I was in my mid-twenties—a mom of two small girls and wife to a skilled but struggling contractor who built custom homes. We lived on a virtual shoestring. Nonetheless, my life stretched ahead in an optimistic array of expectations, hopes, dreams, reality, and a thirst for beauty and spiritual depth. With hard work and planning, we could live and love and achieve.
While I delighted in creating a nest, deep down, I knew I needed more. For my mental health, I soon found I could turn mundane chores into exercises of efficiency and take pride in “using my time wisely.” Living for others’ expectations was a way of life back then, yet I struggled to distinguish between my identity and theirs.
Needlework helped keep me sane. It provided an outlet that was practical but, more importantly, beautiful. I knitted, crocheted, and sewed. I poured over quilt patterns. That’s when I discovered the tulips.
The tulips were simple appliques in a quilting book. Bold, bright, and cheerful. I knew I wanted to use them. I didn’t know how or where. I especially didn’t know when.
Because. Time.
I purchased the fabrics—vintage material now—cut and even appliqued a few. Then mother-ing and wife-ing and other-ing took precedence, and the squares and cut-out tulip shapes were tucked away for another time when, who knew, they might make their way to the top of my list.
Fast-forward fifty years.
Fifty years. Thirty-three of those years included recognizing and writing about a segment of my life—a story within my story. Among many other life happenings, I rethought the events and developed a deeper understanding. Like the tulip squares in the bottom of my cedar chest, the story version morphed as it percolated.
How did time get away? Should it matter?
I’m reading the book “Unmasking Autism.” It states, “Expand the time frame you use to gauge productivity and success. Take the “long view” of your life. Don’t be afraid to cycle back to old projects. Slow down. Stillness helps neurodivergent minds process the huge quantities of data we take in.”
“In order to build a life that suits them, [the autistic] have had to learn to let certain unfair expectations go and withdraw from activities that don’t matter to them.”
After fifty years, the tulips found their place in a new nest I’m creating. Because sometimes “You have to be able to say ‘no’ to certain unreasonable expectations in order to genuinely say ‘yes’ to the things you care about.”
My writing process has given me the “long view” of my life. So what if it’s taken time?
Now, the story is ripe. It’s ready. I’m scheduling, as God directs, its launch no later than a year from this fall.
It’s also time for the tulips.
(All quotes from “Unmasking Autism” by Devon Price, Ph.D.)
“The tired-er you get, the faster you go,” Dad used to comment when she was eight. Now, at seventy-two, her steps halt as my sister wheels her suitcase down the hall to our lodging at the conference center. JerryAnn isn’t going fast today, but she is going.
“Sciatica,” she says and twists her thinning lips into a smile. As a retired nurse, her quiet knowledge seems ever at the ready, but as I hold open the door to our room, we both know the root of her latest ailment.
Twenty-seven long years ago she began mental health therapy, and, as she came out of dissociation, she dealt with her memories on an adult level. God’s healing process restored her mind and heart, but her body continues to suffer the consequence of unimaginable evil.
As a child, she depleted her energy quotient, for how else does one run off nervous trauma when a perpetrator threatens?
“Praise, God,” she says as we settle into our room. “I know He has wonderful things in store for us this weekend. I can hardly wait.”
Yes, praise God.Because, after all these years, how much longer can you wait to fulfill the burning passion of what you know is your purpose—our purpose? How much longer will our hope be deferred?
A few minutes later, I remind myself to slow my pace as we make our way to register for our first Called to Peace Ministries conference. We collect our name tags from a welcoming volunteer and check the schedule.
With a quick scan I see that “Understanding & Overcoming Dissociation” will be one of this evening’s topics. Timely. Tomorrow morning it’s “How God Will Redeem Your Story.” My heart gives a joyful leap.
Redeeming our stories, especially JerryAnn’s, is our hope. Her story has already been redeemed in her personal life, but precious few have heard the beautiful details of how God accomplished it.
Her brown eyes meet mine and a dimple deepens her smile. Her shoulders shiver in delight. “I know. I just know God is going to make things happen this weekend,” she says.
I nod in agreement. “Me too.” We weave our way through the growing number of women who are undoubtedly in different stages of surviving abuse, gaining freedom, and finding healing. “And,” I add, “I think networking here will come easy.”
We’ve spent years talking and planning and writing and dreaming and living and waiting on God. We both feel it in our spirits. This weekend is a turning point.
And it is. There’s deep, well presented sessions that share a common thread of love and comfort and excellent advice. Around the meal tables, there’s animated sharing. I jot down names and contact information.
One woman was gang raped, but is free of the trauma and seems fulfilled in the role God has given her. Another woman lived in a homeless shelter, but is now in her own place. Some are mothers, heartbroken with concern over how their choices to leave their marriage will affect their children. God has given one precious helper a passion to make a difference, even though she’s never been abused. Many speak of being rejected by their church when they left their abusers. Others share the opposite and say that, fortunately, their churches are havens of safety and support.
JerryAnn and I share our stories too. In this setting, people seem eager to hear. They understand. I tell how I’ve finally completed writing my experience, how I’m seeking a publisher, and how my three-volume series, Sisters of Silence, is meant to speak to the fact that a culture of silence negatively impacts not only the abused, but also the family members.
“Finishing JerryAnn’s story is next,” I say. “It’s almost done. It’s time.”
JerryAnn’s enthusiasm bubbles over as she talks of the God-concepts she’s learned while being restored. “It’s a process,” she tells them, “and I love process. God’s given me a vision for a multi-faceted enterprise I’m calling Kingdom Flow. I want to show how the Kingdom of Heaven flows to us here on earth in healing waves. Trauma affects our bodies, but God has made every provision. Here’s how it works….”
There’s a woman at our table who catches the spark and insists JerryAnn speak at a coming event.
Her face alight, my sister sucks in a breath. “That’s just the motivation I need to get my thoughts in order.”
After a long, glorious day, we retreat to our room, weary but satisfied.
JerryAnn hobbles in and, with a sigh, settles on her bed. “Oh, no,” she groans, “I forgot to take my insulin.” She slowly rises and opens the small refrigerator. “And this nerve pain…in a minute I’m going down to the microwave and warm up my heat wrap. It helps me sleep.”
Compassion whelms within me. How long, Lord? How long for her hope to be fulfilled?
She inserts the needle and gives a quiet yelp. Her body folds. With each breath in, then out, she speaks the name of God. “Yah-weh. Yah-weh. I praise You, Father, for Your healing power. If not today, the day is coming. I praise You, Yeshua. I love You. I trust You.”
JerryAnn believes in the power of words. Praise is her go-to at times like this, even when, like she says, her energy isn’t what it used to be.
Okay, Lord. It’s time.
I take off my shoes, get onto my own bed, and relax against the pillows. “His strength is made perfect in our weakness,” I say.
Even though her eyes are dulled with pain, she tosses me a grin. “I believe it,” she says, “and I can’t wait to see how His strength is perfected in me.”
Morning comes and, from her phone, she selects songs of worship. Today, we have a Zoom appointment with a fellow survivor whose podcast, Only God Rescued Me redeems the stories of other SRA victors. She’s invited us to be her next guests.
After a bit, JerryAnn turns off her music and rummages in her suitcase.
“Our interview is today,” I remind her.
She clasps her hands and holds them against her chest. “I know.” Her voice nearly squeaks. “Today I get to tell my story. Isn’t God awesome? It’s like He’s saying, ‘And now. Now is the time.’”
Yes, God, You’re doing it. NOW.
We enfold each other in a hug, and we pray.
When we leave our room, we walk into a fresh, spring day of new beginnings.
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” Proverbs 13:12 NIV
ONLY YOU
Only you know how
To take my need and turn it into
Overflowing rich supply.
Only you can take my heartbreak
And make it hold YOU.
When crying
Desire fills my sleepless night,
You alone bring peaceful restful hope.
And when my angry, wounded heart
Cannot love
Or obey
Or forgive
Only you can soften it,
Dissolve the rocks of rebellion
Bring forth
The love I never could produce.
You knead the essential oils
Of your redemption’s sorrow.
I begin to feel the hard, heavy lump
Of dough that is my heart
Come alive.
Your love brings
Submission to your radical transformation.
Wet tears flow
The minerals dissolve
Leaving behind
A fragrance sweet
And everything has changed!
Only because of YOU!
by JerryAnn Berry Written April 10, 2022
at the conclusion of the He Makes All Things New conference
Rose-Marie knew love existed—true, romantic only-come-once kind of love. That sense of belonging. That perfect fit she had felt way back when. Even though it had never been defined from the long-ago past, the seed lay silent and still in her heart. Maybe it would sprout within her marriage. If she never gave up. If she did all the right things, said all the right words, and just tried hard enough. Surely that love existed. Surely there was hope.
Years passed. She birthed children. She struggled against poverty. She rejoiced in the new life of springtime and the goodness of the earth abundant in harvest. And she loved, the best she knew with compassion and care, yet in the hidden regions, a faint memory of that special type of love lingered. This choice to love was not the same. Her heart knew the difference, but it was still.
Nonetheless, God should be pleased with her trying, and searching, and her obedience. He should be pleased, indeed. Hope remained within the seed-truth of her heart. The longed-for love was there, somewhere. It had to be. It just had to.
There was a young, married couple in her life who seemed quite in love. They were professionals, with more money than she would ever see and a good many rungs ahead on the social ladder. They took an interest and drew her and her family into their world.
Until, one day, the phone rang.
Rose-Marie hurried in from hanging diapers on the line.
“So, have you heard?”
“Heard what?” Rose-Marie’s grasp tightened on the receiver.
“They’re splitting up.”
“What?” Rose-Marie plopped down on the closest chair; her chest tight. Not two people who had everything going for them. Surely not.
The voice on the other end explained, but it didn’t matter how the separation had happened. It had happened.
Head swimming, Rose-Marie returned to the diapers. Keep clipping clothespins. Clip. Hang. Clip.
If those two could not make marriage work, how could she? How could anyone? Maybe there was no such thing as true love.
Shake out a diaper. Pin it quick. Shake another against the wind. Be slapped in the face with white wetness. Shake.
If true love did not exist, then what….
What if God does not exist?
Days passed. She went through the motions of life.
She visited the town library.
That evening, curled at the end of the couch beneath a lamp, she began to read. Cocooned within the pages, a true story unfolded, took wings, and flew straight to her heart.
The author and his wife lived a life of oneness and joy. Love, he wrote, if it was the real thing, required that a spark leap back and forth between the lovers. Things would become intense. Love would build up like voltage in a coil. True love was not the sound of just one hand clapping. Oh, no. Love was mutual.
Rose-Marie stared unseeing into the quiet of the room. A dawning awareness crept into her mind. True, romantic love and oneness did exist.
The story told how the couple found God together and realized an even greater bond. Then his wife became ill and died.
Afterwards, through years of grief, he came to see his wife’s death as a mercy—one God had allowed for his ultimate good. He called it a severe mercy.
Rose-Marie closed the book, tears streaming.
True love was real. The story proved it. The promise within her own heart had always affirmed it.
Summer shimmered its way toward early fall and produced her garden’s bounty. Her mind stayed as busy as her hands. Where was that Bible verse about faith? Maybe, Hebrews. She left the rows of corn and leaned the hoe against the house. Inside, her Bible almost opened itself and she read. Without faith it is impossible to please Him. For he that cometh to God must believe that He is.
“Here I’ve been praying to You, God, while I’ve wondered if You even are, but there’s no concrete evidence. So, what are my alternatives?”
Belief or unbelief. The choice is yours.
If she chose not to believe, God could still exist. Truth would remain despite her unbelief. Truth would remain, but she would be left with despair. If she believed in God, she would have to believe by faith, but she would have hope. Clear enough.Hope was worth everything.
God protected Rose-Marie’s hope by simple means—a troubled marriage, a phone call, and a well-told story. He tailor-made her experience to fill her felt need.
How has your hope been kept alive? What simple ways has you heart-need been met?
Rose-Marie* stood at the sink washing dishes. By hand. One pan was so dirty it needed special treatment. Like her heart.
She knew God loved her, but her ability to love and forgive seemed wretched. How did God’s way work for her? Or anyone?
She twitched her head. Think of all the scenarios of evil in the world that God’s love has to work through—has to have an answer for—a way to heal and restore without force or coercion. Is it even possible?
She found a scouring pad and spoke aloud.
“God, I haven’t always done well in Your school, in letting You teach me, but now I’m tired of spiritual limbo. Your way must work in every circumstance, for real problems. It needs to work for all cultures and situations. That’s what I want to test.”
“So, what is faith?” The Spirit posed a gentle question.
“It’s naked trust, and I haven’t had much experience.” She bore down on the pan.
“What kind of experience do you need?”
“Experience with trusting for the ultimates.”
“What are the ultimates?”
“Life, death, health, economic security. An ultimate for me is to find my reason to be. My place. Who I am. My place of belonging. Another ultimate is to love and be loved. For Your way to mean anything, it must be tested in these ultimates.”
The metal at the bottom shone through. She rinsed the pan and left the kitchen.
That was over thirty years ago, and Rose-Marie, aka Merita Atherly Engen, has had plenty of faith-tests in those ultimates. Some she passed. Some she failed.
Love, however, has never failed.
Most recently, I have gained deeper insight in how God’s way works in some of the most horrendous situations. Specifically of how His love has restored and is restoring the lives of those who have endured childhood spiritual, sexual, and ritualistic abuse and trauma. The more I learn, the greater God becomes.
He’s answering my prayer of years ago. He’s showing me that no matter what the Enemy, the Father of Lies, the Evil One, concocts through human agents, God (Father, Son, and Holy Spirit) is able and willing and powerful to restore.
If you have been trapped by dark-side abuses, struggling to be free, invite Jesus into your situation. Cry out for help. Believe in Love’s way. It probably won’t happen overnight, but one step at a time, the light of Love will dispel the darkness. Then stand back and be amazed at the power of His might.
He sent from above, he took me, he drew me out of many waters. He delivered me from my strong enemy, and from them which hated me: For they were too strong for me. They prevented me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was my stay. He brought me forth also into a large place. He delivered me, because he delighted in me.
Psalms 18:16-19
*Rose-Marie is the fictional name I’ve given myself in my yet-to-be-published book, “Heartache of Promise.” The story is based on a section of my life, so yeah, Rose-Marie is yours-truly.
Compared to others, my family didn’t have much money, but one thing we shared with our community was the Culture of Silence. If something bad or questionable happened, it was all hush-hush or became part of the gossip mill in which I was seldom included. Hard issues like abuse or trauma—even my own—were never dealt with directly.
I became adept at ignoring the obvious, and I could for sure make-do. Making do with what I had financially and emotionally became a well-honed skill. I learned to do the best with what I had.
(These ladies are making-do well before my time)
Mental health was never talked about, but like most humans, I sought love, joy, and beauty. This pursuit became my life-saver.
When, in 1990, my repression of silence broke free and I was ready to process the hidden, dark places in order to heal, my ability to look for beauty among ashes served me well.
Long before that date, I was given the gift of quilt-making. When I was fourteen, a dear friend’s mother invited me over to help her quilt. Later, during the winter of my first child’s birth, my husband worked away so I was alone for days. I gathered scraps from past sewing projects and pieced a sunny quilt top.
Quilting filled the void of my husband’s absence. The scraps refreshed happy memories of clothing I had made for myself and others. It afforded beauty. It was also inexpensive.
I made-do with what I had.
When I first married, someone donated a depleted couch that was covered in stains. I was determined to hide the ugly. This time, I crocheted a large granny-square afghan that stayed on that couch for years.
Later, in order to make my home beautiful, I quilted bedspreads and sewed curtains.
Like choosing a pattern and fabric, I’d been given just so much to work with in life. I had to do the best with what I had, but I could create beauty.
And so can you. No matter our past, each of us can create.
Our creativity comes from our Creator God. If you don’t feel it, try something simple. A coloring book and crayons are pretty basic. A pencil and paper costs little. Digging the ground and planting flower seeds works too.
It’s amazing what difficult issues we can process when our hands are busy creating.
When we express ourselves through our own creations, we are coming out of silence. When we create, our mental health improves and, despite our pain, we begin to catch glimpses of beauty.
O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness: fear before him, all the earth.
Psalm 96:9 KJV
And thou shalt make holy garments for Aaron thy brother for glory and for beauty.
The seed lands in gravel. No one notices. No one cares about the life stored within. It’s on gravel, after all, atop hard-baked ground next to a plain, metal building. Alone. Without worth.
Rain on the roof drips from the edge. Softens the seed. Life sprouts. What else can it do but try?
Sun warms. Below gravel, tender roots grasp soil of clay. Pitiful nourishment.
Cool mornings.
Blistering mid-days.
Dark nights.
A tinge of green uncurls into an environment it did not choose.
Rain. Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain.
Leaves uncurl. A blossom forms.
Sun…sun.
More Sun.
Exhausting.
Unending.
Abuse.
A few green leaves. Perhaps a flower will unfold, but drought forbids fruit.
A woman seeks relief from the abusive heat. Reading as she walks, she glances aside, noticing what the seed has tried to produce. Her thoughts, otherwise wrapped in an epic story of human survival, pause amazed at how beauty arises from harshness. The plant has somehow survived. With a flower like that, it has more than survived.
The woman continues her reading. It is one survivor’s story among many.
A seed.
A root.
A leaf.
A blossom.
The stories are coming to life, producing fruit. She is writing one herself.
A child is born. What else can it do but try?
Yet, who wants to merely survive? Who wants to be known only for their exhausting, constant struggle for identity and life? People commend what is survived. But when one is drowning and struggling for air, who among us would want to only be told we’re strong?
Action laced with words of love and care are better than pats on the back for endurance.
And what of the struggle? Will it ever produce? If only a leaf or, by chance, a bloom forms, will that be enough?
Chances are high any person we meet has experienced life-altering abuse or trauma. They may be in the root stage, the leaf, or perhaps the blossom. We can be Love’s hands and voice and action for intervention. We can provide the water of refreshment and the warmth of truth and light.
Let’s be kind.
Think before we judge or speak.
Be aware of pain.
Follow our hearts.
Seek to understand.
Take root.
Blossom.
Produce.
And, if you’re still a dry seed, there is life inside and it is enough.
“For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabits eternity, whose name is Holy, I dwell in the high and holy place, with him ALSO that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones…I will heal him; I will lead him also and restore comforts unto him.”
Isaiah 47: 15 & 18
“And if thou draw out thy soul to the hungry, and satisfy the afflicted soul, then shall thy light rise in obscurity, and thy darkness be as the noonday.”
Isaiah 58:10
Here’s a link to the epic story mentioned above. I am acquainted with the writer and his wife. The story, while long and at times unbelievable, is true and is another example of how God navigates through the network of evil to protect and provide and to “restore comforts.”
Condensed from guest blogger, Misty Dawn, at Shakam Boqer
You can be a safe place.
You can be a safe place for the victim. Being a safe place means allowing their feelings and hurt to be fully expressed and regarded as valid in the face of the emotional, verbal and physiological, or even physical, sexual or financial abuse they have endured.
Simple questions like, “What happened?” “What are you thinking?” “How do you feel?” will help show your support. Reflect back what they’ve shared so they will know their feelings and hurts are valid.
It’s okay to say, “I hurt for you.” “This makes my heart hurt.” Or “This makes me angry for you.” This validates the victim’s sense of anger. However, be careful not to overstate your own emotions to the victim. Simple statements that make the victim feel cared for, validated, and heard are best.
Don’t make them feel like they have to take care of or protect you or themselves from your emotional response. Hold your anger until you can express it away from the victim.
Support people may need to call the abuse what it is. Even as an adult, I needed the words. I needed short, simple, declarative statements such as:
“Calling someone names isverbal abuse. It’s not okay to be called idiot, stupid, quitter, coward…. It’s never okay to be cursed at. It is verbal abuse, and I understand why you feel hurt.”
“Taking sex by force, even in marriage, is rape. It’s not love. It’ssexual abuse. You have permission to be hurt and angry.”
“Punching or shoving in anger is physical abuse. It’s inappropriate behavior and not okay.”
“Discipline of children doesn’t include a balled up fist, regardless of the child’s age. That’s abuse. You have a valid reason to be angry.”
“Being told you are damned to hell for ending the abuse cycle is spiritual abuse. It’s okay to be upset by those words.”
“What you experienced is trauma. It’s okay to have a trauma response, to have panic attacks, a hard time breathing, or talking, or putting together sentences. Be gentle with yourself and allow yourself those responses.”
Support people can give the victim permission they deeply need. They can give permission to the victim to be angry. To be hurt. To cry. To wail. To vent. To get help. To find a counselor. To say hard things. To hold boundaries. AND most importantly, give them permission to leave the abuse.
Giving permission to leave is different them telling them to leave. Don’t tell them to leave. I heard, more than once, “You need to leave his sorry ass.” But that wasn’t helpful. I needed permission, not advice. Give them permission to leave, to be done. They have to make the choice on their own, and they need to know that you will support their choice.
I once saw a child who had been given the permission by professionals around them, to hold boundaries with their abuser. I’ve never, in my life, seen a child run and play as freely and largely as that child played that day! I swear if they’d had wings, they would have flown! As it was, they climbed higher, spun faster, ran more swiftly, skipped more exuberantly than I’ve ever seen that child or any child play. I will never forget that day.
Give the victim permission to have and hold boundaries. That’s often all they need.
Lastly – speak life! Speak to the victim’s value. Speak to the love of God for them! Compliment their character, their creativity, their passions.
Victims have most often been told and therefore internalized some massive lies about their worth, value and beloved-ness. The effects of this verbal and emotional abuse was recently described as a “weighted blanket of negative words” that holds the victim down. It feels all warm and cozy because that’s all the victim knows, but their psyche is dying. They are likely depressed and may even be suicidal.
Your words of life are the antidote. They will help lift the blanket off.
Speak life!
The Lord your God is in you midst. A Warrior who saves. He will rejoice over you with joy; He will be quiet in His love [making no mention of your past sins]. He will rejoice over you with shouts of joy.”
Guest Blog -Condensed from Misty Dawn’s Blog on Shakam Boqer
There’s a cycle of abuse. It’s a cycle that often takes a long time to recognize for the victim, but eventually those who are survivors, who recognize their worth and value, step out of the cycle.
Leaving abuse isn’t easy. Many victims of domestic abuse will leave and go back seven to twelve times before they’re finally “done.” Usually, the abuser lashes out and will use anything in their power to regain the “relationship.”
ANYTHING.
And EVERYTHING.
For YEARS.
That’s why many support groups recommend a “no contact” policy with the abuser. Of course, in certain situations, usually when children are involved, that’s impossible. Then, it takes far longer to truly get out of the cycle.
Here’s the cycle
1. Building Tension
Lots of controlling behavior from the abuser. Walking on eggshells by the victim. Trying to keep the abuser happy. The victims may even be “happy” with some connection, intimacy, and joyful moments, but under the surface, the victim is on edge, waiting for the next proverbial shoe to drop. Which it will.
2. The Drop
The abuser acts out. Is violent in some way—verbally, physically, etc. The victim sustains deep wounds—body, soul, or both. They begin to bleed out—emotionally and/or literally.
3. Self-Protection
The victim enters full self-protection and defense mode and will do anything to make the abuse stop. They will tell the abuser what they want to hear, or clam up, or placate. Whatever it takes. Just stop. ASAP.
They may also be in “self-protect” mode for the marriage or relationship and will do things that seem off to the onlooker as they try to hold the idea of the relationship together while also defending themselves against the abuser.
Sometimes victims stay because of the “idea of marriage”, the “hope of being loved”, the “person he could be”. Sometimes, it’s because they were raised with the idea that “God hates divorce.” which is another blog in itself. Whatever the case, they may self-protect the “marriage” and therefore the abuser; even while self-protecting themselves against the abuser.
4. TheHoneymoon
At some point, the abuser’s anger dissipates. They apologize, shed tears, and/or blame the victim. The victim usually accepts the apology, has hope, and thinks, “The abuser is really going to change now.” The victim may take the blame. They may apologize for whatever small infraction caused the blow-up. This brings the relationship to some sort of “peace.”
This part of the cycle is called a honeymoon, but it isn’t a honeymoon. The victim is still reeling in pain, trying to find sure footing. The abuser is manipulating the victim to keep the victim from leaving.
It IS manipulation, because if the abuser was truly sorry, they would stop abusing. As my counselor has clearly stated, “If you apologize, you may only do so once. Apologize and change. If you apologize and do the same thing over and over you will lose all credibility.”
If the abuser is apologizing, just to repeat the pattern next week or in a month just to lash out again, it’s not an apology. It’s manipulation.
If the abuser is blaming the victim, it’s manipulation. If the abuser was healthy, they would take responsibility for their actions. Period. Full stop. Always. They wouldn’t put their woes over on everyone but themselves.
If any of this feels familiar, I encourage you to look at other commentary on abuse cycles and the power wheel. Learn the words that describe what you’re experiencing.
This cycle is NOT loving. It does NOT reflect the heart of God. His word makes it clear that those who are His will love Him and others. He makes it clear that He didn’t send Messiah into the world to condemn us, but to save and heal us. He will give you wisdom and courage to break the cycle.
You are loved, right here, right now, just the way you are.
“And I will betroth thee unto Me forever; yea, I will betroth thee unto Me in righteousness, and in judgment, and in loving kindness, and in mercies. I will even betroth thee unto Me in faithfulness: and thou shalt know the Lord.”
I’m pleased to introduce my daughter, Misty Dawn, as my guest for the next few weeks. Her blog, Shakam Boqer (Hebrew for “early in the morning”), is an eclectic gathering of her own deep thoughts centered on finding hope of bright joy after a night of distress.
Following is the first of several segments derived from her most recent blog. These are lessons she learned from surviving abuse. We hope these segments will help you or someone you love.
I had a dream last night. I love it when, in my dreams, I do what I would do in person. It usually means that I’ve finally processed a thing deeply enough that my heart and psyche have caught up with what my head knows.
In my dream, I made no excuses. I called abuse what it was, and I stood firm on the boundaries set. I held space for the victim. My dream was a reminder that my processing has, over the last few years, shifted. I usually have to live through something and come out the other side before I can write about it. It’s taken years to get here. I needed to heal. My children needed to be safe from repercussion.
For the present, I’m not going to share my story in detail. Not yet. There are other hearts involved that aren’t ready for those disclosures. For now, I’ll share what I’ve learned along the way and trust you to trust me when I say, “I know this deeply.”
These aren’t just words on a page. This isn’t psychobabble.
This is an overview of my experience, and the experiences of those who are flesh of my flesh. I’ve felt it to my core. I know it in the very fiber of my being. This is what I’ve learned. Well, some of what I’ve learned.
To start, here are a few truths:
You are loved, by God. You were created in His image. Because you bear God’s image, you deserve to be treated with respect and kindness. Period. Full stop. If you’re married, your spouse deserves the same. As a married couple, you both deserve love, kindness, and patience expressed in verbal, emotional, and physical ways.
God is very clear that abuse towards women and children is not to be tolerated. In fact, in Scripture, God took His people from a culture that didn’t value women or children to a place where they realized immense personal worth.
Knowledge is power. If you are an abuse victim, you need to understand the abuse cycles and need words to describe your experience. If you care for or know someone you suspect is being abused, you need the power of that same knowledge.
I woke from my dream, and I have words!
I want you to have them too.
Next time, Misty Dawn will outline The Abuse Cycle.
It didn’t matter what she did, it wasn’t good enough.
Evangeline let the door slam behind her. Her mop of curls bounced auburn at her forehead. Stones nipped the callouses on her bare feet, but there were no stupid rules along the creek bank.
Turtles and tadpoles didn’t care if she drank eight ounces of warm water first thing. They never forgot to turn on the cold for three minutes before they left the shower.
Those daisies along the path—pure-white petals sparkling with morning dew—weren’t concerned about going to church to have old ladies with hardened eyes check their skirt length or note if they’d painted their nails.
The remains of her father’s mandatory raw almonds stuck to her teeth. Her tongue raked them loose. She spit.
If God was this, there had to be a different choice.
* * *
It mattered what she did when it came to others.
Evangeline rose from her desk of polished walnut and glanced at her watch. Lunch with the mayor in fifteen minutes. A slip of joy coursed her heart. Together they would accomplish nothing but good. Kids would enter college. Single moms would find meaningful employment. The arts would be funded.
Three teenagers smiled up from a desk photo. Her children. How she loved them. She patted at her curls, then shrugged into her tailored jacket, but no straight-jacket religion for them. Church was optional.
Oh, she had done the church thing and gotten burned and betrayed in the process. No bitterness, though. She did have a choice about that. She did have a choice to love.
Choices—logical, well-considered…and helpful—impacted lives. Now and for the future.
God’s rules and expectations only muddied the water.
* * *
What had mattered most?
Cradling her coffee, Evangeline settled onto her porch swing. She tugged at a wisp of gray, then flipped the strand away from her face.
A rosy dawn eased over the mirrored surface of the lake. Her favorite view. She lifted her cup and breathed in the soothing aroma.
An empty nest. Retirement. Financial security. A healthy, still active body. A husband, asleep inside, whom she wouldn’t call a soul-mate, but could always admire. Siblings who waded with her out of their shared spiritual abuse….
Through it all, had she found her own identity? Or was it mixed with expectations that made demands from her parents’ graves?
A kingfisher skimmed the water’s surface. Its squeal of freedom echoed the shoreline. She shook her head, feeling the curls. When she looked within, whom did she see?
I’m a woman who’s chosen love, and that is good.
Along with her sip of coffee, the truth slid its warmth through her body.
I don’t know about God, but I’ve chosen love.
* * *
“God is love.”
1 John 4:8
“…Everyone that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God.”
The woman sits in the front pew, expectant and eager. Her grandchild will be baptized. It’s a time of celebration, but church hadn’t always been so joyful.
Most of her early pew-sitting and hymn-singing was nothing but an inner struggle from a lifetime of double-speak.
The conflict of many words. Way too many words.
She lifts her gaze to the stained-glass. Jesus loves me this I know. When she was six, her abuser had her sing that song while he did his evil.
What kind of love was that? She shudders and opens a hymnal. If only it had stopped with Jesus Loves Me.
Songs, sermons, scripture…any religious term could be used to imply the sexual. She’d stayed alert, always in survivor-mode. Years of sifting through adult innuendoes had even caused trouble in her marriage. Simple instructions from her husband often seemed unclear and hard to process.
The pastor takes the podium and begins to speak. His compassionate tone resonates. She closes the hymnbook.
“Let’s talk about forgiveness.” Her chest tightens. Now there’s a conflicted word. Hope he’s got this one right.
How long had it taken her to untangle the forgiveness concept?
Because, you know, “good little Christian girls forgive their abusers and, if you don’t, shame on you. However, if you forgive, then everything will be okay and we can do anything we want. Whatever we do will be fine. The responsibility is on you and you’ll forgive. So, let’s have at it.”
Yeah, crazy-making stuff. An internal shiver courses through her.
If I do all the forgiving, even to make myself feel better, but it doesn’t matter what others do, what good is forgiveness? Doesn’t repentance and forgiveness go hand in hand?
Yes! Yes, they do. And aren’t you glad we’ve worked that through? The inner voice she’s come to recognize as Jesus’, who really does love her, speaks its comfort. Remember, forgiveness isn’t just about making you feel relief. It’s not just a gift you give yourself. That idea is a dark side counterfeit.
She clasps her hands. Age spots and bulging veins form a crisscross pattern.
It’s taken years, but this is what God has taught:
Forgiveness needs a place to land—a heart that is repentant and can accept it. Yes, her own relief is part of the process, but providing a place where forgiveness can land is God’s truth—His ideal cycle of healing and restoration.
The pastor warms to his subject. She follows along, a step ahead with her own conclusions.
God’s ultimate goal is restoration of relationships. Restoration can’t happen unless there’s a change in the part of the person who did the wrong.
BUT…. She closes her eyes.
God is always ready to forgive, yet He also needs my permission to make the forgiveness cycle complete. Yep, God respects my boundaries—my need to stay in control, to hate, to become bitter, or to take vengeance, so He waits for me to give all that to Him. When I forgive and give Him permission to restore relationship, my piece of the puzzle is in place.
Only God knows the heart—theirs and mine. Only He knows if my abusers are truly repentant and a safe place for my forgiveness to land, but their repentance piece needs to be there too. He knows when it’s in place. I don’t have to worry about it. I can rest in Him. He can impress them with the wrongness of what they did—to convict and bring them to Him.
Her heart swells with the beauty of such a God.
The concept continues to take shape:
If the abuser doesn’t repent, vengeance flows into that space. And if a victim doesn’t forgive, chances are, they will become abusive because of their bitterness. Vengeance will flow into that space too.
Cleansing air fills her lungs. She releases it, slow and sure. Peace floods her spirit.
Not only did my forgiveness free God from me trying to take control of vengeance, it also allowed me to heal so that I wasn’t a hurting person hurting others.
Another stained-glass window catches her attention. Christ hangs on the cross. Moisture wells in her eyes.
I didn’t even have to go to them with my forgiveness. I just had to forgive them to God. I GAVE their actions to God BEFORE they repented.
Hmm—Fore-Gave.
“Jesus, You did this in the midst of torture. In the middle of our abuse, we had no idea how to forgive their horrendous acts, did we, Jesus? How could we, when we hurt with so much pain? But what did You do? You gave Your forgiveness to the Father. You asked Him to forgive them. You even tried to understand their actions and said ‘they don’t know what they’re doing.’”
The pastor finishes his discourse, which happily parallels her own. Her grandchild enters the baptismal pool.
Her heart quickens with joy.
Forgiveness and cleansing….
It’s been a long hard road, but her abusers have been fore-given to God.
Now it’s up to Him.
Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.
It’s dark on top of our hill out here in the country—miles from any town. Very dark, with no electricity. I love to sleep in total darkness, but I don’t want to live in it. I slip away from my bed and wander outside.
I’ve been interacting with survivors of childhood trauma who are desperate for answers, resources, hope…anything to bring them relief. I think of them, as, high above, myriads of stars shine their glory.
A verse at the front of the story I’m currently writing comes to mind:
“And I will give thee treasures of darkness, and hidden riches of secret places, that thou mayest know that I, the Lord, which call thee by thy name, am the God of Israel.”
Isaiah 45:3 KJV
“Okay, Lord God, I’m trying to hear You, but….”
Is there anything darker than the mind of one abused in childhood? Especially abuse mixed with religion that disfigures Your very character? Is there any place more impossible for light to reach?
How can riches be hidden in a heart that has absorbed the evilness and lies of the perpetrator—when the only “secret places” are the secrets one is forced to keep? When one’s personal identity is obliterated with each cruelty, what, please tell, is this name of which You speak?
His stars blink back a silent answer of constancy. Perhaps the morning will bring answers. If only there were a manual.
I text my sister. “Can you recommend a resource I can share?”
Within minutes her reply glows on my phone:
“From my experience, without God, you have no way to really know what you even need. Your abuse doesn’t come with a recovery manual.
“God created you. Only He knows who you were created to be. But you can be certain it wasn’t to be abused. All of us have been lied to because it’s lying people who abuse. And because of that, I knew only God was big enough–was wise enough, was safe enough and true and faithful enough to trust with my story and to write a different ending than the only one I thought possible.
“He was the only one willing to love me enough to die for me, but more important to live for me every day and work out all I needed.
“His promises had power and hope and the outcome only He could create one step at a time. One question at a time. One tear at a time. His love is what has broken down all my walls and fulfilled my dreams better than I could have imagined. And He doesn’t stop! Healing from Him covers all the need and raises me up to more than I knew possible.
“You want a manual? Just walk with Him. He has the pathway all planned and ready. And He will only go as fast as you are ready to go and slow enough to give you all the processing you need. He will only lead you, never push you.”
I turn off my phone and sleep until sunlight rises over the eastern mountain and splashes the tops of the trees outside. Bird song floats through the cool breeze. I breathe deep and, from a grateful heart, whisper a prayer.
God’s healing power to reconcile through Jesus Christ—to restore and make whole—is the a treasure that can shine from the darkness of abuse.
Of course, He uses therapists and those who have studied the workings of the brain, the effects of trauma on a child, but it is His love that does the healing, restores identity, and calls us by name.
Paul (2 Corinthians 4:6&7) refers to this treasure as the “light that God commanded to shine out of darkness.” He said this treasure has been put in the earthen vessels of our hearts to shine and give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ, who, it turns out, is an accurate depiction of God’s character.
Through His love and acceptance, God provides healing. He will walk alongside through the fear of remembering. He will call you by name, and you won’t be afraid to answer. His Treasures of Darkness and Hidden Riches are there for the asking.
“The path of the righteous is like the morning sun, shining ever brighter till the full light of day. But the way of the wicked is like deep darkness; they do not know what makes them stumble.”
This is the story of one writer’s journey. It’s also a story of one awesome God. Both are mine.
God and I birthed this blog seven years ago. The blog grew. It faltered with neglect. I tended it and it blossomed. Fortunately, it never died. Writing a full-length-fiction-based-on-my-own-story consumed blogging time.
And other excuses.
In that first blog, I wrote, “Nothing thrills me more than to discover a new example, a new angle, of God’s love at work. Nothing.” That passion motivated me. It continues to motivate.
Now, God’s added another passion.
My journey to this new passion started in the fall of 1990 when I began to write for my own catharsis. I edited, re-edited, let life take over, and stopped writing for years. In 2013, I spent money and time to hone the craft of writing (I still have much to learn.) More re-writes ensued.
The manuscript “completed,” I pitched it as a “love-lost-found” story. I envisioned my audience as women who had not let God lead in their youthful choices and who could share the book with their children as guidance. A few editors showed interest, but only with a complete re-write. I understood their point. For a story of that theme, the end needed to come first. My gut said, “hold back.”
“But, when, God? When?”
My timing is perfect. Wait on Me. In fact, put your love-lost-found story aside. The time is not now. Work on your sister’s story.
I began to research and write a second fiction-based-on-a-true-story. This work is about survival from abuse and integration from DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder). It caused me to look more closely at how the events in her life affected mine. Boy, did they ever!
A Culture of Silence pervades both stories. This culture enabled me to lose that young love and to deny the truth of my heart. This culture demanded my sister lose her complete, God-given identity.
In the process of writing her story, my first book took on a different theme and the idea for a series I’m calling Sisters of Silence was hatched.
So, now, I have a new theme and a new audience—adult survivors and their siblings of childhood abuse and trauma who are breaking through the silence. It was a cognitive realization. But how to reach that audience? What to say? Where to go?
“I’m not getting any younger, here.”
In My time, sweetie. Just chill.
Last month, my sister and I visited a little-bit of a woman with great faith, a dedicated plot of ground, and a supportive husband. She’s a survivor too. She’s also an author. She’s been working publicly a lot longer than I have on these issues through her ministry, Broken Pieces No More. www.brokenpiecesnomore.org
As she told me about the hidden abuses in her area, God’s Holy Spirit moved my heart with an upgraded passion. In the days that followed, I heard my Savior say,
You’ve lived under the shadow of abuse all your life, Merita—in that culture of silence. In fact, you were molested and deeply impacted. All these years of writing the “wrong” story was your training ground. Continue to work closely with your new friend and with your sister. They have much to offer.
Plus, I’m calling you to seriously reach out to other survivors. They are more than an audience that you mentally catalogue and market. They are real people with similar experiences. You love them and can empathize.
Remind them the deceiver often mixes religion into their abuse so they grow afraid of anything spiritual and become unable to truly heal. Tell how the dark side pits it’s victims against the truth of My love. Share your stories of how My light broke through for you and others—how it sets the oppressed free.
Your mind has been engaged for years. Now, your heart is too. Because you’re heart is now all-in, it’s time.
Evidently, my journey is only beginning. I breathe in deep, humbled by the thought.
“I’m just a newbie writer, Lord, but here I am. Send me.”
“For we have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us.”
“Where was God?” A friend shuddered after I shared a few specifics of the story I’m currently writing. As we prepared for a picnic, I spread mayonnaise on two slices of bread then blurted a glib answer.
“God can bring good out of evil and He has a purpose for everything.” I added a slice of cheese and began to cut a tomato.
“I don’t buy that.” I immediately agreed with her vehement tone. “That sounds like an idea from my religious abuse.” She shook her head with a finality that spoke of a hard-fought battle to break free from guilt-producing platitudes and inept interpretations.
She was right. Who could believe in a God who pre-planned a child suffer abuse at the hands of a monster? Had He arranged it with an ulterior motive to bring about some bit of good for His glory? What kind of a human, much less a god would do that?
“Why do you think bad things happen?” I asked, as I rinsed a handful of lettuce.
“There’s choice.” Her answer—the only palatable one—hit my brain the same instant she spoke. She finished her own lunch creation while I added apples and chips to the picnic basket.
“Right and what’s God’s response to a bad choice?” My question settled between us. I mulled it over well past our simple meal under an oak at the top of the mountain.
Certainly, we cannot suggest that evil is God’s will. I’m thankful that grace abounds all the more when evil increases, but the God I trust prefers no evil. However, if we humans, of our own free will, determine to do an inhumane act, what choice does God have? What is left to the One who gave us freedom? What is His option?
Healing. That’s it. Healing.
When oppression, injustice, abuse, or torture happens, God’s only choice is to begin the healing process. He knows how to restore every last fragment of a traumatized, fractured mind. He did it, does it, will continue to do it. Every sliver of human person-hood and identity is precious in His sight.
God’s ability to heal motivates me to craft a story on a subject that we are all loath to consider. It’s a consuming work in progress, but He knows when and how it will be ready to share.
In the meantime, as we allow (choice again), He continues to work within the different levels of our pain to restore our brokenness.
Because, once we make that choice, all He can do is heal.
March has hit a home run and is sliding into April. It even sprinkled a few early daffodils as it rounded second base. Sunshine ahead should get it well past third. It runs pell-mell down the last stretch toward spring. I must tag it now or it will be too late, because there is a moment of winter I want to freeze in time.
Nine years ago, I learned to snow ski and I was no spring chick.
My husband, at the top of each run, watched his student progress in hesitant turns, hogging the whole slope. He waited and then, in half the time, caught up in rhythmic, even glides. Most every winter since, we’ve made it to the Colorado mountains. Each time, I’ve gained more confidence.
“All you need is miles under your skis,” he assured me.
This winter, we had five weeks’ worth of miles. We left home in January with new skis itching to show off their finesse and returned in March with legs that never felt stronger.
“You sure turned the engines on,” my husband bragged. “I’ve got to up my game.”
I also returned with a new glimpse of heaven.
We woke around 6:00 every day, ate a sturdy breakfast, and, ski boots fastened, clumped out the door in time to make first tracks. If we’re early enough, we can be there when the lifts open, ahead enough so, when we slide off at the top, all that lies before us is pristine sky, mountains rising in grandeur, few or no people, and ski runs groomed to perfection.
There are no other tracks but those in our thoughts—the ones we are about to make.
Trust me. It’s worth the early rise.
Give it thirty minutes and it’s time to work one’s way to the back side where the lifts open later.
***
We were well into our third week. My amazing skis had made me look almost expert.
Beauty, the kind that truly catches one’s breath, had blended with exercise. Our blood flowed pure.
“Fresh powder last night,” my husband says over his oatmeal topped with cinnamon and pecans.
Powder!Magic word. Snow had fallen again. Not a minute to waste.
First off the lifts, we warm up on the front runs and head to the back.
We push off from the lift, and, as we glide to the top of the slope, I adjust my poles. It’s more than a straight run. It’s a wide swath of nature that spills in all directions over the mountainside. Scattered evergreens rise stately over its surface. Today they are more than frosted. Today, their boughs are laden.
The air is crisp … clean … with a hint of fir.
My husband slides along beside me.
“Wow. Look at this,” he breathes.
Further words are useless.
On the horizon, other peaks zigzag a cloudless sky. They trim the cobalt of heaven with white.
Stretched beneath me, four, maybe six inches of virgin snow whisper a promise of pure ecstasy. I take my time. There is plenty of room between the trees to weave in and out. To explore. To sight-see.
I swish through the powder on ski wings.
Floating timeless through my Creator’s perfection.
Just me and His Spirit in soundless bonding.
This is one holy place.
Alright, March, go for it.Reach home plate and usher in spring. Let’s see what divine glories it will display.
A lifetime of Christmas memories meld into a swirl of yearning that pulls at my heart like taffy and melts like chocolate into a puddle of longing. As though it were the glob of molten candy my mother used to drop into ice water, this holiday feels condensed.
Stories of the season flood my thoughts with their pathos and beauty.
My own Christmas story is in there somewhere ready to emerge.
This year my children and their families will remain miles away. There will be no Dollywood tradition. Those days fled with my son’s childhood.
Dolly says to figure out who you are and do it on purpose. I’ve done that, yet my finished manuscript will, for the time being, remain unpublished. It’s the best decision, for the good of others, but I need to tuck my soul into a winter coverlet thick enough to absorb the ache.
Tears wet my pillow.
It’s time to rest deep in a Love that has no measure. It’s time to wait on the Lord.
I wake to sunlight and a phone call. My son, who, until now, has never spent Christmas away, is headed to the ski slopes with a friend. It’s not our festive theme park, but it’s a prayer answered.
A text message pops up with an unexpected invitation from fellow writers. I accept and drive over. We watch a Christmas movie, sip tea, and just be.
My friend’s son arrives home from first-year college. He hugs his mom. They talk classes. I’m happy for her, yet I blink back moisture. He hugs her again. Yes, our big boys miss their moms, even if they won’t admit it.
When I get back home, my youngest daughter calls to schedule a family visit in March.
Later, another phone call from my eldest draws us into conversation of goals and ministry and her journey of love.
I wrap final gifts for my husband’s siblings. We will be with them on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. I’m grateful for their inclusion.
I plan the meal for another day, close to New Years, when my children and grandchildren by marriage will join us. Around here, we save the best until last.
I begin supper. A hearty stew bubbles on the stove. The table is set. Candles are lit. I chose a country Christmas album and Dolly tells me she’ll be fine and dandy.
My husband arrives with overnight guests. It’s been a long day—a long flight. I can offer food, clean sheets, and a hug. I can just be myself.
Thanks, Father, for drying my tears.For friends. For family. Thanks, for a season of soul hibernation. Joy may seem to lie dormant, but life will awaken. Thanks for reminding me of who I am. Give me the courage to keep doing it on purpose.
And thanks, Dolly, for your inspiration.
Looks like this will be a hard candy Christmas after all.
Our pastures have been plundered. At least mine have. And it’s taken only a couple days of Supreme Court hearings to do it.
Thursday—the day one terrified woman doctor and one emotional male judge testify. I carry my phone around so I can watch and listen while I pack. We plan a trip to our land where pastures hug the mountains.
Friday—the day a judicial committee meets to vote. I turn on my C-span app so I can listen with bated breath as I drive toward those pastures through scanty radio coverage.
Saturday—the day of rest. I hug my grandchildren and their momma and daddy and do not talk politics.
Sunday—the day spent where cell coverage equals one bar. Maybe. I wake slow to a cool, deep fog outside the screen, serve tea to my husband in bed, and rise when the sun has dried the pasture enough to mow.
Monday—a day of weed-whacking and clouds golden with sunset. I watch a doe glide with slender legs through thick grass. Later, I stare into our campfire’s glow and pray for my nation.
Tuesday—a day of homeward travel. I spend the night unpacking and doing laundry. I catch up on emails and surf the net for news. I sift through comments and commentary. Both sides. I absorb crazy-making words. I eat stuff I shouldn’t and wonder where my faith has gone. Digesting news makes me sick to my stomach.
Am I sick because my passion is to share how a culture of silence has affected me personally? Or does my stomach churn because I’m in the process of telling a story of how God healed and integrated a woman who suffered extreme abuse in childhood? Yep, our nation’s issues hit close.
Most likely, I feel nauseous because the differing views come from voices I love with all my heart.
Sleep overtakes me in the wee hours of morning.
Wednesday—a day to begin again—I sit on the front porch where morning sunlight filters fresh over stately oaks. I open my Bible to where I left off five days ago. Ezekiel, chapter thirty-six.
“Aha,” The enemy has said of us, “the ancient heights have become our possession. The enemy, that father of lies, rubs gleeful hands together. His tone holds only malice. It’s as though he is saying to me, to my nation: Now, amidst your cacophony of accusation and blame casting, amidst voices clamoring to release a lifetime of pain, amidst a naked grasping for power, chaos reigns. Just the way I like it. I have ravaged and hounded you from every side. I win.
God, help us. This is getting personal. I read on. Aloud.
“This is what the Sovereign Lord says to the mountains and hills… to the desolate ruins … that have been plundered … With burning zeal, I have spoken against [your enemy] for with glee and malice in their hearts they made my land their own possession so that they might plunder its pastureland.” (Verses 4 and 5)
“Father,” I whisper, “It’s not just my nation that has been plundered. It’s my spirit. My pastureland. And much of it is my own fault—my wrong choices, like you say here in verse seventeen. Too many times have I’ve taken my focus off of you and stopped following Jesus.”
I keep reading.
“I am going to do these things for the sake of my holy name which you have profaned … I will show the holiness of my great name … Then the nations will know that I am the Lord … when I show myself holy through you before their eyes.”
Amazing! You will show yourself holy through me. How?
“I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean.” My voice caresses his answer—words I have underlined in the past. “I will cleanse you from all your impurities …”
“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you. I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. And I will put my Spirit in you and move you to follow my decrees and be careful to keep my laws … You will be my person and I will be your God.I will call for the grain and make it plentiful … I will increase the fruit of the trees and the crops of the field … the desolate land will be cultivated … this land that was laid waste….”
That’s the land of my spirit, Lord.
“They will say, ‘This land that was laid waste has become like the garden of Eden.’ Then [others] will know that I the Lord have rebuilt what was destroyed and have replanted what was desolate. I the Lord have spoken, and I will do it.”
“Father, I wish you could infuse my whole nation with a new spirit, but I can only take care of mine. Yet, I want to help calm the chaos. As you replant my own plundered fields, perhaps others will see and take notice. Please, show yourself holy through me.”
Today—a day my plundered pastures are restored. I click off C-span, open my computer, and follow my passion.
Has your spirit, your pasture, been plundered lately? How has God restored you?
Scraps of tune weave into my waking. What is that song?
I reach for my phone and press Search on my app. I must need the music. Why else would the Spirit impress it on this coming-out-of-a-dream moment?Yes, it is Him. I’ve experienced enough dream-related moments to recognize the insight.
I raise myself on an elbow and type. You will overcome. No, not that one. Broken strongholds. Nope. How does that song go? Something about a crown … ah, yes. Victor’s Crown. I select Play and the music spills over the edges of my downy comforter, flooding my mind with words of war. (Click on the link below to listen to the song.)
I hold my breath. I’m secure in a room that’s warm within a house stocked with plenty of food, so why does the music of conflict stir my heart until it swells with hope and courage? Do I need a buttress from the craziness in my nation’s capital, an hour’s drive away? Or perhaps against the monstrous hurricane bearing down on my favorite island beach?
My lungs whoosh out their air.
Maybe. Yet I believe in a God who stays with me through events I can’t control. Even if they affect me, which they undoubtedly will, He will give me wisdom and strength.
I listen through to the end, press Replay, and sink my head onto the pillow. No, this is not about any exterior event churning my world into one I don’t recognize.These words of absolute victory strike a more intimate note.
It’s been a packed and wonderful summer of reunions, vacations, travel, loved ones, grandchildren, and … an empty nest.
That last one has nearly gotten me. Not the empty nest. It’s the fledgling, miles away, still trying to learn which way to fly and how, that knots my gut and tightens my throat.
You are ever interceding …
The music definitely applies to my fledgling and to my other adult children and their children. I’ve needed the courage to rise above recent depressing demons of helplessness, ineptness, regret, and doubt where they are concerned. I’ve offered weak prayers, it seems, against their weaknesses inherited, in part, from their mother. The spirit-battles in their regard have raged and I’ve been near defeated.
Every high thing must …
I can’t control my children. I know that. Don’t want to. I can only pray and influence a little. Precious little.
I press Replay and throw off the covers. The music resounds and moves beyond my kids. The song is for me this morning. It’s for my own personal war.
The carpet is soft to my feet. At the sink, I turn on cold water and splash my face.
You have overcome … You have overcome …
A verse I read a few days back comes to mind:
“Get rid of the vile images you have set your eyes on … I am the Lord your God.”Ezekial 20:7&8
The Spirit of Light pokes with gentle touch. I bury my face in a terry towel.
What have I set my eyes on?
Easy. A screen. Hand-held or on my lap. A screen filled with the latest news that isn’t news, or maybe it is, who knows? Or filled with a recommended movie. Or a fellow author’s book. They are all good things in due season, but not when that screen should be pulsating with words, sentences, and holy passion being typed into an unfinished manuscript the ruler of darkness absolutely Does. Not. Want. Me. To. Write.
Not to mention my blog.
I surrender to my truth. My war is one that extends well beyond media, but I often set my screen idol before my eyes and it consumes precious minutes. Hours.
High things must come down.
You will overcome … You will overcome.
Music in hand, I pad down the hall and settle into my devotion chair. I want to enter the sacred place that holds my battle gear. I open the Word.
“…but you,woman of God, flee from all this and pursue righteousness, godliness, faith, love, endurance, and gentleness. Fight the good fight of faith… keep this command without spot or blame until the appearing of our Lord Jesus Christ, which God will bring about in His own time.” I Tim. 6: 11, 12 & 14
“Everyone who confesses the name of the Lord must turn away from wickedness … pursue righteousness, faith, love, and peace along with those who call on the Lord out of a pure heart …gently instruct [those who oppose] in the hope that God will grant themrepentance … and will come to their senses and escape the trap of the devil who has taken them captive to do his will.” II Timothy 2: 19, 22, 25-26
“But God’s Word is not chained.” II Timothy 2:9 “For the grace of God that brings salvation has appeared to all men.It teaches us to say “NO” to ungodliness and worldly passions and to live self-controlled, upright, and godly lives in the present age, while we wait for the blessed hope–the glorious appearing of our great God and Savior, Jesus Christ, who gave Himself for us to redeem us from all wickedness, and to purify for Himself a people that are His very own, eager to do what is good.” Titus 2:11-14 “It wasn’t by THEIR sword that they won the land, nor did THEIR arm bring them victory. It was YOUR right hand, YOUR arm, and the light of YOUR face, for You loved them … Through You, we push back our enemies; through Your name we trample our foes. I do not trust in my bow. My sword does not bring me victory, but You give us victory over our enemies. Psalms 44:3, 5-6
I glance at my phone, press Replay, and bow my head. Jesus, it’s You who wear the victor’s crown. You have won this good fight of faith. Since You are in me and I am in You, it’s my victory too.
If I had known all the arduous effort, attention to detail, and mind-and-heart-breaking labor my first literary work would take, I probably wouldn’t have started.
It has been a labor of love from the first day, but I had no idea what a degree in creative writing would involve—even though it’s only a home-schooled course. If I had known, I might have chosen a different field.
Fortunately, I didn’t know.
Even more fortunate, this school has a fabulous Teacher. He knows the end from the beginning. He views a thousand years as only one day and one as a thousand.
My teacher knows that in order to heal, one must go back to the point of pain and doing that takes time.
It takes experiencing the healing process in the now, even if one turns gray in the meantime.For me, it meant setting my work aside for about twelve years, but my Teacher didn’t give up. It’s been messy. It will continue to be messy, but he continues to teach.
His most recent lesson, the one that brought this blog concept to the forefront, involves Point of View.
Disclaimer: The following includes shop talk. I know from experience how tedious shop talk can be for those not interested in the shop. I’ll try to make this succinct.
I studied the craft of writing stories. I wrote and wrote and rewrote and rewrote. I shared my manuscript baby. I cut out complete scenes. I pitched to publishers. I entered contests. I applied the judges’ suggestions. I submitted to publishers. I involved editors. I even lived life beyond writing. I submitted again.
The latest answer? “Resubmit when it is in Deep Point of View.”
Resubmit, for those not in the shop, is a very encouraging word from a publisher. It’s another word for “Your manuscript has potential…but…are you a serious writer? Really? Are you willing to stretch yourself more than you ever dreamed possible?If so, resubmit.”
Evidently, I was still telling too much and not showing enough. Still? Yep. After all my long nights and early mornings and solitude and tucked-in-around-living writing-time…after all my gray hair…it was still too easy for the reader to get out of the character’s head.
I bought a different book on deep point of view. I read and reread.
My “telling” statements began to pop out like hands waving in a classroom. I began my umpteenth edit.
“Now, I’m done,” I said. “I’m ready to resubmit.”
“Uh, not so fast,” said my Teacher. “Take a look at that blog. Yeah, that one, right there, on your email feed that you were about to delete. The one for writers that you subscribed to. The one with the headline about point of view.”
I opened the blog and learned that having the character’s name too many times in a scene distracts the reader. Pronouns work better. It was a simple point. The kind I should have recognized myself. Did I really want to resubmit with reader-distraction words embedded in my scenes? Messy work, this.
My Teacher had caught me just in time.
I am so ready for graduation. I’m ready to move to the next level as I start a new project, but these instances with my Teacher are worth all my work.
There’s no guarantee for a publishing contract. I may have to submit far into the future, but it’s all good because…
My Teacher controls the calendar and that’s OK with me.
“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you.” Isaiah 46:4
On the subject of God’s school…
I’m including a little bonus for those who have read down this far. It’s one of those scenes I just told you about, out of my book. At this point in the story, Rose-Marie, the main character, is fourteen and just graduated from eighth grade. This is how she formed her ideas about being in God’s school. Matthew is a sixteen-year-old she has deep feelings for. Enjoy!
***
Whew. What a night. She slid off her shoes. What would Matthew’s card say? The bathroom would be private enough to find out.
On the front was an owl wearing a graduation cap with the word, “Congratulations.” Inside was the single word, “Smarty!” She chuckled. That rascal. Such a tease.
Even what Matthew had said under the streetlight had been half teasing, but it had also been true. You will enjoy dating. She squirmed, remembering. What else had he written?
Dear Rose-Marie, I found this quote and thought about your graduation. Something to remember: ‘The highest education possible is learning God’s will and God’s way. Build upon principles that are eternal, not on the principles of this world.’ Yours truly, Matthew.
What a way of making her laugh while making her think—all with one simple card. She would hide it in her Bible.
She slipped off her A-line dress with three-quarter bell sleeves. Its filmy outer layer with a leafy pattern in aqua, slid between her fingers. Pretty, but not sweet. She had sewn it for graduation., but with her graduation gown covering the dress most of the evening, Matthew hadn’t even seen it. Oh, well.
The house was quiet with everyone else in bed. A warm bath for relaxation would be just the thing.
God’s education? She lowered herself into the tub. God’s education was different than graduating from elementary school, high school, or college. And more important. Eternal salvation depended on how well she learned God’s lessons. She rubbed the soap, with its sweet bouquet, over her bare arms. How would she do in God’s school?
Today isn’t my traditional house and heart crammed to the brim with family, then emptied in a whoosh when they leave, kind of Thanksgiving Day.
I’m not even cooking. Oh, I baked a couple pies—cherry, my husband’s favorite—but that hardly counts. There are no grandchildren crowding the kitchen or sleeping on mats on the floor. The foyer isn’t dotted with sneakers. There are no piles of dishes to wash.
Instead, for nearly two weeks, this year’s Thanksgiving season has offered me an extension of thankful moments. It has scattered me with pleasures, even if they took time and fuel to make happen.
It began a week ago Monday with a trip to the dentist. (3 hour drive) My brother-in-law did the honors. Afterward, a lunch with my husband and his two sisters gave us a lovely chance to catch up.
That same evening, I drove to my youngest daughter’s home where I soaked in three of my grandchildren’s hugs and enjoyed time with her and her husband in the midst of their busy lives. (5 hour drive)
On Friday I headed home, leaving behind a birthday girl with a room freshly painted. I love to help make dreams come true.
Saturday, I waited with my son for his girlfriend to arrive from her college. (9 hour drive) Long distance relationships are tough, and he was one happy guy when she came through the door. Made my heart happy too.
Sunday, I cooked. Thankful I’m still able.
Monday, through a clean November day of sunshine and blue sky, my husband and I drove (3.5 hours) to our spot in the mountains we call The Eighty-Five. Car travel provides a captive audience and we were both thankful for in-depth talk time. We used these questions for (rather late) starters: 13 Questions to Ask Before Getting Married
Once on The Eighty-Five, my oldest daughter and her two boys were able to break away from their visit with other family to join us and eat what I had cooked on Sunday. (9 hours from their home, plus 3 for the day with us).
Those grandsons are growing up way too fast and live way too far away. We hiked the fields. I lost my cell phone. We hunted. We prayed. God used our neighbor to answer that prayer. I offered more than scattered thanks.
Today, my son is at his girlfriend’s. My two cherry pies are being finished off here at my step-daughter’s place. Her dad and I are helping ourselves to someone else’s cooking. Her home is full. It’s all good. It’s family.
Tomorrow, I’ll cook. Some. Maybe.
Saturday, I’ll get to see my sister. (She travels by bus, then the metro. 12 hours?) My sista!
Kids move out. Parents die. Grandchildren are born. Adjustments are made. Traditions, stretched out and scattered around, are often done upside-down. That’s the way life is and, with my heart crammed to the brim, I give thanks.
How has God helped you adjust to changes in family tradition?
Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever. Ps. 106:1
Then shall your light break forth like the dawn.
-- Isaiah 58:8
See the light in others and treat them as if that is all you see.
-- Dr. Wayne Dyer
And the light shone in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.
-- John 1:5
For God, who commanded the light to shine out of darkness, hath shined in our hearts, to give the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.
-- 2 Corinthians 4:6
In a knowledge of God all true knowledge and real development have their source.
-- Ellen White
Am I not a spark of Him who is the light?
-- George MacDonald
God is light, and in Him is no darkness at all.
-- I John 1:5
My passion: Discovering God. My pleasure: Knowing you are blessed when I share.
Written by Merita Atherly Engen
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