Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 8)

Subtitle: I didn't know I had it in me.

  Just as I am, without one plea

  but that Thy blood was shed for me

  and that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee,

  O Lamb of God, I come. I come.

From my last post we move into a different era. Since that cathartic Friday, weeping Saturday, and tender Sunday, I've been in the Now portion of this journey. I didn't know that weekend would create such a divide but I've noticed that I speak of preceding incidents using a big Before and following incidents using a big Now. It was a pivotal weekend, thanks be to God.

Since the divide, it's been a draining battle of more back-and-forth-ing than I expected. I didn't expect MORE of a skirmish Now. I didn't know I could fluxuate like this.

After months of being able to victoriously resist the temptation to use my coping mechanism--and I really thought I had turned a corner with this during the Pivotal Weekend--I came crashing into an intense relapse.

One month ago today I was alone too long and in the wrong environment and in the wrong frame of mind. I gave in and I almost liked it. I guess I liked the relief that comes from the end of resisting but soon enough I felt the familiar, deep shame and felt hot and shaky like I had a fever. It's a lot like having a fever.

  Just as I am and waiting not

  to rid my soul of one dark blot:

  To Thee whose blood can cleanse each spot,

  O Lamb of God, I come. I come.

And I relapsed the next day, even harder. The cruelty I turned toward myself and the creativity in destructive behavior, it was startling at the time and more startling in the light when I later confessed to close friends.

How robotic I was. How robotic I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Often, I can't believe I have it in me.

The plunge back into enveloping, hot shame as well as having a reason to hide myself from others, it took some real adjustment after so long but it sadly felt like home. 

I took a day off because a friend pleaded with me to just not do it that one day, a Tuesday. But then, come Wednesday morning, when I felt I had honored the request, I snapped and snapped and snapped. It was explosive and compulsive. 

It was so easy to give in again when I had already given in so recently. A shoulder-shrugging "well, I'm already here" would often dissolve my last straw of resistance.

Another day off and then a tragic relapse on Friday evening leading into a peculiar Saturday morning which comes up in Part 10, the penultimate installment.

When I wasn't relapsing, toying with it, recovering from it, being disgusted by it, or confessing I had done it, I was spending my time crying, thinking, not-thinking, crying, worshipping, learning, processing, crying, light-bulbing, crying, and chasing after God like a madwoman.

  Just as I am Thou wilt receive,

  wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve;

  Because Thy promise I believe,

  O Lamb of God, I come. I come.

I think I was having an identity crisis. Or at least an identity what-is-wrong-with-me-why-can't-I-get-this-is. 

So much back-and-forth-ing: so many richly beautiful and profound moments with the Lord or with Him and others...so many epiphanies, so many little steps in the right direction, and then a backsliding. (How did I do it? Rather--how am I doing it? I was a few moments and a few bad thoughts away from relapsing not twelve hours ago but the Lord told a friend to text me at just the right time. And then I had a cry.)

So much cloudiness. So much weight. So much pressure, sometimes! So much pain. So much pain, and so much unknown, betangled pain. 

  Just as I am, tho' tossed about;

  with many a conflict, many a doubt;

  fightings and fears within, without,

  O Lamb of God, I come. I come.

So much worship. So much divine intimacy. So often I thank Him for being Him. How blessed I am. How profound and inarticulable the experience of personal anguish being overlaid with God's glory.

I live in hope.

  Just as I am, Thy love unknown

  hath broken every barrier down;

  Now to be Thine, yea, Thine alone,

  O Lamb of God, I come. I come.

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 7)

Subtitle: butterfly

I need Thee every hour, 

most gracious Lord.
No tender voice but Thine 

can peace afford.

  I need Thee, oh, I need Thee;

  ev'ry hour I need Thee.

  Oh, bless me now, My Savior;

  I come to Thee.

I don't even know that hymn. I sight-read it Monday because I want to advance it in the shortlist queue for our local church's worship services. The melody got stuck in my head and then yesterday afternoon it mobbed me. It has become my only prayer. I'm helpless and desperate.

It's quite odd to feel like I'm stepping onto hallowed ground as I come to blog...but that's how I feel in this moment.

I can't write to you what has happened; I can't tell you about God.

He is so inescapable I'm at a loss for words. I say this almost with fear. (And a faint smile appears on the face of my future self because she knows that she needs much growth in the fear of Him. My present self knows I have been praying for this specifically for the past week.)

He's just big and He looms in. He's nearby, He's close, and He loves. He's creeping into every corner of my life.

But let's leave the wordless today and go back to Thanksgiving Sunday, the day after I had had it all out with the Father. I had told Him what happened to the Princess and I had cried freely for the better part of two hours. And then I went to sleep.

Even though my sleep was short, the next morning I had no trouble getting out of bed because I needed to be with church and was looking forward to the morning worship service. I felt spent and almost wrung out for all the deep, connective emotion that had been pulled out of me. But the Lord was near. He was close. He was with me. I felt like an invalid, but one who was going to be bedridden for a short time, not for life.


It was easy to go that morning. I just went.

I got dressed feeling very soft, tender, fragile, amplified, subdued, overwhelmed, quiet...just everything. When I chose my clothing and as I donned it, I was aware that I wasn't trying to hide my body as I usually do with baggie hoodies and graphic tees. In fact, I was choosing clothes and adopting an attitude that showed confidence in my body. I don't often have it but on that day, it was perfectly fitting. I felt good in my own skin.

My main accessory was a set of three long ribbons, tied around my wrist and left long. This was the second day I had worn them. I had put the bundle together the day before and worn it proudly as an outward expression & reminder of the inward realisation. I wasn't about to wear a crown or a bedazzled t-shirt that read "Princess" (those do exist) but I still wanted something distinctly pretty and non-functional. It was for me but it also needed to be visible because I needed to own it.

Deciding I could use the extra forty minutes of sleep, I elected to call a cab instead of walking. I was very pleased with my choice. Maybe I had hailed a princess' carriage.

I sat in my office to take some literal and figurative deep breaths. I think I felt deeply privileged that morning that it's my [job] to lead God's people in corporate worship. What a gift, such that when I am in a valley, I want to go to work Monday through Friday, and in fact I often pour myself into work more. Thanks be to God.

My boss came in and acted like a friend. We didn't say much because in this spot... words failed. But it was just right, thanks be to God. Thanks be to God who alone enables me to serve Him.

   Selah.

Rehearsal began. I was well prepared, happy to begin, and deeply blessed by the songs and the worship. I felt like each one had had the top three barnacled layers power-washed off and I was looking at these songs afresh. They were robust. The Lord is good. He's so good. 

I remember sitting at the piano feeling small in a good way--feeling small and cozy like I was covered by God's grace and protection. I felt like with me He was pleased. I felt--and I have been biting my tongue on this through the whole post--rather beautiful. I can't explain it. If there is beauty that radiates from peace and restfulness, then that's what was radiating from me, without my consent or effort.

Then there was a short break and Sunday School began. I sat, I think, on the literal and figurative edge of my seat and my bone-dry, heart-and-mind sponge for teaching from the Scriptures soaked and steeped and sat as happily as a pig in mud. I think I was sitting very still in my muted joy.

Then Sunday School was finished and I walked to the front of the auditorium, deciding at the last minute to bear left and talk to the pastor instead of bearing right to remove some things from the stage before service proper began. I figured the pastor would soon have a line of people waiting to talk but the rogue stage items would wait for me.

As I waited for him, sitting on the edge of the stage, I wrapped my ribbons around and around my hand until they weren't dangling at all. He turned and saw me and, with an expression not of "argh, another congregant angling to make a demand of me" but one of "how nice to see you, my friend", he advanced and perched on the stage as well.

Without hesitation, greeting, or a smile (lacking any one of those is rare for me--it was more like I was presenting research), I held out my ribboned hand and asked leadingly, "Do you know why I get to wear this?"

He re-positoned on the stage as if getting more comfortable and answered, "Tell me," with a little almost-smile. 

"Because Jesus did what He had to for me to be counted as righteous as He is and to be in the family." That morning the songs we rehearsed had reminded me of the Truth. It's nice to live in all the perks of being royalty but, as I explained to the pastor, "I wasn't born a princess..."

I broke off feeling the weight of it. My boss said the biggest "no" of instant, knowing agreement that one can. I liked hearing that he had deliberately clipped himself so I could continue speaking.

I told him that the worldview this ribbon represented was my missing piece. I told him THIS was why I had finally been able to break down. Everything was connecting. My experience was being aligned with reality and the alignment was devastating because I am precious. (I can't even write how huge a revelation this has been.)

He watched me so closely and I felt aware of being somehow outside of myself as processed epiphanies rolled off my tongue.

I talked about what I had re-learned that morning through the songs and I felt good [read: settled] that I had remembered I truly don't deserve this status...but if He paid it all and He predestined me, I'm not going to lose the status, either. "That's significant," I remember blurting, finding I had run out of words.

The pastor took his cue and told me about the etymology of the word, that it "sign"-ifies, meaning it points to something else. Yes. I'm a princess only because Jesus is King and Savior.

   Selah.

I think I agreed with him more by my widened eyes and leaned-forward frame, and I said only a breathless, "Yeah." 

It's neat to be with other believers and be able to talk around the edges of the massive things of God without using many words at all. We aren't cutting corners with language, we're purely reverent.

Mini-worship session concluded, we shook hands, parted ways, and set to preparing ourselves for the main service.

I loved that day. I loved feeling close with the Lord and feeling like my tears the night before had actually been right and were good for me. I liked feeling fragile, soft, quiet, and distinctly lighter but I also had this loud, audacious, bright sunbeam of confidence and anticipation bursting out from behind my rib cage.

I need Thee ev'ry hour;

stay Thou nearby;

Temptations lose their pow'r

when Thou art nigh.

I need Thee ev'ry hour,

in joy or in pain;

Come quickly and abide,

or life is vain.

I need Thee ev'ry hour;

teach me Thy will;

And Thy rich promises

in me fulfill.

  I need Thee, oh, I need Thee;

  ev'ry hour I need Thee.

  Oh, bless me now my Savior;

  I come to Thee.

In love he predestined us as his sons and daughters through Jesus Christ, in accordance with his pleasure and will.

(aserial blip 5)

Man... these blips are becoming a series on their own, it seems.


This morning when I came in there was a large peppermint tea from Tim Hortons sitting on my desk.


I didn't know I wanted peppermint tea this morning (I haven't had it in ages) and I didn't know how moved I would be to see how someone had thought of me.


I'm grateful and I'm humbled that the Lord knew I would want it and would be blessed by it. I'm also flabbergasted that He even knew I was about to have stomach problems--for which peppermint tea is my go-to soother. Wow. Just wow.


It's a little more poignant, I think, because the blinds are still drawn and the door's window still covered from last night when I was here in my office, sitting on the floor crying. There are still tissues on the floor from where I missed the bin and apparently didn't care enough to pick them up.


I came here expressly to cry (it had been welling up since I left work) because I didn't want to have to hold back for other people's sake as I'd do at home. Then I got up and played a few songs that had come to me that evening. I had meant to play and sing but the words came out as whispers or squeaks or trembly, watery, off-pitch fragments because the lyrics were connecting all too well.


So, it's neater to see a tea [sea a tee / language is so fun] which is some small token of I-care-about-you-itude in the same space where I was having my sad worship service alone last night.


This one I've heard just a few times and have been afraid to play it or start learning it, for fear that it would wreck me. I finally tried it last night and I was right. But it'll get better.

Christ is Risen

Matt Maher, Mia Fieldes

Let no one caught in sin remain inside the lie of inward shame,
but fix our eyes upon the cross, and run to Him who showed great love
and bled for us, freely You've bled for us.

Christ is risen from the dead, trampling over death by death--
come awake, come awake, come and rise up from the grave.
Christ is risen from the dead, we are one with Him again--
come awake, come awake, come and rise up from the grave.

Beneath the weight of all our sin, You bowed to none but heaven's will;
no scheme of hell, no scoffer's crown, no burden great can hold you down.
In strength You reign; forever let Your church proclaim.

Christ is risen from the dead, trampling over death by death--
come awake, come awake, come and rise up from the grave.
Christ is risen from the dead, we are one with Him again--
come awake, come awake, come and rise up from the grave.

O death, where is your sting?
O hell, where is your victory?
O church, come stand in the light;
The glory of God has defeated the night.

Singing: O death, where is your sting?
O hell, where is your victory?
O church, come stand in the light;
our God is not dead--He's alive, He's alive!

Christ is risen from the dead, trampling over death by death--
come awake, come awake, come and rise up from the grave.
Christ is risen from the dead, we are one with Him again--
come awake, come awake, come and rise up from the grave.
(c) 2009 ThankYou Music | SHOUT! Music Publishing

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 6)

     Christ is risen from the dead,
     trampling over death by death--
     come awake, come awake, 
     come and rise up from the grave!


Previously--
What would my Heavenly Father say, had I been sitting across from Him in a comfortable, safe setting, looking at my journal to plod through my list of hurts?


   Allow me to regale you.


The setting...
It's a vivid night. It was the twelfth of October, a Saturday.


I came home utterly frustrated with myself a) for trying to force myself to cry (I pulled out known provokers) and b) for not being able to cry!  I was also annoyed and regretful that I had cut myself off the week before. Those tears were flowing without prompting and they were connectfully genuine. But I had pulled it together so I could order dinner that night. Now I wished I hadn't cut it off. I was at this spot now where I was ready to accept that something objectively wrong had happened, that I was innocent, and that there should be anger/sadness/grief indexed to my value. (My value!)


[I loved the sound of it. As it rolled around in my head more and more, I loved the sound of being valuable. Against my best wishes and long-standing belief, it fit and I liked it.]


I had been encouraged to go to my Dad to get the fullest picture of righteous wrath on my behalf. I cringed at the suggestion at first because it sounded like fluffy advice and a lame exercise. But that would only be the case if the Living God was not the Living God. That would only be the case if He weren't Emmanuel, God with us.


The scene...
I sat in my pyjamas on my big bed in an empty house and felt annoyed that I couldn't connect with real sadness, and annoyed that I didn't know enough of third-party outrage. I had been finding it compelling and novel to discern things about my value through other people's grief. It was really convincing. And I know that's only a starting point but right now, I'll take it.

The glitch...

I started telling the stories to Him like we were in close relationship and in conversation. I used first-person pronouns, as you do. It sounded lame! I wasn't feeling uncomfortable about what I was saying which seemed to indicate that I wasn't connecting with what I was saying. I grew even more annoyed. I wanted to get it.

So then I tried telling the stories using the names of other gals that I know and care about. When I hear about other people being mistreated, I grow offended and incensed without any prompting. I know wrong when I hear it. In fact when my pastor told me how he'd have responded if his daughter told him that what happened to me had happened to her I said without thinking, "if that happened to [your daughter], I'd be heartbroken."

The light bulb...

I really meant it. I was squirming as I listened to him talk about the hypothetical situation. I didn't like thinking of her in my position and I didn't like him being so upset over imagining her in my position. But after the words came out of my mouth I kinda jolted at the absurdity of it. Her situation was imagined and it was bothering me--but I know someone whose situation is actual...and it doesn't bother me the same. A real double-standard in play.

Even as I thought it through, knowing more details than anyone else does, I didn't find her guilty; I was only heart-wrenchingly sad for her.

I tried sharing with the Lord using a couple other names but had to stop after the first story because I just felt gross and mean saying those things about ladies I knew. (Also an indicator of a double-standard.)

The solution...
Finally, I decided to tell Him using a title that applied to me so that I could have the third-person distance which evades my double-standard, but still connect to myself. I told Him what had happened to the Princess (to His Princess, to His Daughter). And - imagine - it was heartbreaking. I finally got it.

Into the third story and I was doubled over with tears. It was all coming out. This was a solid, wretching, gasping cry. It was all coming out. I was feeling sad about what had happened to me. More than this, I was feeling my Heavenly Father's sadness about it. I asked Him to show me His outrage and it just wrecked me.

It was an amazing experience of grieving and communing and worship and knowing I was loved because of how deep the offense ran. I was happy to be there with Him. This was what I needed.


The incredible balm...
He spoke to me. He told me how He felt, He told me to hold my head up and He assured me of His protection. I knew He didn't mean I'd never be harmed but I knew His perfect protection would be right. I do believe I slept well that night.

Next time--
And the following day ... ... ....

   ...it's a day where language will fail and I'll be stuck using ellipses.


     O death, where is your sting?
     O hell, where is your victory?
     O church, come stand in the light;
     The glory of God has defeated the night.

     O death, where is your sting?
     O hell, where is your victory?
     O church, come stand in the light;
     our God is not dead--He's alive, He's alive!

(aserial blip 3)

Alternate title: I think I'm getting better even though I can't feel it (today).

Part 6 sits idling in my Drafts folder, unwilling since Friday to be completed. I'm just not in that space. In fact, I feel so over-exposed that the topic makes me cringe. For the first time, I'm 100% glad for the break. I'll take it. Fine. Whatever You'll do, Lord.

Today was a lovely day. So many little things fell so nicely into place when they didn't have to... I'm just so grateful. I guess in the same way that a string of not-nice small things can ruin a day, little mercies can beautifully brighten a day.

The things are so little that if I wrote them, it would have to come off sil'. Some I asked for explicitly and I was so wowed when He said yes. Other things just fell into place like Monday was a gift.

Getting to work on time on an unknown bus sched... enough time and the right resources to defuse my motion sickness that triggered at 6am... finding the most annoying task of the day snatched from my hands (even though I was prepared to go through with it)... finding the second-most annoying task of the day twice as fast and easy as anticipated... a conversation that should have been standard and good turning out to be deep and light-bulby... the pre-disappointed pitch in J's voice when he asked if I was leaving for the day... the perfect ministry aide found and bought for $1.40... being understood... the free-flowing-brain work I was able to do in the oh-so-delicious realm of music theory... a gorgeously solid power nap... more editing work landing on my desk... a brief textversation about restored relationship (YUM)... bothering my housemate with a sock monkey Jack-in-the-box (you heard me)... the sneaking suspicion that the Lord is kind growing until it's no longer sneaking nor suspicious...

...

Sigh. It's way past my bedtime.

gracious

 compassionate

  slow to anger

   quick in love

(aserial blip 2)

Rough night.

There was a sudden moment of intense comfort and profound rest last night that virtually made my jaw drop. I had been crying for half an hour or so, initially because I didn't know how to process God's love for me (and that He was showing it)--I kept asking Him, "what am I supposed to do with this??" almost angrily. Then I was crying because the invisible hands that had been on me for several hours (for the second day in a row) were at peak intensity. When it's prolonged, it wears me down. I start feeling smaller and smaller and more and more ashamed. Often my face flushes.

When it's intense (which has only happened twice) it's like torture. It's like reliving an assault but worse because I can't call the cops or push the attaker away. 

Last night when I got home I couldn't take my coat off for more than ten minutes. When I went to pull it off I felt like it was my only article of clothing and I was removing it in front of a lustful, objectifying audience. I felt like I was being humiliated. 

I couldn't even zip it back up. I couldn't slump to the floor, lie on my bed, stand up straight, fold my arms or hug a pillow because any movement made my clothes move over my highly sensitive, easily irritated body and I was just so tender. It was like trying to move barbed wire over a bed of balloons.

So I stood hunched over a little to make my clothes fall away from me and I sobbed like I was being taken advantage of, and like I was helpless in it.

I think I have never begged like that in my life, not even in prayer. I begged and begged God to take it away. I had reached my limit and I was crying out desperately. It was like torture. It's like torture to be in my own body.

When I sensed that I might soon snap from the pain, I decided to pick up the pillow because I wasn't convinced this could hurt any more than it did. I squeezed gingerly (a simulated hug) and there was a little relief.

Hoping we were now officially in the decline, I put the pillow down but found I was wrong. So I writhed and pleaded and sobbed again.

Then I wanted to decide that enough was enough. I thought nothing could make this worse, so I had better barrel through instead of putting my life on hold. I simply decided the jacket had to come off and as I started removing it, I heard a very faint "trust me".

I took it off and I was OK.

I was OK.

The pain dropped from a nine out of ten to a six. Hurdle cleared, I was able to completely switch into my pyjamas--however slowly--trying to consciously swallow the pain and not be crippled by it.

I heard my housemate come in and wondered if she could hear me crying. I wondered if I wanted a hug. I didn't know. I felt so ashamed and roughed up, I wasn't sure I wanted to be touched. I eventually decided to go for one hug (but no chatting) but by the time I had emerged from my room, her door was closed. Alas.

I stood by my bed, kind of stunned for a moment, not expecting to have so tidily missed an opportunity.Would I be OK on my own? Should I go knock on her metaphorically always-open door? Feeling too small to go and ask, I climbed onto the corner of my bed and pulled a chunk of my triple-layer blanket to my chest.


And there it was. Huddled in a ball with my baggie hoodie on and hood up; my uber-comfortable pyjamas and warm socks; my softened, puffy, tear-streaked face not even on the pillow; and a mix of linens in my clutches,
I
felt
relief.


PHEW.

Finally the hands had left and my tears could stop. I might have gasped or something, feeling complete alleviation of something that had been making me want to scream for hours and hours.  I thanked Him from my heart.

That evening, I had brought home three types of junk food in hopes of decreasing my overall stress, and of avoiding relapsing with my wicked coping mechanism. (Yes, I know it's not the best but I felt desperate.)

But then lying there lounging in a pool of relief, feeling tension leave my whole body, all I wanted was water. I was feeling hot, achy, and stuffed like I was getting sick (though I think that was actually from stress, crying, and the cold weather) and being cozy on my soft bed with cool water to drink... it was just overwhelming. It was enough. It was good.


Why should I feel discouraged,
why should the shadows come,
why should my heart feel lonely
and long for heaven and home,

When Jesus is my portion?
My constant friend is He:
His eye is on the sparrow
and I know He watches me;
His eye is on the sparrow
and I know He watches me.

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 5)

Subtitle: catharsis

"As much as the concept is misunderstood today, Aristotle's understanding of catharsis was literally a purging, a cleansing. A cathartic experience helps us love the good and hate evil. It allows us to expel some of the evil that is inside us, with the result that we are cleaner and purer than before."
     --source too squeamish to be cited

The next day - a Wednesday - I felt great. As I put it to an interested inquirer, I felt like a fever had broken. I felt, having withstood gross temptation twice in two days (where it seemed I had struggled to the point of trembling and sweating), like the fever had broken. It was like a big, ugly menacing something had left me and ceased to permeate every fibre, every pore, every cell. Relief would have to work overtime at three jobs for a decade to come close to fitting what I felt that day.


And the Princess treatment, perplexingly, continued. In fact, it amped up. I felt better. I felt distinctly better. I felt OK in my own skin. Looking back at a day which is now exactly a month ago, I think I didn't know at the time how many more ups and downs (from feeling exactly like myself and happy to feeling exactly like an impostor and devastated) I would go through. They've leveled out a bit since but I am a long way from being out of the woods.


The day after was one of my fun-fave Reprieve Thursdays. Those Thursdays make me praise the Lord. I'm just too impressed, humbled and grateful for the Lord giving me ONE DAY of lightness, laughter, ease, peace and detectable joy amidst so many days of [words-fail crazy painfulness].


And then it was Friday. At the end of my Reprieve Thursday, I started feeling it. I asked my pastor if we really had to talk, not actually asking what those words denoted, but knowing I could say them and have him still perceive my meaning.

I meant something like,

Is it going to be OK?

Am I going to make it?

Is it OK that I'm scared?

Why am I scared?

Can you help me through this?

Will you keep pushing me when I reach for the brakes? (I'm definitely going to need that.)

And he heard me, and responded to what I meant. He overruled my inclination towards the brakes by saying that yes, he thought we should talk--"even if it's for one minute," he says. He answered all the other questions with a kind facial expression and tone laden with commitment to service, to friendship and to doing his best to help me however he could. He wasn't really going to let me wriggle away, no matter how uncomfortable this experience would be.

(Cough syrup, right?)

We met. We spoke. I both hated the fact that it wasn't a magic bullet and appreciated the fact that it was an important part of a journey, of a bigger picture.


It was good to get it all out. (That's just plain true.) It was significant to have the freedom, security and encouragement to disclose my darkest baggage to a safe someone that was pouring himself out to help one of the King's Daughters (who is also one of his own sisters) get back on her feet.

I sat and worked through my list of accounts of verbal, physical and sexual abuse. I gave as much detail as I thought made sense, and I waited painfully for responses. I don't know if I was waiting for approval or judgment but I certainly felt the weight of monologuing. I'm not used to being the one doing most of the talking. I felt like I was gasping for input but also thought that if I asked I'd be turned down. This was my time to talk, apparently. Barf. Sometimes I just want other people to talk over me and stamp me out so what I say doesn't have a chance to be important.


The whole conversation now feels surreal. It truly was a starting point. I had no idea how many important trails would begin there and I have seen them working out every day since. It was good to get it all out, but it was also hard to find that merely saying it wasn't enough. I hadn't purged the instances from my body or my life.


Later that day, the Big Talk having concluded, I was amazed to find how much I had been yearning for outrage. I had been yearning for my pastor to interrupt me as I spoke, with huge WHAT?!s, and are you serious?es, and that's horrible!s. I didn't know til later how hard I had been longing to have someone who has heard the facts react like something was wrong. I was dying for it, as it turns out, because I hadn't gotten it the first time I had told.


Yes, with the worst incident, back at age eighteen, I had told each of my parents, and the account was downplayed by one, and dismissed by the other. At the time, I read that the incident was not a big deal so I should stop freaking out. Eleven years on, I realise what a toll that reading has taken. I internalised something tragic about my value. (To be fair, I need to tell them again now--and it will be a different story, now that so much more has transpired and that I have a little more maturity to frame it all--and I need to do my best to read their responses fairly. Not all is lost.)

But because I felt the desire so keenly, I decided I would blatantly ask. I asked my pastor how he would have reacted if he had no reason to restrain himself. And he surprised me. If he was fabricating, he should quit the cloth and head to Hollywood.


He was horrified. He was sad for me! He was outraged and offended and, I think, disgusted on my behalf. He shocked me as he spoke about my past with such grave seriousness. I almost felt like I was being rebuked for taking it too lightly. I was forced to conclude that this guy must think much of the Lord and of the things (the people!) the Lord has created with inherent worth and has designated as precious.


He lamented that he couldn't have protected me, even though it was nine years before we'd ever met. He teared up more times than I can count and he held eye-contact like he was pleading with me to catch some of his conviction. It was a lot to take in.


It seems I take in about one iota of it every three days. The animated, extensive outrage was in proportion to my value and to the gravity of the violations. I wasn't expecting it. This was someone who could see me like a father should see a daughter and was begging me to lift my head up. This was fitting wrath--mixed with overwhelming compassion!


This was something. (It felt like balm.) My perception was changing. That early implied estimation of my value and preciousness had a heavier hand in future incidents than I could have ever imagined. Light was dawning like the sun's terms had finally been met and it was no longer on strike. BAM.




So this was my soft-hearted pastor tearing up over my mistreatment while I quietly and intently trained my eyes on him, a ticker tape of "is he still talking about me?" humming in the background.

And what about my Heavenly Father? What would He say, if I had been sitting across from Him curled up in a ball, staring at the list in my journal, playing with the bookmark in it, feeling flushed, feeling dirty, feeling helpless and alone, and wishing I couldn't tell the stories with first-person pronouns?

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 4)

I sing because I'm happy. 

I sing because I'm free.

His eye is on the sparrow

and I know He watches me.

The next morning, I felt a hint of victory. I felt both relieved and amazed that I had made it. Drifting off to sleep was NEVER, never so sweet as it was that night.

For whatever reason I woke up again at midnight and when it became apparent that I was running on something like adrenaline and might not need a full night's sleep, I decided to start writing an email. Highly personal and deliberately crafted, it took me more than two hours to finish. Then I was tired again and apparently so was the mob so I was able to drift off.

In the morning there was a spring in my step. For the first time I had tried - really tried - to resist and I had succeeded. (Who knew?) The early morning transpired well but then as midday approached, the spring was gone and my knuckles dragged on the ground instead. I was ready to give up and I inclined toward my coping/escape mechanism. This would have been within the first three days of the phantom hands making their debut. I wasn't dealing very well with feeling unprotected.


I came incredibly close but received another timely phone call which I again resented when I first picked up. Soon I melted. So much softness of tone, so much patience, so many repetitions of "it's okay" that I gave in. I had to give in and accept that I was loved and that was that. It mattered what I did. It mattered what has happened. It mattered how I felt. I mattered. The phone call stole the mechanism's potency. I hung up partly annoyed but largely grateful.

Throughout the afternoon, I felt that peculiar lightness that comes in the wake of hard-won victory. Yes, I had needed help but I hadn't succumbed.

Somewhere in the middle of a street hockey game with the boys in the early evening, a pivotal light bulb was turned on. In a now-rare moment of feeling relaxed and like myself, I sent a text-message confessing that yes, the over-the-top, out-of-your-way, too-patient, too-generous, too-gracious, too-kind treatment I had been given for more than a week really was working on me. It was getting to me; it was wearing me down. Yes, I confessed against my conscious desires that I had been made to feel like a princess. I had been treated like a princess!

Amazing.

And my subconscious desires were awakened. That day, I liked the designation. Crazily, it fit.

I loved thinking of myself as a sweet, little girl in a soft pink dress and a cone-shaped hat with a shimmery streamer coming out of the top.

The designation fit because my Father is the King. Two days later, in unpacking the term in an email, that hit me HARD. I thought I was typing to describe my new understanding but it was as I typed that my understanding was deepened so significantly and abruptly that my eyes instantly bugged and I dropped my phone.

My

Father

is

the 

King

(of all Kings).

(What?)

I was writing it out to say that it wasn't the same as enjoying being treated like a queen or a kitten (because neither of those designations accurately applies). It mattered that my real Father (my real Father because of the amazing Great Exchange) was a real King. Daughter of the King. Incredible. Undeserved but irrevocable. Incredible. And I was feeling it.

Now, The Big Talk was only two days away. What did I think? How was I feeling about it?

Series: Transparency, History and Identity (Part 3)

     This is my Father's world; O let me ne'er forget 
     That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the Ruler yet.

[Following the Friday of pink carnations came the Saturday of self-pampering and energising activities. Saturday evening found me mired in temptation but able to resist, largely with the help of a timely distraction.]

---

And then there was Sunday. The sermon I had the overflowing joy and privilege to sit under seemed like it was tailor-made for me and my aching heart that morning. It got me. It completely got me. I sat entranced. The Lord is just amazing. He cares enough to speak to us!


It was beautiful and it was balm but it was also too much for one Sunday while everything is just so raw. At times like these, I emphatically thank God for the technology I have access to because it means I can carry the sermon around in my pocket and re-listen as needed. In fact, so can you!

After the service finished, the preacher found me sitting in my office (very possibly staring blankly) and asked how I was. Despite recent small(er-ish) victories, despite how upbeat I had been for most of that morning, my honest answer was, "I think it's going to be a hard day." My friend looked slightly surprised and maybe like a little wind had been knocked out of him. He appeared to have been rooting for me and hoping that Sunday would be a real Sabbath from all my heaviness. I felt a little badly saying it, wishing I could be better. (I also had a moment of profound gratitude that I have friends with whom I can be perfectly honest.)


He invited me to make sure I took very good care of myself that day, now the second day in a row. He made it inescapably clear that there should be no obstacle for it. I needed to prioritise my well-being, and at that time, I was able to accept the invitation because it felt like a favor to him. Friend whom I respect and cherish asking me to do something that would make them happy? No-brainer yes. That the "something" happens to be taking care of myself--something I shouldn't need second-party motivation for? Awkward, but I can work with it.


Sunday blended into Monday and somewhere in that first-of-the-work-week day I accepted my friend's suggestion to designate Friday for having a big talk (THE big talk) about all of what's been bubbling up inside of me. I wanted catharsis. I wanted to say it all plainly and I desperately wanted to see its true ugliness. (And I wanted him to concur.) "This is what happened to me..." I would say. I would sit still, curled up in a ball, avoiding eye-contact, speaking very quietly, and work through my list, fighting back the urge to punctuate each story with, "it wasn't that bad, though."


Monday evening found me sending one of the saddest text-messages I've ever drafted:
"I'm standing in the street a block from my house ready to cry. I can't go home."

I was reaching out, asking for permission to spend the money required for me to not go home. I couldn't go home and be by myself and be unable to resist succumbing to my disgusting coping mechanism.


On my way back downtown, the phantom hands grew highly aggressive and I felt heavily pressed by the weight of helplessness and anger. For the first time ever, I cried over my history of abuse. I finally saw it in the proper lighting and had enough of my defenses eroded that I could simply be sad and feel the appropriate hurt.

Crying on the bus was a new one for me but I was still able to feel relief and gratitude for a real emotion. I was glad to be having an appropriate response for once. (I should be devastated!)


I stayed out of the house as long as I could and hoped I was going to be dog-tired enough when I got home that I would be asleep before temptation could reach me. I was wrong. I thought I had it. I was feeling OK, feeling grateful that I had time to read the Word, journal, and pray, feeling like Monday could be put in the books and that I would do my best to tackle Tuesday when it came. But then when I closed my eyes, it was like a mob was shouting at me, DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! They were practically frothing with blood-lust.


I would open my eyes and gasp each time, horribly intimidated and ready to give up. It felt like I was going to be swallowed whole. I felt like I was being dragged away.


I just wasn't going to beat this. I had to give in. What was the point anyway? This pain is unbearable.


Then I sent another text-message that would rank among the saddest, reaching out to be talked off the ledge. I didn't think it would help but I didn't want the mob to be satisfied. I was met with a lot more grace and a lot more love than I will ever deserve.



I was permitted to keep my autonomy but I was immediately and deeply aware that boxes of cereal don't get talked off ledges. People don't plead with shoelaces to take better care of themselves. Maybe I was worth being intervened for.


     This is my Father's world: The battle is not done; 
     Jesus who died shall be satisfied, And earth and heav'n be one.