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.
Apr 27, 2014
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.
Apr 16, 2014
You and Me / Take 2
My Sunshine called yesterday. I used to sing her that song, "You are my Sunshine", when she was small. But i still tell her, on the phone or in a card... I remind her of who she is to me.
Even when we are grown-ups, finding our own way, it is good to be loved.
There are so many things i could write about Bre, her fearlessness that makes anything i did or say look like a ride at Chuck-E-Cheese. Or maybe her determination, the way she focuses and moves forward, not letting anyone, or anything, hold her back. Maybe it is her heart, so beautiful and yet set way up with a wall around it, a defense against a man world, yet it beats hard in truth and justice. I am beyond proud.
But i think all i can say about how much i love her, I have already said.
Several years ago I wrote an essay about her. Reading it now, it sets me right back in each place with her.
So in honor of her and me and all that we have survived, some of it unknowingly, and how brave she is and how much i miss her; I will post it here. I warn you, it is lengthy, and you may want to stop now. Please forgive the format ... it doesn't carry over to blog so well, but, you'll get it.
And the italics, those are song lyrics. You and ME by Dave Matthews. I realize this is a song for married people but let's not get hung up on technicalities. I love Dave. She loves Dave. And we're both flying.
You'll get it.
For you baby girl, my Sunshine. XOXO
Mommy
You and Me
I don’t remember what the day was like, sunshine or rain, or what I was wearing or who I called, and I must admit I have forgotten the exact time. (Was it 11:16 or 11:20 pm?) I do know that I was so terrified of getting poo on the bed, I insisted they let me get up and use the restroom, even when the nurse insisted just as strongly (I’m a professional) that I don’t.
But I won. Your mama is so stubborn.
And then I got stuck in the bathroom for 20 minutes because the contractions came so hard I couldn’t get up. I thought for sure I would have you right there in a hospital toilet. But thankfully I finally got that slide latch to move. I mean, really, who puts a lock like that in a bathroom?? I don’t remember what time your dad came to the hospital or how many people saw my hooha when I pushed and screamed and grabbed my dad’s chest so tight I drew blood, as he chanted “You can do it. I’m right here.”
But I do recall I was starving and your Papa Gary snuck me a snickers bar. I gobbled the entire thing in seconds and I didn’t throw it up like the nurse (the professional) said I would.
The wonderful night of you still brings a soft smile to my face. I know it is soft because it doesn’t feel how my smiles usually feel – all stretched out and big and loud. This smile makes me feel gentle, like a white Egyptian cotton curtain, moving in the breeze.
you & me together we can do anything, baby
Getting you home was easy but then your dad and I wondered for days, when were we allowed to drive with you in the car? I mean, we were running low on food and there was church and family… We wanted to ask someone, a parent maybe? But then we realized, with wide –eyed teenage faces, we were the parents. I did a very responsible thing then and I looked it up. “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” didn’t give a specific date, only stating a car seat was needed. We had that. But the way your tiny head would flop to the side, like a little stuffed animal whose neck had been stretched out, scared me to death and I was convinced the book left out vital information.
Changing your diaper furthered our concerns on the wisdom of being alone with you. It took two of us to do it for at least a week. The size of the diaper was the size of my hand and yet, I couldn’t get one out and the other in quick enough. The day you decided to stream out mustard from your butt all over my arm is one I will never forget. I sat there yelling at your dad, completely grossed out, “Get it off! Get it off!!” But he was laughing so hard, I was almost afraid he would pass out from not being able to breathe. There he stood, red-faced; clutching his belly, body heaving with his mouth wide open but NO sound coming out. It lasted forever. Ok, maybe 3 minutes. But when there’s poo running down your arm, that’s on its way to forever.
I wanted to ram my mustard-poo arm in his face.
you & me together yes, yes
Watching you grow up has been the greatest gift. I have always said that you saved me. And you did. You saved me from the monsters that lived under my bed, and in the closet, and in my family pictures and forced Thanksgivings full of pretend love. You. You let me feel real love, the fragility and solidity of it, all at the same time.
want to pack your bags something small
I’ve never lied to you.
Even though at times I wanted to.
I didn’t want you to always know the truth. I thought sometimes if you did, the heart that holds so much love would crack a little. Hearts can take a lot of cracks. A knick. Sometimes even a chunk.
And it will still be a heart that loves.
But I didn’t want to be the one to chip it. Like mine was. Chipped and taped and glued and band-aided and held together with toothpicks. That’s what happened when I became your mom. You were my mirror – reflecting all of my good, the laughter and openness and bravery, and all of my bad too; the fear and the rage and horrible emptiness of rejection and abandonment. There was so much bad. I had to teach myself to be a better person than I had seen. I had to learn that I could right all the horrible left hand turns, dead ends, and railroad tracks that had been done to me. I could make our lives straight.
take what you need & we disappear
A terrible mom moment haunts me always. Sometimes I just couldn’t get away from them; from her. I was my mom and her dad and my dad and her family, all rolled into one yelling, screaming, pulsating, frantic 19 year old. It was my rock-bottom mom loser mom crazy mom desperate mom moment. The words of my own mother shrieked inside me, “I hate you”, “I wish you were dead”, “I don’t want a daughter like you”. I could feel all of these rages trying to claw out of me; pushing on my fingers and straining against the confines of my own skin, gripping my toes, making my breath fast and my head thud and my eyes big. But nothing came out of my fingers or my hands.
It all came out of my mouth. Word vomit and soul sickness. It poured out of me and on to the floor, chasing you down the hallway.
You ran towards your room and I followed you, stomping my feet so you could hear me behind you, slamming my hands against the wall and bellowing from the bottomless pit of my fury. I didn’t say my own bad mom words; instead I let out a howl that sounded like the damned wishing for an escape. Thinking of it now I feel SHAME tattooed on my face, big and bold and red. My scarlet letter. You turned and looked at me, tears running down your small pale face, your big blue ocean eyes full of fear, and you sat, hunched down in the hallway, and said quietly, “ mommy, mommy, I’m sorry…” I stopped dead where I was.
It was waking up from the worst nightmare. Except I wasn’t dreaming.
I was the nightmare.
I remember I cried, and like any broken selfish person, I hugged you and let you comfort me.
All small 3 years of you.
without a trace, we'll be gone, gone
So many times in your life I have thought of this day and wondered if you remembered. If it pursues you the way some of my memories hunt me. So many times I wanted to beg you to forgive me. Forgive me for almost being them. Forgive me for not being... a heart without cracks and chunks missing. A mother.
But then I didn’t want to bring it up. I didn’t want you to look at me different than you do now, trusting, loved, protected. My child.
Me. Mother. Coward.
The moon & the stars follow the car
I used to rub my belly all the time. I loved sitting on the couch, with my shirt up, and watching it roll and bulge and hiccup, as you moved and got comfy inside. I could see your little foot and I marveled that you were in me and I was giving you life. And you were giving me life back.
& then when we get to the ocean,
I told your dad that I was afraid. I made him promise he would always be the one to give you a bath. I was terrified that if I gave you a bath, if I did it wrong, if I accidentally touched you or washed you then… then I would be like the monster.
I didn’t know until later monsters don’t happen by accident.
Your dad looked at me and I saw love. The warm hazelnut of his eyes reached out and swaddled me tight in a protective cocoon. Safe.
His heart trying to patch all the cracks on another.
Your dad gave you your very first bath. He was very gentle, delicate. I was in awe. I saw your dad’s heart. I saw him give it to you. And it was beautiful. It was whole.
we're going to take a boat to the end of the world...
I gave you your second bath, your dad standing next to me, borrowed strength. The moment I washed your tiny foot with its long finger-toes, and your little hand gripped mine (so strong so strong tiny brave girl), I knew I would never, ever, hurt you. I felt release. The fear lifted from my heart. It came out of the crack groove it had been embedded in for so long, the 8 year old me that had been forsaken had inhaled it and let it attach, permeate, become one with me. I could almost see it detaching itself.
And I felt hopeful freedom.
It wasn't contagious, the sickness of abuse and denial that ran through my family. I didn't catch it. I wasn't like him. Or her. Or any of them.
I saw my heart.
And a crack disappeared.
all the way to the end of the world
I like it when you climb into bed with me and we whisper about boys and friendship drama and movies and Dave Matthews, and we giggle and snort.
I admired you when we ran together. At 17 you could run the world round and round while doing jumping jacks and hurdles without breaking a sweat. I ran two miles and sounded like a mortally wounded animal looking for a place to die. I loved you and envied you and yes, parts of me were cussing you, when you hopped from one foot to another at the top of the hill, cheering me on, “Come on Mommy. You got this. Almost there!”
I love that you still call me Mommy. Its music words to my lyrical soul.
I felt so old, so mom-ish when I took you to your very first concert, Justin Timberlake, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a super cute (I thought) blazer and black converse but I was surrounded by teenagers and young twenty-something’s dressed in high heels and short skirts, hoping to be the “one” that gets noticed. I had to tell you and your sister, “You can’t sit at a concert. Get up and move!” I’m sure I embarrassed you with all my old lady gyrating.
I felt so privileged to calm you down on the phone when you got into a fight with your boyfriend because he didn’t want you to have other boy¬friends. Then we agreed how dumb it was and he was and boys can be in general.
Not all girls are this strong.
Not all girls have a heart so defined.
oh and when the kids are old enough
Moving you to Washington to, “the most remote Coast Guard station in the country”; an adult now, trained, training, working, rescuing, flying. I felt my heart grow bigger, loving the grown up you while treasuring the small you and so incredibly proud of everything you are.
Bre. Breann. Noble. Strong. Virtuous. Honorable. You.
How could we have known when we picked your name it would fit so perfectly? We were just kids - your dad and me. Did you grow into your name? No. No, baby girl. God knew. He knew what you would be from the start.
we gonna teach them to flyyyyyyy
Today I was looking around inside World Market, and they had all these really cool Christmas ornaments, some sparkly and bright, others eclectic and colorful, and I started thinking about how I get you a new ornament each year so that when you move out, you'll have your own. I wondered what I would pick for you this year, even though you are already gone.
I knew right then I will buy you your own ornament forever.
And then I started to cry.
Right there in the middle of the store because I missed you so bad. It didn’t last long. Soon after I started laughing because I could hear you so clearly say to me in your grown-up still a girl voice, "Oh madre - you're such a dork ".
you & me together we could do anything, baby
I can see your heart. It is whole, intact, beautiful, and safe. I did all I could, all I knew and all I wished for to protect it. I kept my monsters away. I fought them banished them cut them from your life my life our heart family.
But
I’ve also tried to warn you, without inhibiting you, that this won’t always be the case. The cracks will come. Sometimes a crack so big a piece may break and you may think you will die from it.
But you won’t.
It takes a lot to kill a heart.
Other hearts come that see inside and they share. They breathe and with each breath, love flows, filling in the cracks, leaving scars… long, deep, red, painful, and sometimes brutally ugly. But ugly scars are perfect. So so so perfect.
you & me together yes, yes
Even when we are grown-ups, finding our own way, it is good to be loved.
There are so many things i could write about Bre, her fearlessness that makes anything i did or say look like a ride at Chuck-E-Cheese. Or maybe her determination, the way she focuses and moves forward, not letting anyone, or anything, hold her back. Maybe it is her heart, so beautiful and yet set way up with a wall around it, a defense against a man world, yet it beats hard in truth and justice. I am beyond proud.
But i think all i can say about how much i love her, I have already said.
Several years ago I wrote an essay about her. Reading it now, it sets me right back in each place with her.
So in honor of her and me and all that we have survived, some of it unknowingly, and how brave she is and how much i miss her; I will post it here. I warn you, it is lengthy, and you may want to stop now. Please forgive the format ... it doesn't carry over to blog so well, but, you'll get it.
And the italics, those are song lyrics. You and ME by Dave Matthews. I realize this is a song for married people but let's not get hung up on technicalities. I love Dave. She loves Dave. And we're both flying.
You'll get it.
For you baby girl, my Sunshine. XOXO
Mommy
You and Me
I don’t remember what the day was like, sunshine or rain, or what I was wearing or who I called, and I must admit I have forgotten the exact time. (Was it 11:16 or 11:20 pm?) I do know that I was so terrified of getting poo on the bed, I insisted they let me get up and use the restroom, even when the nurse insisted just as strongly (I’m a professional) that I don’t.
But I won. Your mama is so stubborn.
And then I got stuck in the bathroom for 20 minutes because the contractions came so hard I couldn’t get up. I thought for sure I would have you right there in a hospital toilet. But thankfully I finally got that slide latch to move. I mean, really, who puts a lock like that in a bathroom?? I don’t remember what time your dad came to the hospital or how many people saw my hooha when I pushed and screamed and grabbed my dad’s chest so tight I drew blood, as he chanted “You can do it. I’m right here.”
But I do recall I was starving and your Papa Gary snuck me a snickers bar. I gobbled the entire thing in seconds and I didn’t throw it up like the nurse (the professional) said I would.
The wonderful night of you still brings a soft smile to my face. I know it is soft because it doesn’t feel how my smiles usually feel – all stretched out and big and loud. This smile makes me feel gentle, like a white Egyptian cotton curtain, moving in the breeze.
you & me together we can do anything, baby
Getting you home was easy but then your dad and I wondered for days, when were we allowed to drive with you in the car? I mean, we were running low on food and there was church and family… We wanted to ask someone, a parent maybe? But then we realized, with wide –eyed teenage faces, we were the parents. I did a very responsible thing then and I looked it up. “What to Expect When You Are Expecting” didn’t give a specific date, only stating a car seat was needed. We had that. But the way your tiny head would flop to the side, like a little stuffed animal whose neck had been stretched out, scared me to death and I was convinced the book left out vital information.
Changing your diaper furthered our concerns on the wisdom of being alone with you. It took two of us to do it for at least a week. The size of the diaper was the size of my hand and yet, I couldn’t get one out and the other in quick enough. The day you decided to stream out mustard from your butt all over my arm is one I will never forget. I sat there yelling at your dad, completely grossed out, “Get it off! Get it off!!” But he was laughing so hard, I was almost afraid he would pass out from not being able to breathe. There he stood, red-faced; clutching his belly, body heaving with his mouth wide open but NO sound coming out. It lasted forever. Ok, maybe 3 minutes. But when there’s poo running down your arm, that’s on its way to forever.
I wanted to ram my mustard-poo arm in his face.
you & me together yes, yes
Watching you grow up has been the greatest gift. I have always said that you saved me. And you did. You saved me from the monsters that lived under my bed, and in the closet, and in my family pictures and forced Thanksgivings full of pretend love. You. You let me feel real love, the fragility and solidity of it, all at the same time.
want to pack your bags something small
I’ve never lied to you.
Even though at times I wanted to.
I didn’t want you to always know the truth. I thought sometimes if you did, the heart that holds so much love would crack a little. Hearts can take a lot of cracks. A knick. Sometimes even a chunk.
And it will still be a heart that loves.
But I didn’t want to be the one to chip it. Like mine was. Chipped and taped and glued and band-aided and held together with toothpicks. That’s what happened when I became your mom. You were my mirror – reflecting all of my good, the laughter and openness and bravery, and all of my bad too; the fear and the rage and horrible emptiness of rejection and abandonment. There was so much bad. I had to teach myself to be a better person than I had seen. I had to learn that I could right all the horrible left hand turns, dead ends, and railroad tracks that had been done to me. I could make our lives straight.
take what you need & we disappear
A terrible mom moment haunts me always. Sometimes I just couldn’t get away from them; from her. I was my mom and her dad and my dad and her family, all rolled into one yelling, screaming, pulsating, frantic 19 year old. It was my rock-bottom mom loser mom crazy mom desperate mom moment. The words of my own mother shrieked inside me, “I hate you”, “I wish you were dead”, “I don’t want a daughter like you”. I could feel all of these rages trying to claw out of me; pushing on my fingers and straining against the confines of my own skin, gripping my toes, making my breath fast and my head thud and my eyes big. But nothing came out of my fingers or my hands.
It all came out of my mouth. Word vomit and soul sickness. It poured out of me and on to the floor, chasing you down the hallway.
You ran towards your room and I followed you, stomping my feet so you could hear me behind you, slamming my hands against the wall and bellowing from the bottomless pit of my fury. I didn’t say my own bad mom words; instead I let out a howl that sounded like the damned wishing for an escape. Thinking of it now I feel SHAME tattooed on my face, big and bold and red. My scarlet letter. You turned and looked at me, tears running down your small pale face, your big blue ocean eyes full of fear, and you sat, hunched down in the hallway, and said quietly, “ mommy, mommy, I’m sorry…” I stopped dead where I was.
It was waking up from the worst nightmare. Except I wasn’t dreaming.
I was the nightmare.
I remember I cried, and like any broken selfish person, I hugged you and let you comfort me.
All small 3 years of you.
without a trace, we'll be gone, gone
So many times in your life I have thought of this day and wondered if you remembered. If it pursues you the way some of my memories hunt me. So many times I wanted to beg you to forgive me. Forgive me for almost being them. Forgive me for not being... a heart without cracks and chunks missing. A mother.
But then I didn’t want to bring it up. I didn’t want you to look at me different than you do now, trusting, loved, protected. My child.
Me. Mother. Coward.
The moon & the stars follow the car
I used to rub my belly all the time. I loved sitting on the couch, with my shirt up, and watching it roll and bulge and hiccup, as you moved and got comfy inside. I could see your little foot and I marveled that you were in me and I was giving you life. And you were giving me life back.
& then when we get to the ocean,
I told your dad that I was afraid. I made him promise he would always be the one to give you a bath. I was terrified that if I gave you a bath, if I did it wrong, if I accidentally touched you or washed you then… then I would be like the monster.
I didn’t know until later monsters don’t happen by accident.
Your dad looked at me and I saw love. The warm hazelnut of his eyes reached out and swaddled me tight in a protective cocoon. Safe.
His heart trying to patch all the cracks on another.
Your dad gave you your very first bath. He was very gentle, delicate. I was in awe. I saw your dad’s heart. I saw him give it to you. And it was beautiful. It was whole.
we're going to take a boat to the end of the world...
I gave you your second bath, your dad standing next to me, borrowed strength. The moment I washed your tiny foot with its long finger-toes, and your little hand gripped mine (so strong so strong tiny brave girl), I knew I would never, ever, hurt you. I felt release. The fear lifted from my heart. It came out of the crack groove it had been embedded in for so long, the 8 year old me that had been forsaken had inhaled it and let it attach, permeate, become one with me. I could almost see it detaching itself.
And I felt hopeful freedom.
It wasn't contagious, the sickness of abuse and denial that ran through my family. I didn't catch it. I wasn't like him. Or her. Or any of them.
I saw my heart.
And a crack disappeared.
all the way to the end of the world
I like it when you climb into bed with me and we whisper about boys and friendship drama and movies and Dave Matthews, and we giggle and snort.
I admired you when we ran together. At 17 you could run the world round and round while doing jumping jacks and hurdles without breaking a sweat. I ran two miles and sounded like a mortally wounded animal looking for a place to die. I loved you and envied you and yes, parts of me were cussing you, when you hopped from one foot to another at the top of the hill, cheering me on, “Come on Mommy. You got this. Almost there!”
I love that you still call me Mommy. Its music words to my lyrical soul.
I felt so old, so mom-ish when I took you to your very first concert, Justin Timberlake, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt with a super cute (I thought) blazer and black converse but I was surrounded by teenagers and young twenty-something’s dressed in high heels and short skirts, hoping to be the “one” that gets noticed. I had to tell you and your sister, “You can’t sit at a concert. Get up and move!” I’m sure I embarrassed you with all my old lady gyrating.
I felt so privileged to calm you down on the phone when you got into a fight with your boyfriend because he didn’t want you to have other boy¬friends. Then we agreed how dumb it was and he was and boys can be in general.
Not all girls are this strong.
Not all girls have a heart so defined.
oh and when the kids are old enough
Moving you to Washington to, “the most remote Coast Guard station in the country”; an adult now, trained, training, working, rescuing, flying. I felt my heart grow bigger, loving the grown up you while treasuring the small you and so incredibly proud of everything you are.
Bre. Breann. Noble. Strong. Virtuous. Honorable. You.
How could we have known when we picked your name it would fit so perfectly? We were just kids - your dad and me. Did you grow into your name? No. No, baby girl. God knew. He knew what you would be from the start.
we gonna teach them to flyyyyyyy
Today I was looking around inside World Market, and they had all these really cool Christmas ornaments, some sparkly and bright, others eclectic and colorful, and I started thinking about how I get you a new ornament each year so that when you move out, you'll have your own. I wondered what I would pick for you this year, even though you are already gone.
I knew right then I will buy you your own ornament forever.
And then I started to cry.
Right there in the middle of the store because I missed you so bad. It didn’t last long. Soon after I started laughing because I could hear you so clearly say to me in your grown-up still a girl voice, "Oh madre - you're such a dork ".
you & me together we could do anything, baby
I can see your heart. It is whole, intact, beautiful, and safe. I did all I could, all I knew and all I wished for to protect it. I kept my monsters away. I fought them banished them cut them from your life my life our heart family.
But
I’ve also tried to warn you, without inhibiting you, that this won’t always be the case. The cracks will come. Sometimes a crack so big a piece may break and you may think you will die from it.
But you won’t.
It takes a lot to kill a heart.
Other hearts come that see inside and they share. They breathe and with each breath, love flows, filling in the cracks, leaving scars… long, deep, red, painful, and sometimes brutally ugly. But ugly scars are perfect. So so so perfect.
you & me together yes, yes
Apr 14, 2014
Time heals what ?
Most of us are familiar with the expression, "Time heals all wounds." It's what we say to someone who has been incredibly hurt, someone that has been left stunned, blind-sided, and doubled over in heart pain with their guts sliding through their fingers. We know swimming with an army of hungry Great Whites and not being swallowed whole is far more likely than an apology from the person who left our friend looking like the walking dead, so we offer up a platitude on a silver tray with a pat on the head.
Neat. Clean. Sterile. Seemingly, the best we can do if we are avoiding complete honesty.
The real response, the one we feel deep in our own gut of pain and camaraderie is, "That really sucks. Let's go get some steel-toed boots and ski masks and kick the crap out of that assjack".
But we don't say this.
Even though it is by far the more empathetic approach.
The wound does suck.
Time does not heal. Time passes.
I think it is funny that we assume if we just put some space between the day of the wound and the apology that never happens, we will be ok.
It's not ok. The wound is not ok.
It just has days of band-aids piled on top of it. It can be 25 band-aids or 1,095 band-aids. (that's three years worth - a lot of freakin band-aids)
For some of us, probably all of us, we have wounds, scrapes, gashes, amputated limbs and heart gouges, inflicted upon us that the inflicter will never take responsibility for. And that really sucks. It does. I have my fair share of imaginary steel-toed boots in my closet with the names of the inflicter engraved on the toe. They are ready.
But i haven't needed them.
I have found that time does not heal the wound but,
forgiveness does.
Forgiveness.
Not letting them back in. Not giving them another boxing glove so they can knock me out on the other side of my face. Not laying down at their feet so they can jump up and down on me like a rag doll and watch the stuffing pop out of my eyes. Not handing them my duct-taped heart so they can throw it against a wall. Again.
Forgiveness.
Just letting it go. Choosing to not let them have control of my happiness. Just saying, "I am not waiting anymore for you to make it better. It's going to be better anyway."
Some people forgive and it's a one time deal. I'm not sure how that kind of forgiveness works but I am slightly envious about it. It's like their soul gets dunked once, really really deep, and they come out all shiny and forgiving. My soul takes a shower in forgiveness each day. It's not a one time dunk for me. Each day i choose, am i going to let forgiveness wash over me or not?
So one day i might be really shiny and new and other days I may have some grease spots and need a change of clothes.
But you know what? So far, this is working.
Matthew 6:11 says, "Give us this day our daily bread." (emphasis mine) He's not talking about food here. He is talking about our needs. God wants us to depend on Him each day for what we need - our physical needs, our spiritual needs, and our emotional needs.
Or in plain English - our strength, our money, our pantry, our love, our kindness towards others, our absence of road rage, and yes, our forgiveness.
Otherwise, we might get a little high and mighty and start thinking about how really great we are and how really lame everyone else is.
If you hurt, you don't have to. I'm not saying it is easy. I'm not gonna lie; some days I'd rather peel my face skin off with my fingernails than forgive some of the people that have hurt me.
But each day it gets a little easier.
Not because time is passing, but because it is becoming easier for me to trust God to meet my need and letting go of my expectation of people to.
XOXO
Neat. Clean. Sterile. Seemingly, the best we can do if we are avoiding complete honesty.
The real response, the one we feel deep in our own gut of pain and camaraderie is, "That really sucks. Let's go get some steel-toed boots and ski masks and kick the crap out of that assjack".
But we don't say this.
Even though it is by far the more empathetic approach.
The wound does suck.
Time does not heal. Time passes.
I think it is funny that we assume if we just put some space between the day of the wound and the apology that never happens, we will be ok.
It's not ok. The wound is not ok.
It just has days of band-aids piled on top of it. It can be 25 band-aids or 1,095 band-aids. (that's three years worth - a lot of freakin band-aids)
For some of us, probably all of us, we have wounds, scrapes, gashes, amputated limbs and heart gouges, inflicted upon us that the inflicter will never take responsibility for. And that really sucks. It does. I have my fair share of imaginary steel-toed boots in my closet with the names of the inflicter engraved on the toe. They are ready.
But i haven't needed them.
I have found that time does not heal the wound but,
forgiveness does.
Forgiveness.
Not letting them back in. Not giving them another boxing glove so they can knock me out on the other side of my face. Not laying down at their feet so they can jump up and down on me like a rag doll and watch the stuffing pop out of my eyes. Not handing them my duct-taped heart so they can throw it against a wall. Again.
Forgiveness.
Just letting it go. Choosing to not let them have control of my happiness. Just saying, "I am not waiting anymore for you to make it better. It's going to be better anyway."
Some people forgive and it's a one time deal. I'm not sure how that kind of forgiveness works but I am slightly envious about it. It's like their soul gets dunked once, really really deep, and they come out all shiny and forgiving. My soul takes a shower in forgiveness each day. It's not a one time dunk for me. Each day i choose, am i going to let forgiveness wash over me or not?
So one day i might be really shiny and new and other days I may have some grease spots and need a change of clothes.
But you know what? So far, this is working.
Matthew 6:11 says, "Give us this day our daily bread." (emphasis mine) He's not talking about food here. He is talking about our needs. God wants us to depend on Him each day for what we need - our physical needs, our spiritual needs, and our emotional needs.
Or in plain English - our strength, our money, our pantry, our love, our kindness towards others, our absence of road rage, and yes, our forgiveness.
Otherwise, we might get a little high and mighty and start thinking about how really great we are and how really lame everyone else is.
If you hurt, you don't have to. I'm not saying it is easy. I'm not gonna lie; some days I'd rather peel my face skin off with my fingernails than forgive some of the people that have hurt me.
But each day it gets a little easier.
Not because time is passing, but because it is becoming easier for me to trust God to meet my need and letting go of my expectation of people to.
XOXO
Apr 11, 2014
Oh Boy
Being a mother is the hardest thing i have ever done. It has left me feeling crazy euphoric and woefully inadequate. It's a roller coaster of the most extreme, between the pride and the horror. And how is it there isn't a test first to make sure anyone should even be a parent? It must be because no one would pass. We pass later. Like, after they move out. I'm not sure if it even matters what they do in life, we just all made it to the move out stage in one piece. No permanent damage. hallelujah.
It's not an easy road though, is it? Oh sure, when they are small and everything is so cute and funny and post-worthy. Have you ever noticed how often parents (ok, mothers - let's just get it out there) share pictures and stories of their kids, sometimes multiple times a day, but if you look closely, you notice this all stops at about, well, 8th grade. There is a shift, it is small at first but as it widens, you can almost feel yourself being pulled out into isolation. This is especially true if you have teenagers and all your friends have kids in the adorable stage. Not that teenagers can't be adorable.... well,ok. They can't. Adorable is not the word for a teenager. EVER.
But the island of Isolation can quickly show you the neighboring island of Fear and then look, there is also Doubt, and then a small boat ride away is Worry. Every now and then you think you can spot the island of Peace but it quickly gets blown up by a volcano and well, you know how long those take to build back up again. So there you are, amidst your islands, paddling hard to stay away from the one called Crazy.
I love my boy. Who looks like a man. Just thinking about him, i can literally feel my heart swell inside of me. It is all of those islands, thumping together inside an ocean of Love. It has been a rough two years. And by rough i mean crying outside in the dark with a cigarette clutched in my frozen fingers in the corner of the yard so no one can see me. I mean conversations with his dad that lasted longer than the movie Titanic with the repeated question, "what are we going to do?" with the same nerve stretching answer, "i don't know." I mean going into his room at night while he sleeps and standing over his bed, with tears sliding down in silence while i pray, begging God to help the both of us. I cry now just typing this because the islands are still here and my heart is raw.
It does not matter what the struggles have been. Our struggles, your struggles - we may be on different cruise ships but it's the same ocean. Sometimes calm with the sun glittering off the surface and sometimes - not.
Hurricane weather.
I cannot list them - that's another thing about having teenagers, you respect their feelings, realizing what you write about them could hurt them. But if i must be completely honest, if i must peek under the band-aid, there is also the fear someone is going to judge my kid, hold his dumb, and sometimes mortifying, decisions against him, think badly of him, whisper to their spouse at night, "i'm so glad our sweet little johnny isn't like so and so." Because hey, even though i know my kid has made some mistakes, that kind of whispering still makes me want to punch you in the throat. You just wait. Those years are coming for ya.
The other Truth though is this - we always wonder, maybe fathers do too but mothers, oh yes, we take the whole world into our heart on this one - what did i do? Or even better, what did i not do right?
Feel me?
I have to pause as i write that because it echoes inside ... wanting an answer. What did i not do right?
I have asked God that so many times. I have cried it, whispered it, yelled it to my lawn. It has pounded itself into my skull and the Enemy of course, taunts me with it. It must be my fault. I am the worst mom. Stupid.
It's because you got divorced. It's because you lost them. It's because you didn't spend enough time. It's because you didn't give enough space.
endless endless condemnation. The island Crazy is getting closer. I can see the dock.
But one night.. one night while i sat in the dark, exhausted in my Worry, numb with it all, i heard God. It sounded like me - in monotone - but it wasn't. It was much to hopeful for that.
"I love him too." Quiet. A still, small voice.
I blinked.
"I love him, just like I love you. You can give him to Me. You can trust Me. Lay him at My feet."
My eyes blurred in the fresh tears.
"I have a plan for him too. A path he must walk. He has to learn to trust me ... just like you did."
and then i sobbed. loud. with snot and weird faces. God saw me. I was Hagar. He saw my heart and how it was twisted all inside out and knotted. He saw my torment and my pain. He saw how much i love my son. He saw me. He heard me. And He met me.
And i got it.
I know the road traveled to know God and then to believe God can be SO HARD.
The Enemy does not want us on this road and so he will throw huge rocks at us to make us fall. I saw the rocks, the boulders, he throws at my son.
Insecurity. Bullying. Indifference. Acne. Self-Esteem. Girls. Peer pressure. Expectations.
But i also see my Jesus. And he is bigger than these rocks. bigger than the Enemy. And so i am choosing today, to believe Him. I am choosing today to rest on His island of Peace and i will not fear the volcanoes nor the hurricanes. I am choosing today God knew what He was doing when he gave me the privilege of being my kid's mom.
God doesn't make mistakes.
It's not an easy road though, is it? Oh sure, when they are small and everything is so cute and funny and post-worthy. Have you ever noticed how often parents (ok, mothers - let's just get it out there) share pictures and stories of their kids, sometimes multiple times a day, but if you look closely, you notice this all stops at about, well, 8th grade. There is a shift, it is small at first but as it widens, you can almost feel yourself being pulled out into isolation. This is especially true if you have teenagers and all your friends have kids in the adorable stage. Not that teenagers can't be adorable.... well,ok. They can't. Adorable is not the word for a teenager. EVER.
But the island of Isolation can quickly show you the neighboring island of Fear and then look, there is also Doubt, and then a small boat ride away is Worry. Every now and then you think you can spot the island of Peace but it quickly gets blown up by a volcano and well, you know how long those take to build back up again. So there you are, amidst your islands, paddling hard to stay away from the one called Crazy.
I love my boy. Who looks like a man. Just thinking about him, i can literally feel my heart swell inside of me. It is all of those islands, thumping together inside an ocean of Love. It has been a rough two years. And by rough i mean crying outside in the dark with a cigarette clutched in my frozen fingers in the corner of the yard so no one can see me. I mean conversations with his dad that lasted longer than the movie Titanic with the repeated question, "what are we going to do?" with the same nerve stretching answer, "i don't know." I mean going into his room at night while he sleeps and standing over his bed, with tears sliding down in silence while i pray, begging God to help the both of us. I cry now just typing this because the islands are still here and my heart is raw.
It does not matter what the struggles have been. Our struggles, your struggles - we may be on different cruise ships but it's the same ocean. Sometimes calm with the sun glittering off the surface and sometimes - not.
Hurricane weather.
I cannot list them - that's another thing about having teenagers, you respect their feelings, realizing what you write about them could hurt them. But if i must be completely honest, if i must peek under the band-aid, there is also the fear someone is going to judge my kid, hold his dumb, and sometimes mortifying, decisions against him, think badly of him, whisper to their spouse at night, "i'm so glad our sweet little johnny isn't like so and so." Because hey, even though i know my kid has made some mistakes, that kind of whispering still makes me want to punch you in the throat. You just wait. Those years are coming for ya.
The other Truth though is this - we always wonder, maybe fathers do too but mothers, oh yes, we take the whole world into our heart on this one - what did i do? Or even better, what did i not do right?
Feel me?
I have to pause as i write that because it echoes inside ... wanting an answer. What did i not do right?
I have asked God that so many times. I have cried it, whispered it, yelled it to my lawn. It has pounded itself into my skull and the Enemy of course, taunts me with it. It must be my fault. I am the worst mom. Stupid.
It's because you got divorced. It's because you lost them. It's because you didn't spend enough time. It's because you didn't give enough space.
endless endless condemnation. The island Crazy is getting closer. I can see the dock.
But one night.. one night while i sat in the dark, exhausted in my Worry, numb with it all, i heard God. It sounded like me - in monotone - but it wasn't. It was much to hopeful for that.
"I love him too." Quiet. A still, small voice.
I blinked.
"I love him, just like I love you. You can give him to Me. You can trust Me. Lay him at My feet."
My eyes blurred in the fresh tears.
"I have a plan for him too. A path he must walk. He has to learn to trust me ... just like you did."
and then i sobbed. loud. with snot and weird faces. God saw me. I was Hagar. He saw my heart and how it was twisted all inside out and knotted. He saw my torment and my pain. He saw how much i love my son. He saw me. He heard me. And He met me.
And i got it.
I know the road traveled to know God and then to believe God can be SO HARD.
The Enemy does not want us on this road and so he will throw huge rocks at us to make us fall. I saw the rocks, the boulders, he throws at my son.
Insecurity. Bullying. Indifference. Acne. Self-Esteem. Girls. Peer pressure. Expectations.
But i also see my Jesus. And he is bigger than these rocks. bigger than the Enemy. And so i am choosing today, to believe Him. I am choosing today to rest on His island of Peace and i will not fear the volcanoes nor the hurricanes. I am choosing today God knew what He was doing when he gave me the privilege of being my kid's mom.
God doesn't make mistakes.
Apr 9, 2014
What is my darkest anyway?
On my facebook page, my cover photo displays a heart with this in the middle, "Shannon - I have loved you at your darkest. I have always loved you. - God."
It's beautiful to me and ever so comforting. I don't know how dark your darkness is, but mine is intense. The kind of dark that makes you wonder if you still exist or if you are floating into nothing. dark. alone. small.
So what is my darkest anyway?
And where did God say that? Because it sounds surprising hip and not very King Jamesey.
When i think of my darkest, my first thoughts are of all the bad things that have happened to me. Things in which i had no control. Things that make me shudder and whimper and want to puke. Those things are black. Yes, yes they are. But are those my darkest? I mean i can claim them as parts of my life but i can't own them as my own. They are things some other evil did to me. And yes, God loved me there (that's a whole other post)or I would not have made it through ... But what are MY things? What dark did I spread? Because if God loved me at my darkest - He loved me in my own darkness.
Not as easy to write.
But i know what they are.
All the times i tore someone down with my words, peeling their feelings away from their heart, layer by layer with each swipe of my sharp tongue. I could stop there and it would be enough. Don't scoff. Don't say,"that's not so bad". Because it is. Oh yes it is dear friends. Still not convinced?
How would you like to hear..
I don't love you anymore. * You're getting fat. * I wish you had never been born. * Why do you make my life so hard? It would be easier if you were just gone. * I hate you. * You make me sick. * I should just kill myself and everyone would be happier. *I hate me. * You're not my friend anymore. *
Can you feel it friends? Can you feel the darkness slithering up on you with each statement? I can. Some of these i have said. Some have been said to me. This is dark.
Or how about lust? Oh i know... lust?! What's the big deal? The world makes it so easy to lust doesn't it? We see so much skin, it's become commonplace. We tell ourselves it's ok if we look, if our spouse looks, because no one wants to be THAT girl - the one that isn't "secure" right? The one that must have self-esteem issues. The one that is a prude and no fun. We want to be the cool chick.
lie. lie. lie.
It's amazing how we fight for so many things but when it comes to our marriages we throw boundaries out the window, we practically shove them out the door, and then we wonder why things fall apart later? But i digress. That is another post as well.
What about MY lust? Looking too long at someone that is not mine. Allowing myself to think, to imagine, what it would be like. Fantasy. I know. It's just fantasy, right? It's not real. It's just in my head. And here's the best part - no one else has to know. Oh secrets secrets. How you trap us from the inside out. It's dark here friends. My dark. Because the more you lust, the more unsatisfied you become. The more your spouse starts to irritate you. The more you notice his nose hairs aren't trimmed and did he really just fart again?! He didn't take out the trash and he bought you flowers but geez, doesn't he know by now what my favorite is? The itch spreads. The complaint list grows. Distance becomes reality. You can both feel it. Gratefulness has been replaced bitterness. Gentleness for abrasion. And it all started in my head.
There are other darks. The Enemy is doing the happy dance right now with placards being raised to remind me of them all. "Smoker!" "Drunk!" "Rude!" "Unforgiving!" "Impatient!" "Road-rage freak!" "Shopper at Target when there is no money!"
You get it.
So I'm going to stop now and move into the light. You know, the love part.
Where does it say God loved me at my darkest?
It's a paraphrase folks. Of the coolest kind. This is what it does say ...
But God demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us. Romans 5:8
Now for some of you, the whole "sin" word puts your panties in a bunch. That's kind of your issue. Sin. Wrong-doing. Bad choices. Whatever package you want to wrap it in - it's still sin. You know it. How? Because you felt guilty when you did it and some really bad stuff went down afterward.
For some of us - for me - love has not been easy. I have always always had the fear of doing something wrong and i would lose it. This has been my truth. More than twice. Losing love. Because i wasn't worth it.
But here - in this verse - a new truth.
While i was still a sinner.... while i lusted, while i tore down, while i was drunk, while i was high, while i screamed there is no God, while i had sex with people i did not know, while i took my frustrations out on my kids, while i nagged, while i was selfish, while i laughed when someone else was down, while i did all these and more - he loved me anyway. he wanted me anyway. he waited for me anyway.
darkness. gave way to light.
Apr 7, 2014
hello ...
i love to write. it has been my dream to write a book. why a book? well it just seemed like the most natural thing to do. writers write books.
But here's the thing - i am not a very good book writer.
I am unorganized. I am a little scattered. And i have a tendency to get stuck. Some can write their darkest, set down their pen, and go eat a piece of cake. I write my darkest, throw my pen against a wall, and eat the entire cake. My mind can't say "see ya later" to the dark spot. It's like checking into a hotel thinking it will be a quick overnight and next thing you know, you are renting the room by the month. And we all know what those hotels look like. Say hello to sleeping with the lights on and not walking around with bare feet. You get it.
So for now, the book is out. i have to admit, this really bothered me. I thought to myself, "Why God? Why did you give me this desire but not the follow-through? I mean, i feel like LOSER is stamped on my forehead."
And then God answered me. I think he tried to answer me a long time ago but i wouldn't stop talking at him long enough to hear ... or maybe i thought i heard but dismissed the idea as not good enough. Weird right?
Real writers don't blog.
Do they?
i have no idea. i am not sure what makes a "real writer" anymore. All i know for pretty certain, certain enough that i don't feel like i need to swallow a bottle of pepto to quell the queasiness, is this, this blog thing, feels pretty alright.
So here i am. and here you are.
Can i just say thank you for reading this at all? I know there are so many options, and not a lot of time. My hope is that you find hope in this. That it makes your day a little easier, a little brighter, or at the very least, that you feel understood. If you can ever read anything i write and think, "yessss" then that would make my heart pump a little faster. Isn't that what we all want? Just to be seen.
What will this blog be about? I asked God that too.
Remember i said i am a little unorganized? a little scattered? So expect that.
It will be about life,
and stuff,
and everything.
Some will be daises and butterflies... others will look like something from Coraline - dark and creepy with the distinct impression something is not right. But that's life. At least what i have seen so far. I love the daises and butterflies ... but i will face that dark. i will take hold of the creepy. and together we will stare down the things that just are not right.
we will do this together.
I'm in.
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