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Irrevocable, but not Unredeemable

Some things are irrevocable.  A rash word, a selfish action, a tragic choice – each can have unique and utter consequences.  Sometimes we think we’re doing the right thing, sometimes we know we aren’t.  Often, we convince ourselves and others who know less about the situation of that thing’s necessity so that we might recruit a few supporters.

Well, “No man is an island,” they say.  “They” quote John Donne and they’re all spot-on.

Psychology is a complex thing easily shaped by the deeds and misdeeds of others and of ourselves.  Unfortunate psychological consequences are difficult to overcome, but nothing is impossible with our Redeemer.  For it is He who redeems all things unto Himself, and it is He who causes all things to work together for the good of those who love Him.

I’m still a work in progress, and I’m definitely not the person I should be, but I assure you I’m not who I was.

 

I’m Not Who I Was (click for video)
By Brandon Heath

I wish you could see me now
I wish I could show you how
I’m not who I was
I used to be mad at you
A little on the hurt side too
But I’m not who I was

I found my way around
To forgiving you
Some time ago
But I never got to tell you so

I found us in a photograph
I saw me and I had to laugh
You know, I’m not who I was
You were there, you were right above me
And I wonder if you ever loved me
Just for who I was

When the pain came back again
Like a bitter friend
It was all that I could do
To keep myself from blaming you

I reckon it’s a funny thing
I figured out I can sing
Now I’m not who I was
I write about love and such
Maybe ’cause I want it so much
I’m not who I was

I was thinking maybe I
I should let you know
I am not the same
But I never did forget your name
Hello

Well the thing I find most amazing
In amazing grace
Is the chance to give it out
Maybe that’s what love is all about

I wish you could see me now
I wish I could show you how
I’m not who I was

I Wrote a Poem; It Doesn’t Rhyme

The Call from My Sister

 

Cell interrupts.  Everything’s –
Gone, she gentled.  Saved
One box, she offered.  Anything
Important there? she probed. 

 

Only the most important.
Yearbooks.
Letters.
Memories.
Gone.
Garbaged.

 

I knew better than to leave
Unsafe.  It was a gamble –
Lost.

 

Hang up.

 

Lift eyes toward week-old
Husband.  Mourn old
Yesterdays.  Determine
New ones.

 

-ajw 7/18/2009

From My Journal

July 16, 2009

“Don’t be hasty; you have eternity to write your story.”

I put it in quotes because I feel like God said it.  I have started my story so many times and then stopped, at a loss.  I feel like God told me today that I truly have eternity – not “an” eternity, because that tiny article imposes a subtle finity to the word – but eternity to write.  Even if I don’t get it out before I die, who would be bored with a story of God’s glory on the New Earth?  So – no rush.  I need to get it right and waiting is part of that.

“Over his writing desk Franz Kafka had one word, ‘Wait.’  …  Writers fear this delay, for they can name colleagues who have made a career of delay, whose great unwritten books will never be written, but, somehow, those writers who write must have the faith to sustain themselves through the necessity of delay.”  ~Donald Murray, College Composition and Communication, NCTE 1978

~Maranatha

 

—————————————————————————————-

 

July 17, 2009

“The Mouse Moral:
Knowing in part may make a fine tale, but wisdom comes from seeing the whole.”  ~White Mouse, Seven Blind Mice, by Ed Young

Yet another thing I pulled from my workshop.  But journal, have I even told you about this experience?  I’ve been so busy experiencing it.  Soon – I’m in class now. 

~Maranatha

 

—————————————————————————————-

 

July 18, 2009

I am four days behind in my daily Bible.  God has been speaking to me in different ways this past week and it’s been pretty overwhelming.  He’s spoken to me through children’s books, graduate textbooks, and strangers.  And friends!  Can’t forget Amanda’s “don’t be hasty.”  I even got a revelation in the car.  I have neglected my daily reading, but God has not been silent.  God has been encouraging and kind and gentle and bold.  I am to tell my story, but I’m to trust the delay.  Even though it’s all inside of me, it’s not ready.  It may not be ready before my death, but that doesn’t matter.  I have eternity.  I can’t force what’s not ready.  But I can embrace and cherish every inspiration.  I wrote the opening to my book (again) last week.  I started from scratch, though, and it was so much better than my previous attempts.  I can actually say that I think it’s publishable.  I can actually call myself a writer.  I’ve said before that I like to write and that I want to write, but I’ve never called myself a writer.  But, I am.  Just because I am not published does not mean I am not a writer.  I don’t have to see my name on the binding of a book to validate my purpose.  The God of the universe just validated it last week!  I’m still in shock.

~Maranatha

 

Captive

They lied.  Are they supposed to do that?  Aren’t they supposed to serve and to protect?  Well, if you call drippy pizza and oldish card games “service,” then I guess they served me well.  If you call taking away my family “protection,” then they shone as saviors.  I wouldn’t have called it that, though.  They lied.  

 

It began with a knock.  Actually, it could have been the doorbell.  I don’t recall exactly, since I was engrossed in erasing my mess in the kitchen after making hamburger patties.  My secret recipe yielded the most coveted burgers in the family, so the job always fell to me.  Although I knew that the mothers were simply exploiting child labor and relishing an evening off, I still felt special for it.  Specialness had become a stranger in those days, along with any positive interaction with my mother or grandmother.  This was in large part due to the mounting evidence that they knew absolutely nothing.  They knew me least of all.  So, I enjoyed burger nights, as long as no one hovered or asked me annoying questions during the process.

 

Lost in my own pressing thoughts, very little could distract me.  The meaty aroma creeping into every corner of the cramped kitchen scarcely caught my attention.  I ignored some irrelevant statement—or was it a question?—from my old mother’s old mother.  Scrubbing and cleaning and contemplating great things, I wished away the mothers in my life.

 

The knock at the door—or was it the doorbell?—jolted me out of my grandiose plans.  It matters little how the intruders announced their presence; it’s what came after that really matters. 

 

No one came to the door—ever.  And I knew from years of experience with my mother that if someone actually did come to the door, then no one answered it—ever.  The thing to do is mute the television and stare intently through the peeky hole until they leave.  If they leave, you turn up the volume and resume life.  If they don’t leave, well, then you should seriously consider the back door.  Someone would leave eventually; there would be no meeting between intruder and inhabitant.

 

My grandmother was different.  She didn’t know how to live like we did.  To her, mommies and daddies stayed together.  Knocks at the door signaled unexpected opportunities to chat with a friend while exchanging a cup of sugar for a smiling promise to share the resulting cookies.  Needless to say, my grandmother didn’t hesitate to go to the door.  She walked effortlessly and without concern, as though the knock—or doorbell—physically drew her trusting hand to the doorknob beyond her control.  I threw the towel on the counter, watching and shaking my head in complete disbelief of her naiveté.  She disappeared stupidly into the entryway, but I can’t deny that I crept around the corner to see what menace might be lurking.

 

I’ll never forget the first thing I saw, or, rather, I should say “things.”  Even though the door instantly exposed us and them, I really didn’t notice the people right away.  Instead, I noticed the things—the things that meant everything.  They meant my world crashing down around me.  They meant imprisonment—they meant devastation—they meant tears—they meant danger—they meant insecurity.  Cold and gleaming, they meant the loss of life as we all knew it.

 

 

 

Handcuffs.

 

 

 

And my mother was standing inside them.  My strong, defiant, tragic mother was inside of them and she made no attempt to get out.  After all of our escapes, after all of our near-misses, she wasn’t even trying! 

 

What do I do?  How do I get out?  I stepped back incredulously.  We’ve never experienced a situation quite like this; the cops have never been quite this close.  But, we can do this.  They have guns, but we can do this.  Think.  Look in her eyes.  Is there a plan?  Is she sending me a secret message?  What is she trying to say?

 

Her eyes revealed only resignation and sorrow.  They whispered pity.  My mother felt sorry for me.  The years of running, hiding, and lying had completely exhausted her, but I never saw it until that moment.  More than that, however, I couldn’t get past the obvious sorrow on my behalf.  She wished I didn’t see what I saw, and she prayed that what was about to happen wouldn’t.

 

They entered, sat, argued, discussed, reassured, directed, planned, explained.  Sitting in my grandmother’s informal living room on Meridian Avenue, two uniforms and two mothers made plans about my tomorrow.

 

I heard only fragments of what those four said in that room that night, for I was still planning my escape.  Whether the mothers would make their escape or not, I would.  I thought about my escape as I obediently packed my bags.  I thought about my escape as my mother lifted her tired, handcuffed arms up over my head to give me one last, tearful, pitiful, awkward hug—the one that must hold me over for many years. 

 

Entering the wide open, seeing crouched men wearing black, aiming guns, and surrounding the house, I abandoned all plans of escape.  Not knowing what else to do, I numbly pulled my body into the designated squad car.  Defiantly extinguishing sudden tears, I watched the uniforms direct my mommy into another car, worlds away.  It was no use.  I was only twelve, and the men did have guns after all.

 

I didn’t know where they took my mother.  Well I knew, but I didn’t know a precise location and I had trouble seeing it in my head.  Stripes?  Orange jumpsuits?  Chains?  Humiliating initiations?  Maybe.  I bet she didn’t even have walls around her toilet.  I bet she thought about me the whole time.  On second thought, maybe she was planning her escape.  That sounds a lot like her.

 

As for me, I stayed in limbo at the Oklahoma City Police Department for endless hours.  The uniforms had names and gave me food.  They let me call friends to explain the inexplicable. They showed me my horribly inaccurate—and completely ugly—age-enhanced photograph.  As we talked, they promised me I would not have to stay with my pedophilic father that night.  They understood the reason for our fugitive way of life. 

 

I couldn’t bear the thought of experiencing everything my mother had warned me about.  She had always expressed her thankfulness that I didn’t remember.  Chatting with these friendly men, I felt my own sense of thankfulness because it looked like I’d never have to worry about it, even now.  They confided in me that pending paperwork would let me stay with my grandmother under a sort of “house arrest” until everything could be straightened out.  I relaxed and felt better.  These cops—the people we had spent my life outwitting and outrunning—were actually going to help me. 

 

Well, they lied, and I revisited plans of escape.

Awkward Turtle

Have you heard of him?  The mascot of awkward moments? I learned about him from a friend back in Florida. Apparently, when things get awkward, you can place one hand on top of the other, position them between you and the other awkward participant in the situation, and wiggle your thumbs around. That’s supposed to clear the air; I guess because it’s so stupid and weird.

 Well, for a girl with a past such as I have, there have been many awkward turtle-appropriate moments in polite conversation.  Who knew such innocent questions could have such complicated answers?

• Where are you from?
• What elementary school did you go to?
• Oh, you moved a lot.  Was your dad in the military?
• How old are your siblings?
• Oh – I think I may have known your sister.  What’s y’all’s maiden name?

Normal small talk, right?  Nope.  These kinds of questions are how Justin got more than he bargained for on our first date!  Sometimes, I can be masterful at skirting around questions with acquaintances.  (Oh, I’m from the Dallas area, but I went to elementary school in Oklahoma.  I’m sure you’ve never heard of any of the little schools I went to… ha, ha… I’m gonna get something to drink.  Thirsty?)

Sometimes, however, I just have to look people in the eye and ask them if they really want to go there, ’cause it will be a long story that just creates more questions: 

• Where am I from?  Well, do you have a map?
• School?  What grade?  Oh I can’t remember the name of that one!  …I was only there for a day.
• Oh yeah – my dad was in the military, back before I was born.  But what does that have to do with this?  I didn’t really meet him until I was 12.
• My brother is 33 and my sister is 33.  No, they’re not twins.  They’re actually four months apart. 
• Maiden name?  What year?

See?  More questions.  I told you. 

So, if you are just getting to know me and a seemingly innocent question garners hesistation and then a strangely general response, now you know why.  Well, at least  now you know that there is a reason why!  I’m not shy about it; I just don’t want to hog the conversation with stories of America’s Most Wanted.

Belated Parents’ Day Post

I’m just going to be honest: I don’t like Mother’s Day or Father’s Day. 

Sometimes, holidays in a strained/broken/step family can be obligatory and awkward.  Sometimes, it just boils down to extra money people have to spend so feelings don’t get hurt.  That may be harsh, but it’s honest. 

Is it weird that I actually have to go on a quest for Mother’s/Father’s Day cards that simply say something to the effect of, “I hope you have a great day”?  Yeah – I really do.  None of this “Through the years…” nonsense.  No hearts or flowery messages… none of that will do because none of it applies. 

It’s not that I don’t love my mother, my father, my step-mother, or my step-father… it’s just that I don’t have a connection with any of them.  We can laugh and talk and recall funny experiences, (you know – between awkward silences and/or arguments), but I don’t think I feel what I’m supposed to feel.  My childhood was too fragmented, too broken.  Their time of influence was too fleeting.  The damage was too profound.  I’m too completely different from who I used to be and who they expect me to be.

And, frankly, the mushy cards are really stupid. 

So, these holidays stress me out.  But, I read something today on a randomly generated blog that made me pause.  Instead of the typical, “I love my dad,” or, “I love my husband, who is a great dad,” this post was about our real Dad. 

That’s nifty.  And that’s a fantastic way to spend Father’s Day in honest appreciation.  I can’t believe I never thought of it before. 

My Secret Life

You know I love books.  I read all types of books.  I generally gravitate toward theology, history, or classic literature.  Sometimes, however, people buy me different books that I might be interested in, but would probably never purchase for myself.  For some reason, I feel this compelling need to only invest my time and money into books that will teach me something or really challenge me.  Usually, I can’t see that type of potential unless it’s non-fiction or at least 100 years old. 

Fortunately, I got the opportunity to read The Secret Life of Bees, which my awesome mother-in-law bought for me.  I really love novels.  Looking at my Facebook book application, most of my “favorites” are novels.  I get really wrapped up in what Amanda calls “book friends” and it’s just like the people are here and now, living out their stories all around me.  I love it.

I always find someone to relate to in every story.  Although every fiction writer seeks to capture the affections of their readers, it is no great task for me as the audience.  Sometimes, it surprises me  how incredibly easy it is.  Occasionally, the protagonist is an adolescent girl with crazy parents who is simply trying to figure out the truth.  Ah – that was me.  The circumstances are different, but the core is the same.

~~~

This happened before with White Oleander.  I saw the movie first and then read the book.  (Don’t ever do it in that order.)  There was so much about Astrid that I identified with.  So very much.  Her reflections on her life with and without her mother were comforting and reassuring. 

No matter how much she had damaged me or how flawed she was, how violently mistaken, my mother loved me, unquestionably.¹ 

Now THAT resonates with me.  No one has ever said it so perfectly.  I believe it to be entirely true of my mother. 

~~~

Obviously, it happened again with The Secret Life of Bees.  I just fell in love with 14-year-old Lily, the kid trying to figure out her life.  Great book. 

Knowing can be a curse on a person’s life.  I’d traded in a pack of lies for a pack of truth, and I didn’t know which one was heavier.  Which one took the most strength to carry around?  It was a ridiculous question, though, because once you know the truth, you can’t ever go back and pick up your suitcase of lies.  Heavier or not, the truth is yours now.²

Oh, how I can relate to the brokenness and despair little Lily Owens felt!  Trite, yet searingly accurate: “The truth hurts.”  It sometimes causes entire worlds to splinter under the weight.

~~~

Any other book suggestions, now that you know what I like?  I am starting Pilgrim’s Progress, since I’ve never read it.  See?  Classics. 

 

 

¹Janet Fitch, White Oleander (New York, NY: Little, Brown and Company, 1999), 440.

²Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees (New York, NY: Penguin Group, 2002), 255-256.

Bad Dad

Yesterday, I talked about a church we visited this past weekend.  One of the things that the church really seemed to center on was the names for God.  There was a lot of El Shaddai and Elohim business going on.  That’s cool.  They also focused on God as Healer, Provider, Protector, Savior, and Father.  Then, they gave the little disclaimer speech on the “father” bit. 

Surely you know what I’m talking about.  Perhaps if you have a fantastic relationship with your pops, you’ve never noticed the disclaimer speech.  But, I bet that all the rest of us have.  As soon as they get good and deep into the concept of God as the ultimate Father, they stop in their tracks.  It’s like a little voice whispers to them, “Hold up!  Some of these people don’t have good daddies.  Make sure you don’t lose them!”  And out comes the Daddy Disclaimer:

For some of you out there, when we speak of our Glorious God as Provider, Protector, and Father, that really resonates with you.  You had an awesome dad and this view of God just clicks.  For others, however, you may not have had a good relationship, if any at all, with your earthly father.  Perhaps he hurt you, abandoned you, or simply never supported you.  Then when you hear about the God of the universe being our Father, you just check out.  There’s something in you that associates “father” with “bad” and you don’t want any part of any god that calls himself “father.”  I want to encourage you to look past any sin in your own father and realize that our God is everything you ever wanted and needed in your earthly father and so much more. 

No disrespect at all, but as the guy with the mic unfurls his speech, I glance around the crowd and wonder, Do people really need this speech?  Are there fatherless grownups lurking about churches feeling bitter at God because He so insensitively calls Himself “Father” when their own fathers were so sucky?  

I don’t blame Daddy Disclaimer guy.  I don’t know who started giving this speech, but it really caught on and he was probably just doing what he thought was necessary to be sensitive to all members of the congregation.  I, for one, was never in need of this re-association with the word “father.”

I have, actually, had a few people ask me if I ever struggled with it.  Here’s my answer: NO!  While I grew into adolescence without a father and lived through adolescence believing mine was secretly nurturing latent pedophilic, homosexual, and abusive tendencies, it never colored my view of God as my Father in a negative way.  In contrast, my completely broken relationship with my earthly father made me cling to the notion of God as my ultimate Father. 

I have honestly never met a person who struggled with seeing God as Father.  Have you?  Are you that person?  I’m genuinely interested in knowing.

Don’t Worry; I’ll Repent FOR You!

Well, that’s not really true.  But, you would think it is by the way I’ve found myself praying recently.

~~~

About a week or two ago, I had a long conversation with my older brother.  He’s 7 years older than me and actually has memories from when my mother and father were married and we all lived together.  It wasn’t pretty.  I asked lots of questions and he was very frank with me about some of the goings-on in the household.  It involved lots of alcohol, lots of screaming, lots of abuse, and the occasional 911 call. 

I don’t remember because I was very, very wee.  That’s both good and bad.  God spared me – (I don’t know why) – from the long-term effects of that household.  But, my family of origin is really kind of this elusive mystery that can never truly be solved.  If you ask my dad about it, you get one story.  You ask my mom, you get another.  Typical, but we’re not talking different versions of the same story; we’re talking completely different accounts.  Like, obviously someones chronicle is wholly fabricated.  I’ve been so frustrated by that fact that I completely stopped asking questions for years.  The answers infuriated me because I knew someone was lying about everything.

Asking my brother and sister didn’t ever seem to help, either, because my brother’s story corroborated my dad’s while my sister supported my mom. 

But, I decided to ask again.  (I trust my brother now that I’ve known him for about 15 years.  He’s honest to a fault.)  Some of his stories got me really thinking about my mom.  This thinking prompted me to write this post recently.  This thinking has also prompted some weird prayers.

~~~

I feel this odd responsibility for the mistakes my mother has made.  (And “mistakes” is a very nice word.)  As I listened to how my mother hurt my brother, (her former step-son), I wanted nothing more than to make it up to him.  She’s not owning up, so I felt like I should somehow.  That feeling spilled over into my prayers.  I know she’s not repenting, so I started repenting for her.  I found myself begging God to forgive her.  I even apologized to Him for her.

That’s preposterous. It doesn’t work that way.  I know.  But I can’t help myself. 

~~~

To God, to my dad, to my brother, to my sister, and to anyone else who was hurt: