautiful to me. And so I cry.
I'm crying, singing, hands up ... and the worship leader says something about "wanting more from God". You know, believing God has more, desiring to get more, being open to all God wants to do in your life. And i thought to myself,
"When did I stop wanting more?"
And my mouth went a little dry.
And just like i try to give God my a-hole every day, I think it's pretty important to give him all my not very Jesus-like, good religious girl thoughts, as well. And so I lifted it straight up. I mean, He already knows I thought it. I don't really say much when I give it to Him, just toss that sucker in the air.
Worship ends and this visiting preacher starts speaking. I was tense. I expected not to like him. I expected him to rant and rave and shout and flail his arms around, trying his dang-est to convince us all God was going to do miracles last night.
He didn't do that.
He was the opposite. Mellow. Funny. Honest in his short-comings. And I felt myself relax, heard myself laugh, and I thought to myself, "Ok God. I'm listening."
God really likes that. When we listen.
It was towards the end, when I began to get sleepy and my legs were cramping, when my heart was shot. People were standing up and getting prayed for and walking to the front and talking into the microphone about how God had just healed them. Like in that minute, that five minutes. I felt my eyes narrow. I am sure my face said, "Skeptic"! Because I was. And then the preacher said something, said something about a woman being healed who wasn't expecting it and another woman that was healed who was. God does whatever he wants. He can heal. Or not. He can heal those that love him. And those that don't.
He's God. He gets to choose. But if you can, expect. If you are open to it, expect. If you want it, expect. That doesn't mean what you are asking for will happen, but something will. Expect something from God.
I was caught up though, not in the healing or the not healing, I was tangled up in the word "expectation."
I thought of all the things in my life I had expected.
I expected to have a mother that protected me.
I expected to have a father that didn't leave me.
I expected to have a grandfather that didn't take my clothes off.
I expected to have a family that I could count on.
I expected to have a husband that kept his vows.
I expected to have a valentine's day with love and chocolates and flowers.
I expected to have a romantic dinner with conversation.
I expected to have a marriage that didn't fall apart.
I expected to have friends that didn't turn their back on me.
I expected to have a church that would lift me up and help me keep moving forward.
I expected a lot of things. And every single one of these expectations left me feeling ripped apart and shattered. Not one of them came true.
I began to cry a little in the car when Jeff and I left. You see, Jeff's face glowed with expectation. He was like a kid on his birthday, just knowing, something good was going to happen.
I knew my face didn't shine the same way. Or at all. My heart hurt.
I looked at Jeff and said, "How am I supposed to learn... how i can allow myself the luxury of expectations when my whole life has taught me to never expect anything but ... disappointment?" I almost couldn't get the last word out. The raw clutched my throat in a fist.
It was awful. It was beautiful too.
God can do anything. I know this. He can heal us all up ... or he can let us recover slowly. Or sometimes, we don't heal completely or at all, not in our bodies. Not the way we may ask for it.
It's our insides that matter. Our soul stuff.
So I'll take it. The awful and the beautiful and the raw.
I'm going to lift it up
highhighhigh and
higher still
and expect him take it from me.
May 6, 2014
the dread
I always knew when my life was going to drop out. I knew something bad was coming. I could feel it in my bones, moving, like a living thing. It crept into my joints and twisted my guts, making me feel nauseous and clammy, like I had eaten bad cheese, or smoked really bad pot. This, this thing, this sense, this awareness ... It haunts and lives in the corner of your eye, yes?
No matter how hard you try to focus, to pinpoint, no matter how fast you turn your head to try and catch it, you cannot. You can't see it plain. Not until it's on top of you. Not until it has knocked all your breath out with a hard kick to the soft spot in your belly.
You lean over.
You pant. You gasp.
And when you straighten to see what it is,
it's not a surprise.
Because you knew something
something
was on its way. You just didn't know it's name or how it would introduce itself at your door. Would it knock?
No. Of course not.
These things don't knock
or ring door bells.
They don't call first to see if you're busy, to see if your life is going oh so well and maybe we should do this at another time.
oh no
They huff and they puff and they
blow your house
down.
And it leaves you standing there, with dust and broken 2x4's and screws and nails with the names PROMISE and HOPE written on them but they are on the floor, they are buried, and you are standing
alone.
The screaming in your head and the shredding of your heart slams against the silence of your home, your room, your bed, your expectations of the future. The silence opens wide, wider, and swallows it all.
whole.
and in pieces.
No matter how hard you try to focus, to pinpoint, no matter how fast you turn your head to try and catch it, you cannot. You can't see it plain. Not until it's on top of you. Not until it has knocked all your breath out with a hard kick to the soft spot in your belly.
You lean over.
You pant. You gasp.
And when you straighten to see what it is,
it's not a surprise.
Because you knew something
something
was on its way. You just didn't know it's name or how it would introduce itself at your door. Would it knock?
No. Of course not.
These things don't knock
or ring door bells.
They don't call first to see if you're busy, to see if your life is going oh so well and maybe we should do this at another time.
oh no
They huff and they puff and they
blow your house
down.
And it leaves you standing there, with dust and broken 2x4's and screws and nails with the names PROMISE and HOPE written on them but they are on the floor, they are buried, and you are standing
alone.
The screaming in your head and the shredding of your heart slams against the silence of your home, your room, your bed, your expectations of the future. The silence opens wide, wider, and swallows it all.
whole.
and in pieces.
May 1, 2014
Clump of dirt
When I visit my mom, we smoke. She lights up a fat cigar and I suck on a camel. I always make sure I have a fresh pack, because by the time I leave they are almost gone. It is not weird to smoke with my mom. Sometimes I wonder what we would do with our hands if we didn't.
Together.
Would we cry? Would we scream? Would we drown inside it all? Or would we laugh until the crazy left us? I am not sure. But when we talk and swap stories, sometimes the words are so heavy, it is the drag that lifts us back up, gives us the pause to catch our breath, and enables us to keep going. This will not be the case forever. But for now, I have given myself a break and I will take it as it is. Until we are ready.
I sat with mom just a week ago on her back porch. The sun warmed us as the ocean air breathed over us. For five hours we sat. Together. Giving and taking strength - comfort. We talked about the monster and how everyone celebrated him. How they cried in sadness and eulogized his life. I shook my head at how blind people choose to be, unable or unwilling to pull the covers back and see what really is. Was.
It was always my plan to go. I wanted to see him dead. I wanted to watch the dirt fall and bury him. I always pictured that with each clump that fell and sealed him under, it would in turn release me. I wanted them to see me, see how unbroken I am. I wanted them to look into my face and remember, remember how they forgot about me, how they pushed me aside, how they failed a little girl and left her to fend for herself. I wanted them to know that the truth is still here and no matter how many miles separate us, the horror of it all will always bind us together in a way distance can never separate.
But I did not go. And my mom did not ask me to.
I have another Grandpa, a real one. One that loved me. One that took me to Padres games. One that told me stories while he smoked his pipe. One that had few words but would nod his head and tell me, "You've done real good, Shannon. Real good. I'm proud of you." One that wasn't sure if it was ok to hug me when I came back to California at nine years old, traumatized and soul broken. One that called me once he had moved to Missouri to tell me he was saved now and he had kept the letter I had written him, telling him about Jesus. One that I wasn't afraid to have my kids know. He was a good Grandpa. The best. He died this past year and I couldn't go. The reasons are many and life, but I was so sad to not be there. To honor him. To show respect for him and all he has done, all he has given.
How could I not go to the funeral of the grandpa I loved and go to the funeral of the one I hated most of my life? The irony of it hit me hard in the gut and I knew I could not do it. I would not give the monster that honor. I refused my presence in his life. I would refuse it also in his death.
My mom told me later how glad she was I was not there, even though she had been so close to asking me to go with her. "I don't think you could have stood it," she said quietly. "I could barely stand it. It made me sick.... You would have been SO angry.I thought about getting up and saying something, telling everyone there who he really was ... but I didn't have the balls." She looked up at me, from her cigar and the sun, "But you would have."
And in that moment she gave me a little piece, a clump of dirt, and my soul moved up. Just a tiny bit higher.
Together.
Would we cry? Would we scream? Would we drown inside it all? Or would we laugh until the crazy left us? I am not sure. But when we talk and swap stories, sometimes the words are so heavy, it is the drag that lifts us back up, gives us the pause to catch our breath, and enables us to keep going. This will not be the case forever. But for now, I have given myself a break and I will take it as it is. Until we are ready.
I sat with mom just a week ago on her back porch. The sun warmed us as the ocean air breathed over us. For five hours we sat. Together. Giving and taking strength - comfort. We talked about the monster and how everyone celebrated him. How they cried in sadness and eulogized his life. I shook my head at how blind people choose to be, unable or unwilling to pull the covers back and see what really is. Was.
It was always my plan to go. I wanted to see him dead. I wanted to watch the dirt fall and bury him. I always pictured that with each clump that fell and sealed him under, it would in turn release me. I wanted them to see me, see how unbroken I am. I wanted them to look into my face and remember, remember how they forgot about me, how they pushed me aside, how they failed a little girl and left her to fend for herself. I wanted them to know that the truth is still here and no matter how many miles separate us, the horror of it all will always bind us together in a way distance can never separate.
But I did not go. And my mom did not ask me to.
I have another Grandpa, a real one. One that loved me. One that took me to Padres games. One that told me stories while he smoked his pipe. One that had few words but would nod his head and tell me, "You've done real good, Shannon. Real good. I'm proud of you." One that wasn't sure if it was ok to hug me when I came back to California at nine years old, traumatized and soul broken. One that called me once he had moved to Missouri to tell me he was saved now and he had kept the letter I had written him, telling him about Jesus. One that I wasn't afraid to have my kids know. He was a good Grandpa. The best. He died this past year and I couldn't go. The reasons are many and life, but I was so sad to not be there. To honor him. To show respect for him and all he has done, all he has given.
How could I not go to the funeral of the grandpa I loved and go to the funeral of the one I hated most of my life? The irony of it hit me hard in the gut and I knew I could not do it. I would not give the monster that honor. I refused my presence in his life. I would refuse it also in his death.
My mom told me later how glad she was I was not there, even though she had been so close to asking me to go with her. "I don't think you could have stood it," she said quietly. "I could barely stand it. It made me sick.... You would have been SO angry.I thought about getting up and saying something, telling everyone there who he really was ... but I didn't have the balls." She looked up at me, from her cigar and the sun, "But you would have."
And in that moment she gave me a little piece, a clump of dirt, and my soul moved up. Just a tiny bit higher.
Apr 27, 2014
Where did all the good grandpa's go?
This is not the original post I intended to write. For two days I have hammered out consonants and vowels, explanation points and long periods but something, something was just
off.
I felt muddy. And like I couldn't see clearly. So I took a deep breathe this morning, hit "save as draft" and took a shower.
Wouldn't you know it? While shampooing my hair all these thoughts and and complete sentences flowed in and out and I thought, "Wait a minute! I can't even write this down.... should i get a tape recorded for the bathroom?"
I mean, come on. Should I?
Because I have to be honest, some I have forgotten and the more I try to piece it together the more I feel like I'm trying to herd a field of cats, so instead, I wiped the page clean.
and here we are.
I like do overs. I think they are pretty rad.
So here we go, I'm just going to let it fly.
My monster died last month. He had a name and a title. But I never use it for him. Just thinking it makes me want to hock a loogie the size of my fist into the ground and then poop on it. Or dance in a graveyard wearing a white dress.
I won't do this though. I don't poop outside and I don't wear dresses.
Instead I will write and I will attempt to rid myself of the junk and maybe, just maybe, help someone else get through the same thing. I mean, one in five ya'll.
That's a fact.
A woman every two minutes. 60% go unreported. So, I'm not a math genius or anything but one in 5 is keeping it on the low side. There's a lot of us walking around out here.
The sexually assaulted. The raped. The molested.
We're breathing, singing in our cars, taking our kids to Chuck E Cheese, filling our gas tanks, hiking up a mountain, sitting in church, and trying real hard to have good sex with our husbands without freaking out because all of a sudden we get so damn scared, and then it's not our husband kissing us anymore.
A lot of survivors. Even more victims.
And some, some, are forced to see their abuser
every
single
day.
They smile, and hug, and go to restaurants,
pretending
it's all ok.
A big high-five to all ya'll that do that for one reason or another. It's a bravery I do not have. I prefer the confrontational kind. But this kind, it takes a different sort of strength to keep moving in dignity and quiet while someone constantly tries to break you with whispers that no one else can hear. I shed tears for you. In applause, not pity.
my sisters, my sisters.
So yes, he's dead.
Finally.
And maybe you can detect a little bit of flippancy here, a tiny fraction of anger as I type? I've got some stuff to work out.
This I know.
But not with all the details. I don't want to get stuck. Freedom is calling. So I am going to post an essay I wrote a little bit back. Just so we're all on the same page and we are clear on who the monster is.
In case any of my family reads this, I imagine you are getting a little excited, a little red-faced concerning all the dirty secrets I'm letting out because "ding dong the monsters' dead" is playing a tune in my brain.
Please. (I'm smiling)
Let me assure you. (My smile is growing)
I let it out (yes?)
a long time ago. (biggest smile ever breaking my face wide open. Can you see it?)
I did it (spilled the beans, lifted the rug, threw poop into the fan)
To my coaches in juvenile hall.
On the internet.
To my therapist.
To my husband.
And my ex-husband.
My kids know.
My friends know.
My church knows.
Women I meet for the first time find out when I hug them and pray with them and tell them...
you don't have to be stuck. don't give him that power. you are free. break free. live your life and be happy. God's gonna get em'. Cross my heart, girl.
Cross
My
patchworked, duct-taped, dragged on the ground, held together with toothpicks and Jesus mercy,
Heart.
God knows. I mean, seriously, ok? GOD. KNOWS.
Beat that.
So here it is. My story. Well, a small portion of it anyway. I saved myself in this one. It is the only time I was able to.
Small…and Slightly Bigger
She was eight when this all went down.
Eight is very small.
She wore her hair in pigtails then. It was long. She’d dress up and walk really fast in her purple plastic high heel shoes so she could hear them click, click, click, just like pretty grown –up ladies. She had a lot of Barbies and a 3-story Barbie Dream house. It was pink and white with an elevator. She loved Strawberry Shortcake more than anything. Her Grammy made her all the dolls and for Christmas one year, she got the record. She would put headphones on and sing at the top of her lungs in the living room… “Ice cream! And my name is Sugar… and I love all the flavors of the world. I like chocolate and vanilla and mocha…”
She used to fish with her Grandpa.
Tucked inside in the dark, knees to her chin, eyes squeezed shut, she hides. She doesn't like the dark much. Bad things happen here, in bedrooms with heavy tapestry curtains that block out all the light and muffle the voice. The bed is too high for her and so she must pull on the blankets and climb up, work her way towards what makes her stare at the ceiling and dream of butterfly cocoons and blue skies that let her float and fly free… far away from here. This room smells like her Grammy; feminine, vanilla, and glamorous. But it sounds like him; old, out of breath, and monster. Where did all the good grandpa’s go?
Her Grammy would read her bible stories at night. Her favorite was Noah and the ark and the rainbow. She loved the rainbow! A multi-colored sticky-note from God. His promise the sun would come back.
She wished everyone would keep their promises the way God did.
She loved snuggling up to her Grammy, she was alabaster and soft, a satin shirt pillow with pink lipstick. She was fascinated by her. She was so different from her own mother who blended in with everyone else that wore bell-bottoms and long hair parted in the middle. Mother was plain. Grammy was a movie star. She would always call her “Darling" but she would say it all southern and draggy and high-pitched, "Daaahhh-ling!", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh so hard and deep her breasts would bounce all over while her belly danced along. She was Marilyn Monroe but better. She was hers.
And she loved her so.
Eight is very small. Very small indeed.
The house she lived in with them and her mother was two stories and brick. White pillars stood tall and grand in the front. The backyard was big with a garden, and a lone oak tree held a homemade swing of rope and boards. There was a birdbath. And anthills. The first time she saw them they made her think of California. She smiled and pushed both hands in all the way up to her elbows so she could smell the salt and feel sand run out of her fingers. But it wasn’t sand and the tiny dots of red fire curled all over her arms in angry protest and she screamed and screamed until her mom came running out of the house to save her.
While she stared at her mom with the remnants of the anthill demolition on her hands and a dirty face of streaked tears; her mom told her she had to be careful with what she touched; things weren’t always what they seemed.
She didn’t know until later her mom wasn’t just talking about ants.
She didn’t know until later her mom would not save her ever again.
This is where she lived. In a house seen normal. In a house others would envy. He was IMPORTANT. Everyone knew him. People at the City. People at the Church. The girls at the school where he worked. But it wasn't normal. It was nightmares and secrets and dark; full of pretend love and make-believe smiles.
She wasn't the only one the monster came after.
She’s just the only one that wanted to leave.
He would whisper to her, in the dark, “this is our secret. You can’t ever tell. I’m just protecting you now.. ‘cause if you tell.. they ain’t gonna believe you. And they gonna be real mad.” Sometimes she would ask why, why would they be mad at her? And he would smile.. and he would kiss her on the lips… and he would say, “because good little girls don’t do these kinds of things.” Sometimes she would cry but not very often because if she did, he would put a pillow over her head.
But she did tell, a lot of days and too many naps later, she blurted it out when she was standing next to her Barbie dream house, still dripping from the shower and wrapped in a towel. Her mom was yelling at her about something else, something small. “Mommy¸ grandpa’s touching me... down there.” Her mom stared... stuck with her arms mid-air and a mouth that moved but no words came out. She doesn’t remember when her mom walked out of the room and didn’t hug her or when she got dressed or how they got to the living room where he sat crying… and Grammy was crying and clutching her bible and sometimes she would yell out, “Jesus Frank! How could you do this?”… and his other daughters were yelling too but not at him, at her… And he was right. They didn’t believe her. They were real mad. They called her bad girl names.
bitch. liar. whore.
I left. I only went back once.
Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.
But for me, it was big enough.
My Grammy wasn’t supposed to leave me alone. That was the agreement. I would have someone with me at all times. But the phone rang. Someone called in sick. Now she was showering, blow drying her red hair, putting on her pink lipstick… while I waited, my blue eyes watched her and my tongue was stuck inside my throat.
It made no difference to speak.
She turned to me as she grabbed her purse, “It’s only for a few hours honey. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You two have fun now and Grammy will be back.” Then she was gone.
I stood at the bedroom door staring at the spot Grammy no longer was. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I could hear the blood moving through my veins like cars on a freeway going too fast too fast. My eyes blinked.
Who would help me?
I could feel him staring at me from the couch where he sat. He said my name. I looked at him. I did not smile. I did not make any noise.
“Don’t be scared of me. Please.” He looks down at the floor, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I stare at the wisps of gray on his balding head. He looks back at me. He is starting to cry on the couch. His bloated belly hangs over his pants, pulling his shirt tight. “I’m not like that anymore. Please don’t look at me like that. Just come here. Come. Sit.” And he pats his fat old man knee.
My brain has exploded. I can’t hear the words in my own head because it is so loud. I don’t know what to do. He is crying. (liarliarliarliarliarliar) He is old. (liarliarliarliarliar) It’s been three years. (liarliarliarliarliar) Maybe he is… different? (nononononononono)
I walked over to him.
I sat on his knee.
“See there, it’s ok.” He smiles. He pats my knee that is covered by jeans. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I will never hurt you.” And then he did. Just that quick.
I felt his hand go up my shirt, brush my belly, and squeeze my nipple. I was numb. I was dead. I didn't say no. I didn’t beg or cry or scream. It really is my fault, I thought. I sat on his knee. I am a whore. I asked for it. Just like they said.
stupidstupidstupidstupid
And then he put his tongue IN. MY. MOUTH.
It was then that I saw her. In the dark. Eight. But she looked different. Her eyes were not squeezed shut. Instead they were wide open and blazing and fierce. Her face was wet but it wasn’t fear leaking out of her eyes.
It was anger.
And it was hate.
And it was BIG.
She screamed at me. "GET. UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he was the same. You knew it! Don't just sit there. GET UP!! You are not 8! Fight him! WE are not 8!"
And then the whisper.
"No one else will help you."
I knew she was right.
I whipped my head back and jumped away from him, even as he tried to grab me back down. Into the kitchen I ran, looking behind me to see where he was, and turning back to snatch what I was looking for.
I grabbed a knife.
It was a very big knife.
Just the kind of knife a girl at eleven may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.
I held it in front of me and we did not shake. We did not cry. We did not stutter. We pointed it at him. He stopped walking and watched us from across the kitchen.
I spoke quiet and bold, pushing the fear down and letting the hate rise up.. into my heart, into my blood, into my hands.
My fingers clutched the knife.
“I will kill you if you come near me ever, ever again.” He flinched.
And he did not move. He knew that we meant it.
off.
I felt muddy. And like I couldn't see clearly. So I took a deep breathe this morning, hit "save as draft" and took a shower.
Wouldn't you know it? While shampooing my hair all these thoughts and and complete sentences flowed in and out and I thought, "Wait a minute! I can't even write this down.... should i get a tape recorded for the bathroom?"
I mean, come on. Should I?
Because I have to be honest, some I have forgotten and the more I try to piece it together the more I feel like I'm trying to herd a field of cats, so instead, I wiped the page clean.
and here we are.
I like do overs. I think they are pretty rad.
So here we go, I'm just going to let it fly.
My monster died last month. He had a name and a title. But I never use it for him. Just thinking it makes me want to hock a loogie the size of my fist into the ground and then poop on it. Or dance in a graveyard wearing a white dress.
I won't do this though. I don't poop outside and I don't wear dresses.
Instead I will write and I will attempt to rid myself of the junk and maybe, just maybe, help someone else get through the same thing. I mean, one in five ya'll.
That's a fact.
A woman every two minutes. 60% go unreported. So, I'm not a math genius or anything but one in 5 is keeping it on the low side. There's a lot of us walking around out here.
The sexually assaulted. The raped. The molested.
We're breathing, singing in our cars, taking our kids to Chuck E Cheese, filling our gas tanks, hiking up a mountain, sitting in church, and trying real hard to have good sex with our husbands without freaking out because all of a sudden we get so damn scared, and then it's not our husband kissing us anymore.
A lot of survivors. Even more victims.
And some, some, are forced to see their abuser
every
single
day.
They smile, and hug, and go to restaurants,
pretending
it's all ok.
A big high-five to all ya'll that do that for one reason or another. It's a bravery I do not have. I prefer the confrontational kind. But this kind, it takes a different sort of strength to keep moving in dignity and quiet while someone constantly tries to break you with whispers that no one else can hear. I shed tears for you. In applause, not pity.
my sisters, my sisters.
So yes, he's dead.
Finally.
And maybe you can detect a little bit of flippancy here, a tiny fraction of anger as I type? I've got some stuff to work out.
This I know.
But not with all the details. I don't want to get stuck. Freedom is calling. So I am going to post an essay I wrote a little bit back. Just so we're all on the same page and we are clear on who the monster is.
In case any of my family reads this, I imagine you are getting a little excited, a little red-faced concerning all the dirty secrets I'm letting out because "ding dong the monsters' dead" is playing a tune in my brain.
Please. (I'm smiling)
Let me assure you. (My smile is growing)
I let it out (yes?)
a long time ago. (biggest smile ever breaking my face wide open. Can you see it?)
I did it (spilled the beans, lifted the rug, threw poop into the fan)
To my coaches in juvenile hall.
On the internet.
To my therapist.
To my husband.
And my ex-husband.
My kids know.
My friends know.
My church knows.
Women I meet for the first time find out when I hug them and pray with them and tell them...
you don't have to be stuck. don't give him that power. you are free. break free. live your life and be happy. God's gonna get em'. Cross my heart, girl.
Cross
My
patchworked, duct-taped, dragged on the ground, held together with toothpicks and Jesus mercy,
Heart.
God knows. I mean, seriously, ok? GOD. KNOWS.
Beat that.
So here it is. My story. Well, a small portion of it anyway. I saved myself in this one. It is the only time I was able to.
Small…and Slightly Bigger
She was eight when this all went down.
Eight is very small.
She wore her hair in pigtails then. It was long. She’d dress up and walk really fast in her purple plastic high heel shoes so she could hear them click, click, click, just like pretty grown –up ladies. She had a lot of Barbies and a 3-story Barbie Dream house. It was pink and white with an elevator. She loved Strawberry Shortcake more than anything. Her Grammy made her all the dolls and for Christmas one year, she got the record. She would put headphones on and sing at the top of her lungs in the living room… “Ice cream! And my name is Sugar… and I love all the flavors of the world. I like chocolate and vanilla and mocha…”
She used to fish with her Grandpa.
Tucked inside in the dark, knees to her chin, eyes squeezed shut, she hides. She doesn't like the dark much. Bad things happen here, in bedrooms with heavy tapestry curtains that block out all the light and muffle the voice. The bed is too high for her and so she must pull on the blankets and climb up, work her way towards what makes her stare at the ceiling and dream of butterfly cocoons and blue skies that let her float and fly free… far away from here. This room smells like her Grammy; feminine, vanilla, and glamorous. But it sounds like him; old, out of breath, and monster. Where did all the good grandpa’s go?
Her Grammy would read her bible stories at night. Her favorite was Noah and the ark and the rainbow. She loved the rainbow! A multi-colored sticky-note from God. His promise the sun would come back.
She wished everyone would keep their promises the way God did.
She loved snuggling up to her Grammy, she was alabaster and soft, a satin shirt pillow with pink lipstick. She was fascinated by her. She was so different from her own mother who blended in with everyone else that wore bell-bottoms and long hair parted in the middle. Mother was plain. Grammy was a movie star. She would always call her “Darling" but she would say it all southern and draggy and high-pitched, "Daaahhh-ling!", and then she'd throw her head back and laugh so hard and deep her breasts would bounce all over while her belly danced along. She was Marilyn Monroe but better. She was hers.
And she loved her so.
Eight is very small. Very small indeed.
The house she lived in with them and her mother was two stories and brick. White pillars stood tall and grand in the front. The backyard was big with a garden, and a lone oak tree held a homemade swing of rope and boards. There was a birdbath. And anthills. The first time she saw them they made her think of California. She smiled and pushed both hands in all the way up to her elbows so she could smell the salt and feel sand run out of her fingers. But it wasn’t sand and the tiny dots of red fire curled all over her arms in angry protest and she screamed and screamed until her mom came running out of the house to save her.
While she stared at her mom with the remnants of the anthill demolition on her hands and a dirty face of streaked tears; her mom told her she had to be careful with what she touched; things weren’t always what they seemed.
She didn’t know until later her mom wasn’t just talking about ants.
She didn’t know until later her mom would not save her ever again.
This is where she lived. In a house seen normal. In a house others would envy. He was IMPORTANT. Everyone knew him. People at the City. People at the Church. The girls at the school where he worked. But it wasn't normal. It was nightmares and secrets and dark; full of pretend love and make-believe smiles.
She wasn't the only one the monster came after.
She’s just the only one that wanted to leave.
He would whisper to her, in the dark, “this is our secret. You can’t ever tell. I’m just protecting you now.. ‘cause if you tell.. they ain’t gonna believe you. And they gonna be real mad.” Sometimes she would ask why, why would they be mad at her? And he would smile.. and he would kiss her on the lips… and he would say, “because good little girls don’t do these kinds of things.” Sometimes she would cry but not very often because if she did, he would put a pillow over her head.
But she did tell, a lot of days and too many naps later, she blurted it out when she was standing next to her Barbie dream house, still dripping from the shower and wrapped in a towel. Her mom was yelling at her about something else, something small. “Mommy¸ grandpa’s touching me... down there.” Her mom stared... stuck with her arms mid-air and a mouth that moved but no words came out. She doesn’t remember when her mom walked out of the room and didn’t hug her or when she got dressed or how they got to the living room where he sat crying… and Grammy was crying and clutching her bible and sometimes she would yell out, “Jesus Frank! How could you do this?”… and his other daughters were yelling too but not at him, at her… And he was right. They didn’t believe her. They were real mad. They called her bad girl names.
bitch. liar. whore.
I left. I only went back once.
Eight is very small. Eleven is only slightly bigger.
But for me, it was big enough.
My Grammy wasn’t supposed to leave me alone. That was the agreement. I would have someone with me at all times. But the phone rang. Someone called in sick. Now she was showering, blow drying her red hair, putting on her pink lipstick… while I waited, my blue eyes watched her and my tongue was stuck inside my throat.
It made no difference to speak.
She turned to me as she grabbed her purse, “It’s only for a few hours honey. Everything’s gonna be just fine. You two have fun now and Grammy will be back.” Then she was gone.
I stood at the bedroom door staring at the spot Grammy no longer was. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears. I could hear the blood moving through my veins like cars on a freeway going too fast too fast. My eyes blinked.
Who would help me?
I could feel him staring at me from the couch where he sat. He said my name. I looked at him. I did not smile. I did not make any noise.
“Don’t be scared of me. Please.” He looks down at the floor, his hands fidgeting in his lap. I stare at the wisps of gray on his balding head. He looks back at me. He is starting to cry on the couch. His bloated belly hangs over his pants, pulling his shirt tight. “I’m not like that anymore. Please don’t look at me like that. Just come here. Come. Sit.” And he pats his fat old man knee.
My brain has exploded. I can’t hear the words in my own head because it is so loud. I don’t know what to do. He is crying. (liarliarliarliarliarliar) He is old. (liarliarliarliarliar) It’s been three years. (liarliarliarliarliar) Maybe he is… different? (nononononononono)
I walked over to him.
I sat on his knee.
“See there, it’s ok.” He smiles. He pats my knee that is covered by jeans. “There’s nothing to be scared of. I will never hurt you.” And then he did. Just that quick.
I felt his hand go up my shirt, brush my belly, and squeeze my nipple. I was numb. I was dead. I didn't say no. I didn’t beg or cry or scream. It really is my fault, I thought. I sat on his knee. I am a whore. I asked for it. Just like they said.
stupidstupidstupidstupid
And then he put his tongue IN. MY. MOUTH.
It was then that I saw her. In the dark. Eight. But she looked different. Her eyes were not squeezed shut. Instead they were wide open and blazing and fierce. Her face was wet but it wasn’t fear leaking out of her eyes.
It was anger.
And it was hate.
And it was BIG.
She screamed at me. "GET. UP! You knew this would happen, you knew he was the same. You knew it! Don't just sit there. GET UP!! You are not 8! Fight him! WE are not 8!"
And then the whisper.
"No one else will help you."
I knew she was right.
I whipped my head back and jumped away from him, even as he tried to grab me back down. Into the kitchen I ran, looking behind me to see where he was, and turning back to snatch what I was looking for.
I grabbed a knife.
It was a very big knife.
Just the kind of knife a girl at eleven may need to keep herself safe.
Because she knew no one else would help her.
I held it in front of me and we did not shake. We did not cry. We did not stutter. We pointed it at him. He stopped walking and watched us from across the kitchen.
I spoke quiet and bold, pushing the fear down and letting the hate rise up.. into my heart, into my blood, into my hands.
My fingers clutched the knife.
“I will kill you if you come near me ever, ever again.” He flinched.
And he did not move. He knew that we meant it.
Apr 22, 2014
Under Construction
.... And that's not the end of the story.
Me finding Jesus or being saved, that is.
The story did not stop and the happy ending start when I cried my soul out to Jesus on the church floor that day. If it had, then I guess everyone would get saved wouldn't they? A life without suffering. A daily guarantee of comfort. It's sticking it out - this Christian faith - when life gets really hard and too much for us to understand. That's when we see what we're made of.
If there's any substance.
Anyone that tells you finding Jesus will make your life rosy is lying to you. A few months in you may want to find them and high -five their face.
And then ask for forgiveness.
It's not rosy. It's not white picket fences. It's not a whole, smiling family. It's not a place where jobs are never lost, bills are always paid, Target trips happen every two weeks, kids stay drug free, and husbands never cheat.
Nope.
You're not in heaven just yet.
You have the Hope but life right here can still throw mud in your face and drag you into a pit of crazy. The difference is - Jesus has a rope that doesn't break. You just have to hang on. Tight.
No one really warned me about that. I think some tried to, in a really nice good Christian way, but i wish someone would have just quit trying to be so nice and said straight up, "You've spent the last 18 years in all this crap and your family was in the same crap for at least 18 years before you and your husband and his family? Another twenty years of a different kind of crap. The consequences are still rolling in like waves.
Wear a life jacket."
Some of those waves weren't bad. A few feet. The kind I could boogie board over. But then others would come, tidal wave status, and I'd would watch my life get sucked right out from under me while I tried not to drown.
I wish I could say all these waves, especially the big ones, were of someone else's doing.
It's hard to look at yourself and know the role you have played in the crumbling of your own life. Oh but I did.
I gripped it sometimes with both hands, hurling down bricks with my words; leaving my fingers and relationships, damaged and bleeding.
A wise woman builds her home, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands. Proverbs 14:1
I was foolish. And the worst part is that I knew it. I knew it and i felt unable to stop it. I remember huddling on the floor, wailing, helpless, lost in an abyss of frustration and inadequacy, and then i would grab my own hair and start to pull it. I would drag my fingernails down my face to try and make myself bleed, try to make myself disappear. I would bang my head against the wall, eyes wild, screaming.
I was going crazy. I couldn't do it right. No one saw me.
I wasn't good enough.
The helplessness I would feel would wrap me in a straightjacket of fear so tight I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was coming undone.
Isaiah 1:17 says to "learn to do right." Know what that means? You also have to unlearn how to do wrong.
No one told me this either. I thought it would just happen. I thought all the badness would vanish and "poof!" in it's place would be all this shiny goodness. It was a shock to me to still struggle - almost more because now I knew better. I knew I had to be better.
Looking back, I can see how the Enemy must have laughed and laughed, using me and my life, as his personal game of dodge ball. There I stood in the center as he hurled, "ANGER" and "FUTILITY" and "DEFECTIVE" at my head. If those didn't work, out flew "ugly" and "fat" and "unwanted" and "slut". These would knock me down. These would leave me hardened; scar tissue all over. These would make me fight back.
Except I couldn't see the devil.
So I fought everyone else instead.
With my words. With my hands.
I tore down.
Until there was almost nothing left.
No one told me I could catch the ball. No one told me I didn't have to keep playing the game. No one told me all I had to do was stop and stand, stare him down with the Word and he would run from me. I was told things like, "This too shall pass" and "Just trust Jesus" but no one told me how to do that or what it meant.
And it's pretty simple really.
I choose to react with His words rather than mine.
Simple.
Not easy.
Just to clarify.
I wouldn't lie to you like that.
So, I have learned and I have unlearned.
Learn - to love my enemies. Unlearn - I don't verbally castrate every man that gets on my last nerve to prove to him I am just as good as he is if not better. (see the attitude there? Still a work in progress folks.)
Learn - to show mercy and give grace. Unlearn - If my feelings are hurt, I don't try to hurt back. I keep my mouth shut and sometimes, walk away so if it opens, no one will hear me.
Learn - to recognize jealousy and envy and ask God to help me with my heart. Unlearn - lashing out because I don't have what someone else does.
Learn - pride really does come before a big fall so I better wear a helmet if I'm going to keep it up. Unlearn - the universe is not named "Shannon" and everyone is going through something. Just love on them already and then the helmet is not needed.
I am happy to report, I no longer try to rip my face off with my fingernails (well, at least not very often). I no longer think my self worth is nothing and I try really really hard to avoid dodge ball.
I am not able to do this by pinning a zillion personal affirmations from Pinterest, although I do think I am a little awesome and ya know - God thinks so too.
It is not made possible in watching every episode of Oprah although I wouldn't mind attending her "Favorite Things" episode. That would maybe help. For a bit.
I am not following instructions from Dr. Phil, or Dr. Spock, or Dr. Anyone.
And while exercising certainly makes me feel better about how I look in my jeans and yes, my insides flow along a calmer river, I cannot run 24 hours a day. (Nor would i want to)
What has given me back my life? What has left me a hammer and nails and some 4x4's that aren't all dinged up and termite ridden? What is telling me how to rebuild a life that I tore down a long time ago?
It's not a mystery and is so simple I am sure for the self-proclaimed intelligent and perspicacious, there may be some eye-rolling and nose snorting.
but guess what?
I really don't care.
This is what has worked for me. And for countless others.
It is honest. And truth. And mercy. And grace. And life. And it is page after page of love in its purest form.
The bible. My happy ending. Under construction.
Right now.
and forever.
Me finding Jesus or being saved, that is.
The story did not stop and the happy ending start when I cried my soul out to Jesus on the church floor that day. If it had, then I guess everyone would get saved wouldn't they? A life without suffering. A daily guarantee of comfort. It's sticking it out - this Christian faith - when life gets really hard and too much for us to understand. That's when we see what we're made of.
If there's any substance.
Anyone that tells you finding Jesus will make your life rosy is lying to you. A few months in you may want to find them and high -five their face.
And then ask for forgiveness.
It's not rosy. It's not white picket fences. It's not a whole, smiling family. It's not a place where jobs are never lost, bills are always paid, Target trips happen every two weeks, kids stay drug free, and husbands never cheat.
Nope.
You're not in heaven just yet.
You have the Hope but life right here can still throw mud in your face and drag you into a pit of crazy. The difference is - Jesus has a rope that doesn't break. You just have to hang on. Tight.
No one really warned me about that. I think some tried to, in a really nice good Christian way, but i wish someone would have just quit trying to be so nice and said straight up, "You've spent the last 18 years in all this crap and your family was in the same crap for at least 18 years before you and your husband and his family? Another twenty years of a different kind of crap. The consequences are still rolling in like waves.
Wear a life jacket."
Some of those waves weren't bad. A few feet. The kind I could boogie board over. But then others would come, tidal wave status, and I'd would watch my life get sucked right out from under me while I tried not to drown.
I wish I could say all these waves, especially the big ones, were of someone else's doing.
It's hard to look at yourself and know the role you have played in the crumbling of your own life. Oh but I did.
I gripped it sometimes with both hands, hurling down bricks with my words; leaving my fingers and relationships, damaged and bleeding.
A wise woman builds her home, but a foolish woman tears it down with her own hands. Proverbs 14:1
I was foolish. And the worst part is that I knew it. I knew it and i felt unable to stop it. I remember huddling on the floor, wailing, helpless, lost in an abyss of frustration and inadequacy, and then i would grab my own hair and start to pull it. I would drag my fingernails down my face to try and make myself bleed, try to make myself disappear. I would bang my head against the wall, eyes wild, screaming.
I was going crazy. I couldn't do it right. No one saw me.
I wasn't good enough.
The helplessness I would feel would wrap me in a straightjacket of fear so tight I felt like I couldn't breathe. I was coming undone.
Isaiah 1:17 says to "learn to do right." Know what that means? You also have to unlearn how to do wrong.
No one told me this either. I thought it would just happen. I thought all the badness would vanish and "poof!" in it's place would be all this shiny goodness. It was a shock to me to still struggle - almost more because now I knew better. I knew I had to be better.
Looking back, I can see how the Enemy must have laughed and laughed, using me and my life, as his personal game of dodge ball. There I stood in the center as he hurled, "ANGER" and "FUTILITY" and "DEFECTIVE" at my head. If those didn't work, out flew "ugly" and "fat" and "unwanted" and "slut". These would knock me down. These would leave me hardened; scar tissue all over. These would make me fight back.
Except I couldn't see the devil.
So I fought everyone else instead.
With my words. With my hands.
I tore down.
Until there was almost nothing left.
No one told me I could catch the ball. No one told me I didn't have to keep playing the game. No one told me all I had to do was stop and stand, stare him down with the Word and he would run from me. I was told things like, "This too shall pass" and "Just trust Jesus" but no one told me how to do that or what it meant.
And it's pretty simple really.
I choose to react with His words rather than mine.
Simple.
Not easy.
Just to clarify.
I wouldn't lie to you like that.
So, I have learned and I have unlearned.
Learn - to love my enemies. Unlearn - I don't verbally castrate every man that gets on my last nerve to prove to him I am just as good as he is if not better. (see the attitude there? Still a work in progress folks.)
Learn - to show mercy and give grace. Unlearn - If my feelings are hurt, I don't try to hurt back. I keep my mouth shut and sometimes, walk away so if it opens, no one will hear me.
Learn - to recognize jealousy and envy and ask God to help me with my heart. Unlearn - lashing out because I don't have what someone else does.
Learn - pride really does come before a big fall so I better wear a helmet if I'm going to keep it up. Unlearn - the universe is not named "Shannon" and everyone is going through something. Just love on them already and then the helmet is not needed.
I am happy to report, I no longer try to rip my face off with my fingernails (well, at least not very often). I no longer think my self worth is nothing and I try really really hard to avoid dodge ball.
I am not able to do this by pinning a zillion personal affirmations from Pinterest, although I do think I am a little awesome and ya know - God thinks so too.
It is not made possible in watching every episode of Oprah although I wouldn't mind attending her "Favorite Things" episode. That would maybe help. For a bit.
I am not following instructions from Dr. Phil, or Dr. Spock, or Dr. Anyone.
And while exercising certainly makes me feel better about how I look in my jeans and yes, my insides flow along a calmer river, I cannot run 24 hours a day. (Nor would i want to)
What has given me back my life? What has left me a hammer and nails and some 4x4's that aren't all dinged up and termite ridden? What is telling me how to rebuild a life that I tore down a long time ago?
It's not a mystery and is so simple I am sure for the self-proclaimed intelligent and perspicacious, there may be some eye-rolling and nose snorting.
but guess what?
I really don't care.
This is what has worked for me. And for countless others.
It is honest. And truth. And mercy. And grace. And life. And it is page after page of love in its purest form.
The bible. My happy ending. Under construction.
Right now.
and forever.
Apr 19, 2014
and now I see ...
It's been a long time
but I still remember what it was like to hate Him.
It didn't start out that way, me hating him. And I am not sure when it happened. What I do recall is when someone asked me to go see him, hang out, and be a part of what he was doing, my insides began to burn and my fists would clench.
All I knew about Him flashed in front of me, which admittedly, wasn't much. But it was enough. Enough to make me rage. Enough to make me say NO.
I remember saying ... "After all that has happened? After everything I have gone through? No. I'm not interested in any Jesus. I don't need a savior. AND I will never, ever worship (practically spitting the word out of my mouth) any God that walked around as a man."
You see, men made me want to want to step inside a scalding shower and scrub all my flesh off until I disappeared. Specifically, middle-aged, white, religious men, with poochy bellies, short statures, and glasses that doubled the number of eyes that stared at me with lust and hunger. Men that said "Jesus!" and "I am SAVED! I am FORGIVEN!" and "Gawd bless YOU!" and then took me upstairs for "naps". Men that made me do things I did not want to do and then told me I better ask for forgiveness later because I had been a bad girl, a naughty disgusting girl. Men that whispered to me in the dark and covered my head with pillows when I begged and cried.
Men. Man.
No thanks. I'm out.
I was told over and over by his daughters and my mother, that he had been forgiven. Jesus (Jesus!) had cleansed his heart and his life and the thing in his pants (he has been SAVED Shannon! Saved!)
and now I must forgive him too. (this is what good Christians do Shannon, this is what they do!)
I remember thinking to myself, "I don't want to be a good Christian. I don't want to be any Christian at all."
It took a long time before I understood how people can twist even a good God like Jesus into something mangled and different so they can feel better.
People can twist him up so much, he's not recognizable anymore.
I remember the day I sat in the church and felt Jesus next to me. I knew it was Him. I knew, because I wasn't looking for Him and I didn't want Him to be there. I was there to listen and then leave. I didn't expect anything other than what I had seen my whole life - empty words that weren't real.
And so when He was, it was so obviously plain to me. There was night. And now there was day.
I was almost offended by it.
I didn't want Him to be real. I didn't want to reconcile anything in my head or in my heart. I knew what the twisted Jesus looked like. It was safer to hold on to Him that way.
But I couldn't.
Because what was next to me wasn't twisted at all. The full force of His LOVE radiated on to me. It was warm. And gentle.
And it ... waited.
It waited for me to say "ok". It waited for me to say, "Yes, I will let you be with me".
Isn't it funny, in an incredibly heartbreaking non-funny way, we can become so used to the wrongness of life that any rightness that tries to introduce itself is threatening and shown the door? Don't let it hit you so hard you fall on your face and crack it open on the way out.
Or do.
It's all the same to me.
But this day, I did not show Him the door as I had so many times before. I couldn't. I felt a craving start to gnaw inside me, a fierce need I didn't even know I had.
My love-starved soul woke up. And it demanded to be fed. It had gone without nourishment for far far too long.
All I could do was sit in it.
and cry.
I could hear him, hear him (!) whispering to me, and not like the whispers before, not ones that made me afraid and want to curl into the tiniest of balls and hide....
No.
These were smatterings of love. Gentler than a moth's wings. Quieter than tall grass waving in the wind.
"It's ok", He said. "I love you."
I love you. I love you. i love you. i love you.
i love you. i love you.
i love you. i love you.
you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you youyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyou
iloveyou.
I got up. I walked with shaky legs and a shakier heart to the front ... wanting so badly to throw myself down at the feet of Him. To crawl into his lap and have Him hold me and rock me and tell me again how much He loved me, like a mother would do for her child. Or a father.
I knelt and I put my face in my hands and my soul ripped open. I couldn't stop the tears if I tried. My insides, my body, my spirit knew better than my head what I needed
and i needed to let go.
to be free.
to empty myself of all the junk and the black and the rotten that had taken residence inside me.
A good soul scrubbing.
A renewal.
A gift.
Now it is Easter. It is Saturday. The day after he would have been beaten and tortured and ripped up and nailed; left bleeding and naked and exposed.
And for what? Because He loved. Because He healed. Because He took away all the junk and the black and the rotten.
Because He is God.
I imagine how his followers felt on that Saturday.
Lost. Disappointed. Confused. Afraid. Bereft.
They didn't understand what was happening. They didn't realize what it meant. They thought all hope was lost. They thought it was dead. They thought they were on their own.
They didn't know
that on Sunday
Hope would rise ....
and they would never be alone again.
I
will never be alone
again.
And all the junk,
and the black,
and the rotten
is now white in Love.
but I still remember what it was like to hate Him.
It didn't start out that way, me hating him. And I am not sure when it happened. What I do recall is when someone asked me to go see him, hang out, and be a part of what he was doing, my insides began to burn and my fists would clench.
All I knew about Him flashed in front of me, which admittedly, wasn't much. But it was enough. Enough to make me rage. Enough to make me say NO.
I remember saying ... "After all that has happened? After everything I have gone through? No. I'm not interested in any Jesus. I don't need a savior. AND I will never, ever worship (practically spitting the word out of my mouth) any God that walked around as a man."
You see, men made me want to want to step inside a scalding shower and scrub all my flesh off until I disappeared. Specifically, middle-aged, white, religious men, with poochy bellies, short statures, and glasses that doubled the number of eyes that stared at me with lust and hunger. Men that said "Jesus!" and "I am SAVED! I am FORGIVEN!" and "Gawd bless YOU!" and then took me upstairs for "naps". Men that made me do things I did not want to do and then told me I better ask for forgiveness later because I had been a bad girl, a naughty disgusting girl. Men that whispered to me in the dark and covered my head with pillows when I begged and cried.
Men. Man.
No thanks. I'm out.
I was told over and over by his daughters and my mother, that he had been forgiven. Jesus (Jesus!) had cleansed his heart and his life and the thing in his pants (he has been SAVED Shannon! Saved!)
and now I must forgive him too. (this is what good Christians do Shannon, this is what they do!)
I remember thinking to myself, "I don't want to be a good Christian. I don't want to be any Christian at all."
It took a long time before I understood how people can twist even a good God like Jesus into something mangled and different so they can feel better.
People can twist him up so much, he's not recognizable anymore.
I remember the day I sat in the church and felt Jesus next to me. I knew it was Him. I knew, because I wasn't looking for Him and I didn't want Him to be there. I was there to listen and then leave. I didn't expect anything other than what I had seen my whole life - empty words that weren't real.
And so when He was, it was so obviously plain to me. There was night. And now there was day.
I was almost offended by it.
I didn't want Him to be real. I didn't want to reconcile anything in my head or in my heart. I knew what the twisted Jesus looked like. It was safer to hold on to Him that way.
But I couldn't.
Because what was next to me wasn't twisted at all. The full force of His LOVE radiated on to me. It was warm. And gentle.
And it ... waited.
It waited for me to say "ok". It waited for me to say, "Yes, I will let you be with me".
Isn't it funny, in an incredibly heartbreaking non-funny way, we can become so used to the wrongness of life that any rightness that tries to introduce itself is threatening and shown the door? Don't let it hit you so hard you fall on your face and crack it open on the way out.
Or do.
It's all the same to me.
But this day, I did not show Him the door as I had so many times before. I couldn't. I felt a craving start to gnaw inside me, a fierce need I didn't even know I had.
My love-starved soul woke up. And it demanded to be fed. It had gone without nourishment for far far too long.
All I could do was sit in it.
and cry.
I could hear him, hear him (!) whispering to me, and not like the whispers before, not ones that made me afraid and want to curl into the tiniest of balls and hide....
No.
These were smatterings of love. Gentler than a moth's wings. Quieter than tall grass waving in the wind.
"It's ok", He said. "I love you."
I love you. I love you. i love you. i love you.
i love you. i love you.
i love you. i love you.
you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you you youyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyouyou
iloveyou.
I got up. I walked with shaky legs and a shakier heart to the front ... wanting so badly to throw myself down at the feet of Him. To crawl into his lap and have Him hold me and rock me and tell me again how much He loved me, like a mother would do for her child. Or a father.
I knelt and I put my face in my hands and my soul ripped open. I couldn't stop the tears if I tried. My insides, my body, my spirit knew better than my head what I needed
and i needed to let go.
to be free.
to empty myself of all the junk and the black and the rotten that had taken residence inside me.
A good soul scrubbing.
A renewal.
A gift.
Now it is Easter. It is Saturday. The day after he would have been beaten and tortured and ripped up and nailed; left bleeding and naked and exposed.
And for what? Because He loved. Because He healed. Because He took away all the junk and the black and the rotten.
Because He is God.
I imagine how his followers felt on that Saturday.
Lost. Disappointed. Confused. Afraid. Bereft.
They didn't understand what was happening. They didn't realize what it meant. They thought all hope was lost. They thought it was dead. They thought they were on their own.
They didn't know
that on Sunday
Hope would rise ....
and they would never be alone again.
I
will never be alone
again.
And all the junk,
and the black,
and the rotten
is now white in Love.
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