Processing [like my ancient desktop]

Hello, friend! First of all, thank you for bearing with me during these long intervals between posts.

Work has been a bit rough. (I'm really looking forward to tomorrow--my day off after seven 8-12hour work days! The Lord continues to be generous: both by providing me with income, and also by giving me incentive to be deliberate with my free time.)

But work really hasn't been the main issue. This subject-matter is intensely personal...writing each of these posts involves revisiting and reexamining. I cannot express how grateful I am that my Lord is calling me to embark on this internal-external journey. And I am truly humbled that you, dear reader, choose to include my journey in the course of your own. Thank you, my friend. And thank You, my Lord!

The next post will really begin exploring my relationship with my father, and the impact of that very broken relationship. This is very difficult for me to write about. I do not want to bash another fallen human being; yet I have only my biased perspective from which to draw. Another complication results from the ongoing rift between my father and myself. Unlike my relationships with my mom and younger sister, there has been no reconciliation with my father. So I am fully aware that whatever the Lord leads me to share with you will be material that my father has not sanctioned me to share. Moreover, he would probably consider virtually all of this information to be preposterous, perhaps even take my words as a direct attack. I have no desire to hurt my father...but I am called first and foremost to be obedient to my Father and Lord. So I will be sharing some things with you soon. Thank you again for bearing with me as I pray and diligently seek a righteous balance.

I am continuing to pray for you, my reader and friend. And I am very grateful for your prayers, as well!

Joy and Wonder

The most spectacular moments in my life are often the quietest: when I find myself drawn to a Presence who shouts in whispers and destroys with a gentle touch; when I behold and discover I am held. This is the true miracle.


(By Your Side) www.youtube.com/watch?v=J3BGYttwfGI

(Hallelujah) www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3PC43TZt_s

(Beloved) www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XtL6ZxHbUQ


Thank you, my Lord!

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~A Long Road to The Beginning~
I have a confession to make: as a young girl I decided that I was too boring. More specifically, I decided that my testimony was too boring. All the people with interesting testimonies—it seemed to me—had lived very ungodly lives. But I was a “good girl” from a “good Christian family” (keep in mind that this was my perception at the time). If I ever wanted to have a worthwhile story about being saved by the Lord, I concluded I would have to change my lifestyle. So, I announced to the Most High God that I was going to go lead a horrible life for the next few years, and catch up with him later on.

Please, feel free to laugh! I chuckle at myself every time I remember that decision. It certainly seemed like a logical conclusion to my frightened, angry, self-centered eleven-year-old mind… In reality, I wanted an excuse to vent my bottled-up frustration by acting out. So I justified it with the comforting rationale of a grand scene of repentance sometime in the future—a moving story that focused on myself, at a time of my choosing.

Well, that happy little plan of mine didn’t turn out quite as I’d hoped. Less than two years later, my sweet and generous Lord “jerked a knot in my tail.” Against my will, my parents once again registered me for church camp. Some clerical error caused me, a thirteen-year-old, to be registered for the seventeen- and eighteen-year-old camp. There were no openings in the correct camps for my age division by the time this “mistake” was discovered. I fought the Lord tooth-and-nail during that week of camp. I was not going to give up control! But in the space of five, my Savior and King brought me to my knees. These blind eyes caught a glimpse of who He is, and who I am not. That was the first and only year I ever appreciated church camp. And the blessings and relationship I received from Holy Spirit during that special week have been my ongoing comfort and strength. Oh, my dear reader, what a holy, loving God we serve! What a wonderful Lord our Jesus is!

~ ~ ~

My repentance and new-found relationship with Jesus Christ did not instantly fix my personal and familial struggles, though. The process continued to be just that—a process. In fact, I seemed to grow very little during the next five years. Then again, I could not bring myself to acknowledge many of the areas in which change needed to occur. Denial was my closest friend. Adonai Nissi generously created another “knot-jerking” opportunity. This second time, however, He chose to do it in a longer time frame.

When it came time to fill out college applications in the spring of my junior year and autumn of my senior year, I was utterly lost. For all intents and purposes, my mother was the only family member gainfully employed during the majority of my high school career. My PSAT and SAT scores were good enough that brochures inundated our mailbox; it was like receiving Christmas cards every day. (My little sister heavily promoted whichever colleges seemed to be geographically farthest away.) But there was absolutely no money. I had no funds of my own; and my mother’s earnings could not simultaneously pay the bills and college tuition. I do not recall my father voicing any opinion on the dilemma. My mom strongly suggested that I take a year off and earn some money toward college. I’m not the most perceptive critter on the face of this planet, but I understood my own patterns of behavior well enough to reject Mom’s suggestion. I was certain that I could not take a break without losing all momentum. I feared that one year off would quickly turn into five, and then twelve, and then… But did I really have an alternative?

I distinctly remember lying awake in bed one night in mid-September, frustrated, uncertain, and scared. Should I try to attend college? Where should I go? When should I go? How could I afford to get there? The questions and the darkness pressed in around my bed like a stalking panther, breathing slowly and biding its time. I muffled my sobs in a pillow to avoid disturbing the little sister sleeping nearby. But finally the weight stalking me grew overwhelming. I opened my mouth and declared to the Lord, “You have to show me. You have to tell me. I can’t decide; and I don’t know what to do. Show me!”

I felt the darkness recede. The room’s interior remained dark, except for a dim night-light; but the weight retreated, leaving…space. And into that newly-created space around my bed flooded an overwhelming peace. Assurance. I could only lie there, tear trails drying on my cheeks as I marveled at the buoyancy of this peace. And then I heard the silhouette of a voice. I’m not sure how I can better describe it. I heard-saw-felt words that were audible, yet entirely silent. For a moment, I knew beyond the tiniest doubt that I am absolutely known. In the silhouette of a voice, my Lord told me very clearly: “You are going to ______ University. And you are going next year.” That was more than enough answer for me!

I was vaguely aware of the private university to which the Lord said he would be sending me. Considering the field of study I planned to pursue, it had not been one of my top choices. But I submitted a grand total of two college applications, dear reader: one to the school I had been told, and a second to another private university where I hoped to complete graduate studies.

By Thanksgiving, I had been accepted into both colleges. Meanwhile, I endured a healthy dose of criticism for my apparent lack of initiative. My mother was rather skeptical of what I said the Lord had spoken to me. My father was downright dismissive. Even after my acceptance letters arrived, he continued insisting that I should wise up and apply to at least a couple of state schools. I continued to stand my ground. I knew what I had heard that night. I knew Who spoke to me. There were hours and days when continued faith was difficult in the face of such doubt. But the Lord gave me the strength necessary to stand firm.

Like anyone else preparing for college, I applied for any and all scholarships. The majority of my senior year seemed like one endless line of applications…and subsequent rejection letters. No financial aid was forthcoming. To make matters worse, my father herniated a disc in his neck in mid-November. He had spinal fusion surgery on Christmas Eve. Whatever small financial assistance I could have hoped to receive from my parents disappeared in medical bills. I had been accepted into the expensive university of my choice. But unless God intended to disguise me as a piece of someone’s dorm room furniture, I had no idea how he planned to get me there.

One afternoon in March, my father answered the telephone and then brought the phone to me in the kitchen. He didn’t know who the caller was. Nevertheless, any excuse to abandon homework is a good excuse. I took the receiver. The business-like woman on the other end of the line politely verified my identity. Then, she informed me that the foundation she represented had selected me as a recipient of their full-ride scholarship. After a very mature response of, “Are you serious?” (to which she replied that, yes, she was in fact serious) I uttered an equally mature statement of, “Oh, I love you! (to which she really had no reply at all). Once she gave me the few details I could handle at that point in time, we hung up. Many people can attest that I have a healthy set of lungs. But I doubt that even my younger sister, sitting in the living room at the moment, had ever heard me hit quite that decibel or hold it quite that long. God is so Good.

An eight semester full-ride scholarship, with a book stipend. God wasn’t going to disguise me as dorm room furniture. He was instead sending me as a student in my own right—a student who would graduate practically debt-free. Never forget, dear reader: the God we serve does not do half-baked jobs. When he says he will make an opening through a stone wall for you, rest assured that the opening will be perfect in shape and size. The manner in which he chooses to provide for us may differ, but it is always complete, always perfect.

My Lord is often very humorous in his manner of bestowing gifts. I did not spend years battling alcohol and drug addictions. I never joined a cult or participated in gang activity. I haven’t slept around. I cannot truthfully say that I became a believer due to the Lord miraculously healing my broken body after a nearly-fatal plunge down Niagara Falls. (That would be quite a story, though, wouldn’t it?) And yet, in spite of my lack of “exciting” history, he has fulfilled the desire of my rebellious eleven-year-old heart: the Most High God has created a powerful testimony in my life. One that is uniquely mine and His. Such a beautiful gift from the One who loves me best and protects me always!

~ ~ ~

As we move forward, please join me in worshiping our wonderful Lord, Savior and Friend. Let’s keep pressing in toward Him as we continue our joint exploration. And thank you so very much for walking with me. This is where it all begins!

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~More Memories...Receding Thunder, Gathering Perspective~

While my mother’s anger was not as dangerous as my father’s, her temper displayed itself more regularly. This was partially the result of personality, partially a by-product of her career as a stay-at-home mom. (We had more opportunities to witness her anger; and, in all fairness, any stay-at-home parent endures a great deal of frustration.) Often, in the face of her rising aggravation toward my younger sister and myself, I remember deliberately choosing to provoke my mother’s anger. Looking back now, I’m sure there was an element of attention-seeking in my ploy. Yet on many occasions I made a very conscious choice to draw my mother’s anger toward myself, and away from my sister. If I provoked her enough, our mother would storm into her bedroom, slam the door, and remain there for a while. And that was usually the end of it.

But over the years, my attempts to divert negative attention from my younger sister lessened substantially. Even during the period of time I sought to protect her from others, I tormented her myself. Before she was even out of diapers I did many unkind—sometimes downright cruel—things to my little sister.

I recently gave my sister a letter that included the following excerpt:

“At the age of three, I deliberately cracked a windshield with my forehead, simply because I didn’t want to leave Grandma’s house; you weren’t even born then. For years, everything angered me. But you know that better than most: nothing fueled my rage as well as you did. You still bear scars from where I’ve clawed at you, dug into you [both physically and emotionally]. I learned at a young age that it was unacceptable to spit on you, and the consequences of slapping and punching you were not generally worth the momentary satisfaction. But I could yell at you. Oh, how I could yell at you… I know you dreaded being left alone with me.

‘Don’t you ever lock me out of a room again! You can’t begin to imagine how bad I’ll hurt you the next time. I’ll kill you!’

I screamed down onto your face for fully ten minutes on that occasion, savoring every moment. I remember the cold doorknob I had dismantled to reach you, now clenched in my hand with heavy power; I probably brandished the screwdriver like a dagger at your belly. I can’t recall all the words I spewed at you—nothing inventive, I’m sure. But I didn’t need creative threats; I just needed to bear down on you with my malice. I lusted for the sight of fear crawling white across your eight-year-old face, watching your nose and lips grow thickly flush as tears built flimsy shields across your eyes. I craved the thrill, the rushing roar a predator feels in the fresh victim’s dying throbs. Vampires do exist: I have been one.”

My sister had not provoked me. With both of our parents gone that particular afternoon, she hoped for a little space, a little freedom…from me. So after school she took her pink backpack into our parents’ bedroom (the only room with locking doorknobs) to do her homework in peace. My rage was not justified. Yet I pounded on the door, screaming at her to unlock it, wrapped in a fury that convinced me her quiet actions were a challenge or a threat, and finally dismantled a doorknob to give vent to my rage and secure my authority. Once certain that my little sister would never consider such a ploy again, I calmly reassembled the doorknob and returned to my own homework. I had slaked my thirst. So I left the freshly mauled carcass bleeding in the corner of our parents’ bedroom.

In many ways, I was not my own. Whether I was born heir to the sins of my parents (generational sin), or had made my own pact, I don’t know. But I participated willingly in this hellish partnership from a very young age. The sin curse of anger that rode me demanded life; my younger sister’s life was easy and sweet. I paid what seemed to be the necessary price to receive the power of escape, of freedom. But I gained only bondage. And I inflicted great pain. Tremendous pain.

~ ~ ~

I need you to have a balanced picture of my character as we move forward, dear reader. I am no saint; I am a fallen human being. If you find anything Good in me, remember that it is entirely the work of my Savior and Lord. My merits are not my own. My righteousness is entirely His grace. We serve such a beautiful God!

~ ~ ~

My mother repented of her anger. She hated the way she found herself behaving. I still remember her opening her bedroom door time and time again with sad eyes, and often with tears still streaming down her face. She apologized each time. She fervently sought the Lord’s healing. And she has changed. My mother is a beautiful example of the redemptive power of Jesus Christ. I am honored and privileged to learn from her, to grow with her.

I have repented of my own anger. This does not mean I don’t find myself struggling with this emotion at times. The Holy Spirit has been walking me through my Lord’s “Anger-holics Anonymous program” ever since I first surrendered to him in 1997. It’s been a long journey—often slow and seemingly unfruitful. But those who have walked with me can see the enormous transformation God has done in this area of my life. I’m honored that his name can be glorified through my weakness, my choices. He is healing me! And he is healing my sister.

I have asked my younger sister’s forgiveness; she has forgiven me. But the road to building a healthy relationship is still long and painful. She is just now beginning to believe that I truly won’t fly into a rage over the slightest things. After seeking change and healing in this relationship for several years, I am finally beginning to become a big sister—in the way I could not be for such a very long time. (I look forward to sharing more about what I have learned from younger sisters later in our journey.) I cannot thank my Lord often enough for the precious gift of little sisters! I treasure those relationships more than I myself possibly could if I had never abused them so horribly.

~ ~ ~

• My dear reader, have you yourself struggled with this same unholy pact? There are many, many reasons for anger…but when we allow that anger to consume us, our thoughts, words, and actions are never justified. And they always cause such deep wounds. As the Lord prompts you, and grants you the strength to do so, you can and should ask forgiveness of your Redeemer who loves you, and of those you have hurt (if possible). And DO NOT allow self-condemnation to overtake you, my friend. This is a process—often a long, and seemingly unfruitful one. Don’t worry: those who love you will forgive you. In whatever capacity the Lord allows, they will walk beside you through this process. With a loving smile, I joyfully welcome you to “Anger-holics Anonymous.” Let’s keep pressing in, shall we?

• My dear reader, do you carry wounds inflicted by the unholy pact of another? If so, please allow me to apologize here and now—on behalf of the one who hurt you, and on behalf of myself. I truly hope those who may have hurt you have asked for your forgiveness. We all want to hear a sincere “I’m sorry.” It means so much to know that someone realizes the damage of his or her actions. But sometimes the damage is accidental. And in the case of people who struggle with rage, often those who cause damage are too damaged themselves to see or acknowledge their guilt. So if you have not heard the words you need to hear, dear reader, please accept them from me. With tears in my eyes, please believe me when I say, “I am truly sorry for the pain that has been caused in your heart. I’m so sorry. To my sisters: please forgive me for any deliberate or accidental pain I have caused you. To everyone: please accept this apology in lieu of an apology from the one who has hurt you, and please forgive him or her.”

It’s often easier to forgive and move forward once someone asks for our forgiveness. But what happens if the ones who have hurt us most deeply never acknowledge the wrong of their words and actions? What if the repentant petition for forgiveness never comes?

Well, that requires a new level of forgiveness, my dear reader. We’ll explore that together next.

~ ~ ~

As always, feel free to ask questions or discuss reactions. You are most welcome! I am continuing to pray for you.

That Which the Locust Has Eaten

~A Memory~

In my parents' house, we’ve used the same set of Tupperware water glasses for as long as I can recall. Six tall plastic cups—each a different pastel color. None of us ever used the yellow cup or the peach cup; they resided in the cabinet, waiting for company. But the remaining four Tupperware glasses were permanently assigned: Dad used blue; Mom had pink; my younger sister Becky chose green; and I took white.

When I was twelve, I stopped drinking from the white glass.

~ ~ ~

I’ve always loved experimenting with food. (My poor Mom! She suffered through some very interesting concoctions in the early years. I understand there was even a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich on garlic bread. Mom says that’s the only one of my bizarre creations she just couldn’t bring herself to eat.) One morning when I was twelve, I decided to make breakfast for everyone: Cream of Wheat, the breakfast of champions. I chose to use a saucepan rather than the microwave because Dad and Becky both liked their Cream of Wheat to be lumpy. (Lumps are more easily created in the slow cooking method.) But before dividing the hot cereal into four servings, I put a few drops of food coloring in the bottom of each empty bowl. Dad received blue; Mom got pink; Becky had green; and I used the remaining color, yellow, for myself. Then I gently spooned Cream of Wheat into each bowl, all the while being careful not to expose the color buried underneath. When each person stirred sugar into his or her breakfast, it changed colors!

I was delighted by the success of my “magic trick.” Becky giggled: her cereal now resembled Nickelodeon slime. Mom remarked that her pink Cream of Wheat looked as though it should taste like strawberry as she smiled and ate.

Dad exploded.

As soon as blue streaks appeared in his bowl, Dad’s bulky shoulders stiffened. “What is this!” he demanded. By the time all of his cereal acquired a tranquil blue tint, Dad’s mouth and brow were contorted in fury. His blue eyes darkened as they bored into me. “This is disgusting! Why would you do this to my food!” Heavy anger clenched his hands. After one final glare of outrage, Dad shoved back from the table, rose, roughly grabbed his bowl, and stalked across the room. Metal spoon scraped against ceramic: I watched my father force his bowl to regurgitate its pretty blue contents, lumps and all, into the trash can.

Turning to glare at me again, Dad sneered, “I’ll make my own breakfast.” He made a great display of finding a clean pan. He then cooked a single serving of untainted Cream of Wheat and returned to the table, pointedly ignoring me.

Reader, I had been so excited, so proud of my special breakfast idea. I sat there watching Dad devour his white, unsullied Cream-of-Wheat...and a small piece of my twelve-year-old heart quietly died. A larger piece screamed in defiance.

“Would you refill my glass?” Dad handed me his blue cup without raising his eyes from his breakfast.

I walked to the kitchen counter and poured my father a fresh glass of water without any complaint. But defiance still screamed within me. The nearby salt shaker seemed to offer a quiet invitation in response to my heart’s war cry. Without pausing to consider the possible consequences, I accepted the offer. Even as I grasped the glass shaker and watched the first battery of hard white crystals whfft! into the blue cup, I knew my actions were wrong. But I didn’t care. Two, three, four dashes of salt into the cold, thirsty water.

I returned Dad’s blue glass calmly to his waiting hand. Collecting empty bowls, I was back at the counter studiously organizing dirty pots and dishes by the time I heard the first spluttering gulp behind me. Dad’s cup slammed down on the table; the delayed sounds of water splashing out were lost in his roar.

“You put salt in my water?!” I turned to see his fleshy cheeks shaking and his mouth contorted. One large hand still clenched the pale blue cup, knuckles whitening at though they grasped my neck. His shortage of words was my clearest indicator of the depth of his rage. White overtook his face; blue eyes devoured me.

I said nothing. The fear in my mind narrowly outweighed the vengeance in my heart.

With a snarl on his lips, Dad jerked to his feet, snatched my white glass from its place on the table, and stalked out of the room.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I watched him return a few minutes later, striding directly toward me. He held out my white glass. Brassy-yellow liquid filled it to the brim. And then the warm tang of urine reached my nose.

My father moved in close. Using his bulky frame to force me back against the kitchen counter, he brandished my white glass—shoved a full glass of his own urine—in my face. His blue eyes hard as crystal, Dad stared at me and ordered, “Drink this. All of it. This is what it’s like when you mess with my food!”

~ ~ ~

I remember the hard edge of the countertop cutting into my lower back during the long minutes I tearfully refused the cup he sought to force on me. The rage in his eyes was almost gleeful. Malice filled his loud threats. “Drink it!” he continued to shout. “You like trying new things. Try this!”

I remember Mom rushing to my side. She tried to reason with him; he only grew more belligerent. I remember grasping the counter behind me and arching far away from the yellow warmth of his urine, as my white drinking glass continued to be pressed toward my lips. Mom’s repeated attempts to reason with him; his repeated insistence that I needed a lesson. I remember my hands shaking. I remember sobbing. I remember knowing with absolute certainty: “He is really going to make me drink it.”

After several minutes, Mom finally managed to placate him—talk him down. By then, Dad knew he’d won. That was enough to satisfy him.

Mom bleached my white glass. Multiple times. But I never could bring myself to drink from it again. I chose to use the yellow cup instead. The white drinking glass joined the peach glass in the cabinet. But any time company came over, it didn’t matter whether Mom, Becky, or I was the one pouring drinks: each of us used the white cup only as a last resort. And if we did have to give someone that glass, we were always secretly embarrassed about it. I myself never have touched the white cup to my lips since that memorable day. But the few times that incident subsequently came up in family conversation, Dad didn’t even remember it happening.

~ ~ ~

Now, we only have five Tupperware drinking glasses. The peach cup still sits in the cabinet, waiting for company. The blue one waits with it. As for the rest, Mom has pink; Becky chooses green; and I take the yellow.

Last August, I finally burned the white glass.

~ ~ ~

I'm going to enable the comment function on this post. Please keep in mind that sharing this event is not a cry for sympathy. There will be a related follow-up post coming soon. If you have questions or comments--if this causes you to think and you'd like to think "out loud" among friends--you are more than welcome to do so.

I am continuing to pray for you, dear reader. And thank you for your prayers as well!

Intermission

Hello, my friends! Please forgive me for the delay in posting further installments. Life has become rather hectic in recent weeks. It's nice that our Lord is gracious enough to always present us with new challenges, isn't it? ^_^
There is always at least one more area in which I need increased trust. He continually seeks to unify my heart--enabling me to love Him more, and serve Him better. We worship a truly generous God!

How are you doing right now, dear reader? I would love to continue praying for you. Please feel free to post prayer requests here for all to see; let's lift each other up! If you have private prayer requests, and know my personal contact information, you can also contact me that way.