Bear Witness

If I am being honest, I have to tell you that I have been struggling lately. I have so many thoughts that I want to put into words, so much I want to write and accomplish. Yet, many days, I do not write at all, and am miserable because of it. I promised myself almost a year ago that this would be the year I would make progress, that I would have something concrete toward writing a book by the time my birthday rolled around again. I have a few pages, nothing substantial, and really just have not done the "work" that is writing. The "work" that requires coming back to the blank page, day after day after day, until there are more words gathered into place, and something of substance begins to take shape.

Sometimes when I consider doing the work of writing, I hear a record player in my brain that is stuck on an old, familiar loop. The record plays the same message over and over again on repeat. The message tells me that if I cannot be the best, I should remain silent. It says that my writing is without purpose. It tells me that my thoughts are best kept to myself, because ultimately I have nothing to bring to the table.

And then, this guy walks through the door:

My youngest boy decided recently that he was going to write the story of his life. He has been writing faithfully, almost every day, about the things that make up his world. He feels tremendous joy in learning that he can express his heart by putting his thoughts into words on a page, and then share those thoughts with others. He does not come to his notebook with an agenda. His mission is to record his life, to find a way to bear witness to all that he sees and does and feels. He writes it all down because he believes that his life, and his story, have value.

My heart breaks wide open when I see it. This is why I write: to bear witness. My writing bears witness to my own heart about all that I have seen and done and felt. My writing also bears witness to another heart that may have seen and done and felt something similar along the way. My writing declares that my life and my story have value.

The joy on his face is a jolt that moves the needle on my broken record. Now I can hear again the better message playing. I may not be the best, but I will not remain silent. My writing has purpose because my life has purpose. I have plenty to bring to the table, if only I will come and share what I have been given.

I intend to try to be more like Asher this month, and just keep filling up pages. I will remind myself that writing to record my thoughts and feelings will bear witness to all that I see and do and feel, whether in the form of day-to-day life and memory on the blog, or in words filling blank pages just for me. I will try not to have an agenda, but keep the record player on the truth, and just bring what I have to the table. That's all that any of us really needs to do, and there is so much joy when we each bring what we have and pour it out, sharing our gifts with one another, and growing together in love.

Thank you so much to all my friends and family who reminded me again this year on my birthday how very blessed and fortunate I am. Your goodness propels me toward a better message and truth in my heart. 

A Passion for Tradition

I wonder sometimes where my passion for tradition was born. When did I become a person who created annual events, who choreographed seasonal field trips, who craved and searched for and then made the exact same recipe year after year after year? Certainly my childhood was not filled with that kind of consistency. Each year as the seasons changed, so did my environment. Beginning life with two parents, then shuffling between one and another, then finding myself sheltered in the homes of various extended family and friends as I grew older, there were no annual traditions. Life was constant change, completely beyond my control.

Somewhere along the way, I started to create anchors for myself. I began to build my own traditions. Now it did not matter where I lived or who I was with, the traditions came with me. The annual stomping of the leaves that fell in my school courtyard, the celebration of the first cup of cocoa each winter. There were recipes I made and gave to friends as an expression of the idea of home, warmth, nourishment, goodness. Occasionally, my traditions did mirror positive moments spent with my own family. Like Old Testament altars, I stacked stones together in places where I had reasons for thanksgiving, something to help me remember and find my way back to what was good. 

When I was about eleven, I remember making a trip to a pumpkin patch with my brother, stepmom, and baby sister. We walked around, climbed on hay bales, took pictures, and brought home pumpkins. We painted faces on the pumpkins and set them outside, waiting until the time was right to carve them.

Pumpkins carved a prior year.

It was cool and damp on the day that was set to carve the pumpkins. A windy day, where wet leaves fell and became glued to the pavement, creating a colorful, slippery collage on the ground. My aunt and cousin came over to join us for the fun, bringing big orange pumpkins of their own. We had newspaper ads spread out on the dining room table, the overhead lights turned on brightly, the day growing dark outside the patio door. The grownups were chatting and laughing as we did the work of scooping the guts out of the pumpkins. Pulling the long, stringy pulp out, heavy with seeds. We received instructions on how to separate the seeds from the pulp, with the promise of a salty, roasted treat to eat after the carving was done. I remember drawing the face on my pumpkin once, twice, three times, trying to get it absolutely perfect. I wanted the classic jack-o-lantern, perfectly circular eyes, a triangular nose, and big jagged teeth in a gaping, open-mouthed grin. The boys were nearly done carving, and I was still retracing the lines one more time, trying to get it just right.

It was warm in the house, with the oven going, and everyone gathered in so close. We cleaned up the mess and moved to sit at the pink Formica-topped breakfast counter, waiting to have our warm from the oven pumpkin-seed snack now that the dirty work was done. 

As we sat there, swinging the oak bar stools back and forth, something shifted in the room. It was as though the air and light were sucked out of the space. A spark had been lit, and my dad was turning to fire, as he did so often those days. Everyone held their breath as he pulled all of the oxygen to himself. I don't know what started the argument. I didn't hear it escalate. I only heard my aunt trying to reason with my dad, and I heard him tell her to get the hell out of his house. She held out her hands towards him while he shouted, as though her upturned palms could ward off the brutality in his voice. I saw the shift in his body, the motion of his arm moving into her, and saw her double-over when his fist sunk into her belly.

It's a mystery, the moments our brain chooses to remember, the shadows that lodge themselves in our mind, the events we cannot forget.

When I think about it now, I have to really focus to remember much about what came before it all fell apart. I recall holding my baby sister at the pumpkin patch, trying to keep her still, and smiling for the camera. I know that I was squinting into the bright midday sun. I remember the fresh smell of just cut pumpkin that night, the slimy and rough feel of the strings of pulp slipping through my fingers. I reach for those moments, the happy ones, the place where everyone is smiling and laughing at the countertop, just before it turns. Because the darker memories come more easily; the trauma is harder to forget.

So in my life now, I am forever striving to find my way back to the altars, cling to the anchors, to carve out memories for my own children. I don't want them to have to search to find a joy-filled moment like the ones I knew before the room filled with fire. So we turn everything into a tradition. We do all we can every season, each year. We go together as a family to annual events and we fill our life with moments where the room is full of light and warmth and the voices of those we love.

We go apple-picking.

We eat snow cones and try the bounce house and pose for pictures.

We pet the ponies and the goats and look at the chickens.

We milk the cow.

We take the hayride.

We run the corn maze.

We get hot and sweaty and cranky, and not every single moment together is filled with warmth and laughter and perfection. But some of them are.

And the world doesn't break apart. The earth doesn't spin off its axis. The memories don't burn up in a fiery rage. I pray and pray that even though we get it wrong sometimes, my little ones won't have to search too deep to find the good parts. So we make the traditions happen again, season after season, year after year. And every time one of my children asks me, "When are we going apple picking this year?" or says, "It's about time to make hot cocoa," or reminds me, "We need to start making holiday cookies soon," I add a stone to the altar of my gratitude, and my heart heals a little more.

As the years pass, and time stretches out behind me and marches on in front of me, I don't have to search so far or look so deep to find the happy memories. They are growing all around me.

*We are especially grateful to the Down Syndrome Guild of Kansas City and the Albert Pujols Family Foundation for helping to make our annual trip to the Red Barn Farm one of our many family traditions.

5 Things I Want to Say: Words from a Sexual Abuse Survivor

I have been asked some interesting questions about being a sexual abuse survivor. I have also heard or read a number of statements about sexual abuse survivors, perpetrators, families and victims. I'm not here to set the record straight, to tell you what not to say or what you should say to a person living a survival story. I am here to take part in a conversation, and I will be grateful as long as we are talking about sexual abuse and getting it out in the open.

I believe the missing link to healing for many is survivors and their loved ones being able to openly and honestly discuss sexual abuse and how it impacts their lives. We see that this ability to share our stories, whether they are centered around recovery from addiction, battling mental illness or simply navigating daily life, is what helps us to know and understand one another. I love that as a society, we are beginning to recognize that before we can even begin to address these problems, we must first discuss them. We must open the conversation, we must find our voice.

I am committed to being a person who says, "Hey, I'm here, I survived sexual abuse and this is what I think we need to talk about." I am only one voice. What strikes me as important right now may not ring true for others. Words I find comforting, others may find hurtful or make them sad. All I can do is let you know a few things I want to say as a Survivor, and hope that others begin to find their voice to add to the conversation. Here are just five things among many that I want you to know.

1. Being Young Doesn't Make Surviving Abuse "Easier"

When it comes to discussing being a sexual abuse victim, I have heard people say, "Well, you were very young." This statement seems to dismiss the validity of the abuse because of my age. While children are known to be resilient, it does not mean that since everything happened long ago, I should not be greatly impacted in my daily life as an adult. In fact, of children who are sexually abused, 20% of them will be abused before the age of eight. When abuse occurs at a young age, during a developmental stage when children need a tremendous amount of reassuring love and care, it can and absolutely does have lasting effects. Being dismissive of someone's experience based on their age (or any other factor) is likely to increase their challenges on the path to healing.

Adding to the minimizing tone set toward children who experience sexual abuse, many adults seem to think that children cannot accurately recall their abuse, or are more likely to exaggerate or embellish the story. The truth is that false reports by children are incredibly rare, making up only four to eight percent of all reported cases. In those instances it is usually the adults involved who are fabricating the story and asking the children to repeat it, not the children creating a story from their own imagination.

It should not surprise us that many adults have a history of childhood sexual abuse that was not reported during childhood. Research estimates that only about one-third of abused children will tell someone about their abuse, and of those only a small number will actually be reported to proper authorities or law enforcement. Children (and adults) do not tell their story for many reasons, including feelings of shame, fear of punishment or consequences, an inability to find words to express what is happening to them, trust in or care for the individual perpetrating the abuse, and many other factors.

It doesn't matter if abuse victims are very young or adults, when unwanted sexual behavior is exhibited toward them, it will likely have some impact on their life for the remainder of their life. I know that some victims may forget about their abuse for a time, live in denial, or bury it deep within their subconscious for years and years. For myself, I can point to very specific memories of incidents when I was being abused, beginning at a very young age. I can remember the light in the room, the face of my perpetrator, and perhaps most significantly the way it made me feel. It doesn't matter that I was only four years old. Shame is a feeling I can identify now as an adult, and it is a feeling I have known for as long as I can remember.

2. It Doesn't Matter How Many Times Abuse Occurred

Another statement I have heard that minimizes the impact of sexual abuse is, "Didn't it just happen that one time?" I would like to ask in response, "Isn't just one time, one time too many?"  I wonder if we would say the same to a person who had been physically beaten. Would we suggest that because they were only assaulted once, that assault was less damaging to them? What if that assault left them permanently scarred, or disabled? Along the same lines, would we suggest that if an adult rape victim was raped only one time, the rape was not detrimental in their life? The damage that occurs when a person is sexually abused as a child can cause deep wounds that they will battle for as long as they live. The scars may not be visible to you, but they are often sending shock waves through a survivor's life years later.

In addition, do not assume that because one instance of abuse was reported or told to you, that was the only abuse that occurred. Children will often minimize their abuse experience or rationalize the events as a means of coping with the abuse. As a result of fear, or a feeling of responsibility for the well-being of the family, children will attempt to carry the abuse themselves in order to minimize the fallout they see occurring all around them. Remember that shame is a powerful force, and will often cause us to remain silent.

The sexual abuse I experienced did occur on multiple occasions, with more than one perpetrator, over the course of several years. As a child, I was unable to fully communicate what was happening to me. I believed that something must have been wrong with me that made me continually become the target of different abusers. I did not want to be the cause of more pain and discord in my family.

The frequency, duration and type of abuse does have an impact on a survivor's road to healing. However, I would never assume that my path to healing is any easier or more difficult than that of another. Abuse that occurs once can have a lasting impact, in the same way that one violent encounter can leave a person scarred for life. A survivor should never have to justify their experience by providing numbers or statistics to quantify the challenges they face as a result.

3. I'm Never Going to Get Over It

Surviving childhood sexual abuse means living with a tremendous sense of loss.  Many survivors will grieve the loss of their childhood or innocence far too soon, the loss of their ability to trust, the loss of their relationship with friends or family members who may have allowed or disbelieved the abuse and more. Grief is a powerful emotion, and it isn't something we get over. We heal, we learn how to move forward, we find ways to honor our experiences, but we do not get over it.

I would never tell a person who has lost a parent, family member or close friend that they should get over their grief or sense of loss. I recognize that while grief will change, while the sharpness of the ache may smooth over with time, their loss will stay with them and they will confront that grief and sadness at different times of their life to varying degrees

I used to think that once I was really, truly "healed" from my past experiences, I would no longer be troubled by any flawed beliefs, any moments of sadness over what was lost, or have to face the realities of my past in any way. At this time in my life I find that idea ridiculous. How can I no longer know and reflect my own history and experience? In the same way that a recovering addict will identify themselves that way for the rest of their lives in order to keep the addiction at bay, I believe abuse survivors will have to recognize their triggers, see how the abuse experience clouds the lens they view life through, and generally continue to choose to walk a path toward healing throughout their life. Sometimes they will be in seasons where the abuse is a shadow, following behind them, there but not in the forefront of their life and heart. Sometimes memories of the abuse or challenges will present in new and different ways, forcing them to once again search out healing and a way forward.

I have had to review my path of healing many times throughout my life. I have had to consider how my history of sexual abuse affects my marriage, the birth of my children, my role as a parent, and how I face disappointment, stress, challenges and loss in life. While the wounds no longer fester and ache in the same way they did before I faced them and dealt with them through my faith, counseling, prayer and a willingness to heal, that old scar still tingles from time to time. I may always grieve what was lost, but that doesn't mean that I don't also rejoice in all that I have been given as well.

4.  Talking About It Now Doesn't Mean I'm Ungrateful

Acknowledging that I still feel the loss of much in my past does not mean that I do not fully appreciate my present circumstances. In fact it is just the opposite. It is precisely because I am so blessed, so loved, that I find the strength to share from my story, in hopes that others can find healing as well. Some days it is the ache of gratitude over this incredible gift of life, to be married to a man who adores me, to have healthy children who are loved and sheltered and growing into incredible human beings, this ache pushes me to say something about all that happened before.

I talk about surviving sexual abuse so that my children will know the power that faith has had in healing and changing my life, and subsequently their lives. I talk about surviving sexual abuse so that others who are just beginning to trudge through overwhelming feelings of sadness or shame can know that they are not alone. I talk about surviving sexual abuse so that friends and family members of other survivors may glimpse what it means for their loved one to navigate life now. I talk about surviving sexual abuse because I have a voice, and many survivors have not yet been able to tell their story, and maybe never will. I talk about surviving sexual abuse because the first step to overcoming this tragedy in our world is talking about it, turning on the light and sharing our stories.

5. You Can Help Prevent Childhood Sexual Abuse

The last thing I want to say (for now) is that you can make a difference and help to prevent childhood sexual abuse. It may feel overwhelming, but there are actually five very simple things that you can do to help prevent childhood sexual abuse.

The 5 Steps to Protecting Our Children

1. Learn the Facts - The statistics can feel overwhelming, but learning to separate truth from myth is important when discussing sexual abuse.

2. Minimize Opportunity - Childhood sexual abuse most often happens in isolated, one-to-one situations and is often perpetrated by someone the victim knows.

3. Talk About It - Be honest with children at an age-appropriate level about sex, their bodies, and boundaries; help them to feel safe to talk to you if something happens. Listen to stories from survivors to understand the long-term effects of sexual abuse.

4. Recognize the Signs - Every person is different, and the signs abuse is occurring may be subtle, but you can learn what to watch for as indications of abuse.

5. React Responsibly - Understand that very few reports of abuse are false, and know the appropriate methods for reporting suspected abuse in your area.

Once you click the link above to learn the facts, consider Joining the Movement at Darkness to Light. I just found this organization and I am so grateful to know they are taking strides to protect our children.

I would also like to ask if you would consider sharing this post with others in your circle of influence. While I know that there are many resources available for sexual abuse survivors and their loved ones, I also know that they are not accessed nearly as often as they are needed. We each have a circle of those who trust what we post to be important or worthwhile to read. Please think about whether my story might benefit someone in your circle who needs to know that they are not alone in their journey toward healing and finding their voice. Thank you for taking the time to read my story. Sharing our stories is how we will change the world.

Providing Shelter for Families At Risk

Part of my journey into writing and blogging recently has included reading through the documentation from Family Services regarding my history. It is a narrative record compiled by various social workers that details the circumstances of several hot line calls and incidents that were reported over a two-year period in my childhood. One striking detail I noticed in many reports was the instability and poor conditions my family lived in during that time. We stayed in the homes of friends, lived in residences without heat, and at times my brother, my dad and I stayed together in one small, dilapidated room of a run-down motel.

I had never really given much thought before to how that instability, that fear over where the next meal would come from or if we would have a place to stay, must have impacted my parents' choices. I can only imagine that the stress of providing for two small and dependent human beings weighed heavily on my mom and my dad. The added stress could easily have blinded them to the risk of our position. How could there be an expectation of protection for children who did not even have an expectation of provision? The insecurity of our existence made us incredibly vulnerable to the potential for abuse.

This is one of the many reasons why I am so passionate about the work my husband, my church and my community does at River of Refuge. River of Refuge is a non-profit organization that is dedicated to helping working poor families get out of pay-by-the-week motels and into stable housing of their own. Over the past several years I have personally witnessed the lives of individuals, families and children be changed forever because of the intervention River of Refuge has provided. Where uncertainty and insecurity once placed these hard working families at greater risk, stability and support now help them to grow together in strength. I am humbled, honored and privileged to see these amazing families reach their potential when they receive thoughtful assistance from this organization.

Even though I only stayed there for a short period of time, I have vivid memories of motel-room living with my dad. I remember how loud it was, with so many people constantly coming and going. The television in our room was on and turned up to mask the shouting almost continuously coming from some other room nearby. I remember my dad, normally friendly with absolutely everyone, quickly and protectively pushing us through the door of our room before strangers could approach to make conversation with us. There must not have been a bathtub that was clean or in good working order, because I remember having to wash ourselves in a small, plastic basin in the room. The room was cold, and we didn't have a good supply of towels or soap or other necessities. Even though at my young age I had no control over the situation I was in, I remember feeling humiliated and embarrassed by those circumstances.

A photo of me around the time we stayed in a motel.

I was incredibly blessed because I had loving, caring extended family who stepped in and provided a different option for me. Many individuals, families and children in our community do not have these resources. In fact, some families spend months or even years stuck, crowded together in one room, lacking access to basic necessities to care for their children. Every child needs a safe place to sleep at night, a place where they will feel at home, safe, secure, sheltered. River of Refuge is working hard to strengthen families and provide that place for children in need in our community. By ensuring stable housing we are removing one more risk factor and lessening vulnerability for these families. Helping a family into long-term, stable housing allows the adults and children in a family to grow, thrive and transform into the people they are called to be.

If you are a part of our local Kansas City metro area community, I hope you will consider joining River of Refuge at their annual Raise the Roof Gala on September 19. This event is an incredible opportunity to learn more about the impact River of Refuge has on families. You will be blessed and humbled to hear stories of how families have transitioned from struggle to security with the help of this organization. You will see what lies ahead for River of Refuge as they move closer to completing a residential space where families will receive support and assistance to get back on their feet with dignity and respect. In addition, you will enjoy an incredible cocktail hour with a silent auction and drawings for amazing prizes like vacation stays, beautiful artwork and event tickets. The night will also feature dinner and entertainment by comedian Michael Jr., fresh off the comedy circuit and ready to make you laugh! You can find all the details and purchase your tickets to help Raise the Roof for families in need by clicking the link below. 

 GALA TICKETS

If you do not live in the KC area, you can still help to make a difference in the lives of these families. I know that I would not be where I am today if individuals hadn't taken action on my behalf. The problems can feel overwhelming, and we don't always know where to begin. We can start taking action today, partnering with River of Refuge to Raise the Roof and provide shelter and stability for families and children. Please visit www.riverofrefuge.com to learn more about this incredible organization and all of the ways you can be involved.

It brings healing to my heart to know that providing education, assistance and stable shelter is changing the memories and rewriting the story for these children and their families, our community and our future. I am so grateful for the opportunity to share this with all of you.

White-Knuckling It

A little over a year ago, I went on the hardest road trip of my life. It was the week my brother was on trial, and to say it was difficult would be like saying that climbing Mt. Everest is a little hike uphill. It was soul-crushing, seemingly impossible to endure. But endure is exactly what I did.

I have been thinking a lot recently about exactly how I managed to survive that week, and the year that has followed. I vividly remember certain flashes of myself during this season. My hands, gripping the back of the wooden bench in front of me as I sat in the courtroom and listened to devastating testimony. Walking up and down the cavernous hallway, waiting for the verdict to be reached, clenching and relaxing my fists as I paced the tile floor. Some days even now, when I think of all that has happened, I have to find something to hold on to--a table, a railing, my husband--grabbing for a solid surface to keep myself upright. I was white-knuckling it, willing myself to keep standing, keep holding onto something, keep my grip tight so that the entire world wouldn't fall out from underneath me.

There were other moments I remember, too. Putting headphones in my ears and listening to old hymns, breathing slowly and carefully as I willed myself to believe that it was still well with my soul. Looking up through the branches of massive oak trees, sunlight falling through them bright and green, reminding me that the sky was still blue above me. Looking around a cozy booth at the faces of the family there with me, forcing ourselves to share a meal together, to smile, to remember that we had each other still. In those moments when I consciously loosened my grip, I could see that the world was still beautiful and not on the verge of collapse. Although I was devastated that my brother's world was absolutely ripped apart, I remembered that this life and all its broken circumstances are never the end of the story.

In the past few weeks, I have begun to notice how often I choose to white-knuckle it in my daily life. Simple tasks become events I have to grit my teeth and get through. Getting my kids ready for a swim, making it through the grocery store or putting dinner on the table have become challenges of physical exertion. Even forcing myself to sit and write (something I love and want desperately to do) is an act of monumental will. I'm not sure when white-knuckling it became my default mode. I would imagine that I used the technique often as a child surviving trauma. I know that it is helpful and sometimes even necessary during times of great distress. But when preparing for a day at the pool, a day of fun and sunshine shared with my children? When did this become a task that made me clench my jaw and ball my fists like a boxer heading into the ring?

When I was learning to drive, my uncle pointed out how tightly I was gripping the steering wheel, so that my knuckles were actually turning white. He let me know that this made me more dangerous behind the wheel, likely to overreact, turn too sharply or slam on the brakes. As a part of my practice while driving, he would occasionally remind me to wiggle my fingers and loosen my grip, sit back in my seat, and take a deep breath. The drive would be much more enjoyable and I felt more in control and capable when I wasn't scrunched up, tensing every muscle in my body. It took practice, though. Even now on some stressful drives, when I'm running late or stuck in traffic, I look down to see myself gripping the steering wheel with all I've got. When that happens, I wiggle my fingers, take a breath, and look for a better song on the radio. I tell myself that my death-grip isn't going to get me there any faster, that there is nothing I can do in that moment about the fact that I am already late. These techniques have become a familiar reflex for me in the car, something I do by just barely thinking about it.

The problem with white-knuckling my daily life is that it also makes me prone to overreact, lash out at those close to me, and generally feel like I am not in control. Isn't it funny? The very act of trying to keep a tight grip on the circumstances around me actually makes me feel more acutely how little control I actually have. The feeling that I can't keep things going my way is partly why I lose it with my kids, my husband, the person in line at the grocery store. I imagine I am not alone in my tendency to live this way. There are likely many reasons why we turn to white-knuckle existence. I know for myself, however, that the past abuse and trauma I experienced, combined with any new stressful circumstances in my daily life, has made this an easy default mode. I fall into this reflex of tightening my grip, clenching my fists, willing myself and those around me to function the way I think they should. I constantly fear that if I do not keep that iron grip of control everything, including me, will just fall apart.

I have to ask myself, would that really be so bad? Maybe I need to let myself fall apart a little more often. The world is broken, and life can be brutally hard. Would it be so bad to acknowledge that the pieces don't fit together now and then, rather than straining to hold them all in place? Letting go of what doesn't matter could give me an opportunity to appreciate what does. Instead of pushing my daughter to let me brush her hair while she screams and cries so that we won't be late, perhaps I can take the time to let her watch in the mirror, and giggle, and have a turn brushing my hair. Sure, we won't get where we were supposed to be on time, but we will enjoy the time we have together.

When I look down and see myself white-knuckling it through my daily tasks, I want to be able to loosen my grip. I have to make a conscious choice to put a better song on the radio than the one that is playing in my head, about how I'm late, or not doing it right, or how it's too hard. I want to look up for a moment and see the light coming through the trees. I want to pay more attention to the look on my children's faces when they hit the pool, so that I don't wipe it away barking tense orders about sunscreen and shoes and towels. My daily life is a beautiful and wonderful gift, and somehow I have turned it into one trauma after another, one more day I need to survive and get through.

When I stepped outside during the week of my brother's trial, and chose to shift my focus from the circumstances of the present to the creation around me, it was undeniable the supernatural peace I found in those moments. That I was ever able to close my eyes and find rest was only because of God's mercy and a choice to seek it.  I want to push myself to find that always. To trust the Lord and hand my insignificant daily problems to him. To stop trying to take back control. To realize that my tight-fisted grip is empty--I cannot hold anything in my life that way.

Just like learning to drive, it's going to take practice. I'm sure I will need a lot of reminders. I have to shift my focus from the traffic jams and the clock and the road blocks to the moments that really matter. Putting on those same old hymns and knowing that it is well with my soul would be a start. Taking a deep breath and really looking into the faces gathered around the table with me might help. Stepping outside more, pausing to notice the goodness in creation all around me could feed my soul a little bit. If those moments of pause made it any easier to get through the truly challenging mountains climbed in the past year, surely they will make the little, tiny hills I'm trucking up each day a much more pleasant hike.

Some days, the mountains will rise up in front of me. Some days, I may feel like the earth is tumbling into the sea. But even then, God calls me to be still and know that He is the one who is actually in control. If I can survive those intensely challenging moments, faced with all that is broken around me, by taking a deep breath and resting in his presence, surely the same will help me through the best days. I'm ready to stop white-knuckling life and start choosing to embrace peace.

Summertime Spirit: Asher is Seven

Asher James, it's hard to believe that seven years have passed since you entered the world. I still remember the longing I felt to hold you, how deeply we ached to add to our family, how much more difficult it was than we expected. We walked through years that were empty and we navigated floods of grief we didn't know we would face. And then you came along.

It still surprises me, how easily you entered into the world. Pregnancy was pregnancy, often uncomfortable, sometimes joyful, fraught with worry and waiting. My back ached as I carried your nine pound form in breech position until you finally flipped at the last possible second. Our arms ached to hold a little one after years of disappointment and loss. Your big brother couldn't wait for his baby to arrive. He knew of the babies we lost before. Everyone was already anticipating you eagerly, and yet you made us wait a few days longer for your arrival, passing your due date and making the summer heat feel more unbearable. And then without complication, as textbook as any labor and childbirth could be, you arrived promptly just in time for church on a Sunday morning.

That's still your way. Often, I find myself waiting for you as you take your time with daily tasks. Generally, I am more impatient than I should be. If I would give you your own time, I am sure it would be perfect. You were the baby who came when we thought we might stop trying. You flipped into the head down position just in time to be born without surgical intervention. You did whatever babies do to make themselves appear just before we decided we might have to coax you out with medical assistance. All in your own time. Just at the right time. You never have wanted to be rushed.

So much about you is exactly what we needed, exactly when we needed it. You were born in the summertime, and summer is your season. You bring the spirit of leisurely summer days to our world, with your unhurried approach to life. You embody the times everyone is anxiously waiting for in spring, the anticipation of long days days full of sunshine spent by the pool, and longer evenings spent sharing backyard barbecues with friends. You are fearless, fun-seeking, social. To you, every day is vacation, with a world around you to explore and people you enjoy by your side.

You were born in the middle of our three children, and your laid-back, independent spirit fits so perfectly in that space of our family. You love to do things on your own, and you enjoy helping others when they need it as well. You adore and will follow your older brother anywhere, yet you delight in having the role of protector and leader and boss when it comes to your baby sister as well. Being both little brother and big is a special job that you seem well-suited to. You are independent as the leader, content to be in the crowd, and also willing to follow those ahead of you. Like the filling in a cookie or the good stuff in a sandwich, we're not complete unless we have both the outsides and the center. We need you in the middle. 

You were born in a season of grief, and you replaced that shadow with joy in a way I never would have believed was possible. You embody your name in ways we couldn't imagine. We named you Asher, which means happiness, because you were our happy blessing after lost babies. Your middle name is James for your great-grandpa you couldn't know, but we didn't think much about how it meant "to supplant." But supplant you did, casting away our grief for what was lost and filling our lives with gladness. You were the most happy, smiling, contented baby I had ever seen. You were a baby who slept--something we didn't know was possible. And you are still bringing joy and gladness to everyone around you, always ready with a smile and a story and your boundless enthusiasm.

This year you are swimming like a fish, jumping off the diving board over and over again, your grin at the surface just as big every single time. You were tall enough for big roller coasters this summer, and while they didn't all meet your expectations, you found the parts you liked about them and chose to focus on the good. You are excited to be able to read real stories now, chapter books, and you tackle them with determination, working out the big words for yourself whenever you can. You're riding a big-kid bike, stretching your abilities and independence.

My prayer for you as you turn another year older, and for every year to come, is that you always keep these qualities about you. I pray you can find yourself in the right place at the right time, just by following your own clock. I hope you keep your summertime spirit, ready to take things slow and soak up the sun or find the next adventure with a smile on your face. I pray you always feel right at home where you are. Whether you lead, or are in the middle, or when you follow, may you always know yourself and keep your independence. I hope you can always find joy, focusing on the positive, and delighting in the simple things. Your spirit is contagious. You are just what our family always needed. The world is better because you are in it. I hope you feel that way today, at seven, and I pray you will always know it to be true.

To My Other Dad on Father's Day

In this post last week, I shared about my dad. The words were difficult to write, and some have shared that they were difficult to read as well. This week, I want to share words that come more easily, words of gratitude to the man who stepped in when my own father fell short. I never felt as though I was a burden to him. He seemed to act on instinct, doing the next right thing, taking the necessary actions as they came to him. I cannot imagine the weight that he carried, but I never even thought of it at the time. He didn’t let anyone see the heaviness that must have been upon him when he decided to take on two more children, not his own, not even related to him by blood. 

When my uncle allowed us to move into his home, he gave me so much more than a place to stay. He gave me a dad during years when that role was immensely important.

My uncle taught me many valuable lessons by his presence and his patience through my high school years. Some of the lessons were concrete, intentional teachings. Some were lessons absorbed by being around him, learning from his presence and his life. He was patient and calm and reassuring. He corrected my mistakes and gave me the tools I needed to travel out into the world. 

This Father's Day, I want to say thank you to the man who was a dad to me when he didn't have to be, my Uncle Bob.

Thank you for teaching me how to drive. I always recognize a stale green light, know that once I hesitate I have made my decision about what to do next, and especially remember not to slam on my brakes without a signal in the middle of the road if I am planning to make a left turn (you know, in case I don’t want to get rear-ended by a car behind me).

Thank you for teaching me that having a good day is a matter of choice, and always better than the alternative.

Thank you for making me exercise budgeting skills by using a small allowance to pay for all the extras in life, and to value the fact that they really are extra--bonuses, luxuries.

Thank you for showing me that whistling while you work really does change the way you feel about the job at hand, especially if you choose to whistle Christmas carols in July.

Thank you for teaching me that I was acceptable, by being willing to acknowledge and embrace me in the high school hallway, and calling me your kid.

Thank you for being an example of faith by how you live. You serve the least of these faithfully, and you held on tightly to the promises you knew even in the midst of extreme trial. You weren’t afraid to use your gifts to help others, from building projects to eye contact, a good squeeze and a reassuring hand pat for a lonely soul.

Thank you for helping me to realize my own coping mechanisms, by noticing that the bigger the bowl of ice cream, the tougher the day must have been.

Thank you for teaching me that procrastination on my part does not result in an emergency on your part.

Thank you for showing me the value of presence, by coming to support me at countless swim meets and cross country events, no matter how hot, humid or long the day would be.

Thank you for teaching me how to mow a lawn without chopping off my toes.

Thank you for patiently quizzing me on the names and locations of NFL football teams, the various ways to score and penalties, because I wanted to learn.

Thank you for showing me that it is always worth it to get off the couch to help someone else, even on the days when you really needed to rest.

Thank you for introducing me to the happiness that is a perfectly grilled, slightly charred, heavily barbecue sauced pork steak. And for knowing that it is best shared with the people you love.

Thank you for teaching me how to play Hearts, and to always duck unless you are absolutely sure you can shoot the moon.

Thank you for helping me to value others and be considerate, even if that lesson meant I was grounded for my scheduled first date.

Thank you for making me understand that a gentleman always comes to the door and you don’t leave the house for a honk or come back to the porch by yourself. Thank you for teaching me that all boys are bad, but some really are better than others.

Thank you for teaching me compassion for others, and a willingness to expect people to sometimes make mistakes, and to be able to forgive them for their humanity as they found their way.

Thank you for teaching me to keep offering yourself, keep reminding others that you are available, in the way that you consistently told me you would be there when I was ready. You gave me reassurance that your offer wouldn’t expire when I needed more time to get out of my abusive situation. You gave me the courage to leave when I needed to. 

Thank you for always helping me to consider the other person’s perspective, even when it was hard and I really didn’t want to.

Thank you for trying to teach me the importance of being on time, even if I never quite managed to get the hang of that one.

Thank you for helping me believe I was capable of more than I thought, encouraging me that I could walk to find a job at college and that I really could get by without a car.

Thank you for showing me integrity and helping me to find it within myself, learning that it was essential to always be where I said I would be and do what I promised I would do.

Thank you for walking me down the aisle and into the arms of a man who would love and protect me the same way you did.

Thank you for teaching me that family always shows up when needed, driving me all night so that I could see my brother, and standing beside me in the hardest days I ever faced. You taught me that strength is about how we hold each other up even when we all feel like falling apart. 

For taking me in and calling me your own, thank you. I would not be who I am today without your willingness to fight for me. Thank you for never giving up on me, for continuing to be there for me, for walking the happy and the hard places of life with me. 

The words don't seem enough to convey how grateful I am for the all the ways you have been a dad to me. They are not enough, but they are all I have. Thank you.

In Memoriam

I have struggled immensely to find the words to describe the strange and twisted grief I felt when my dad died last November. I have attempted many times to put my thoughts about my father into words. Unraveling my memories of him—the person he was, the man he pretended to be, the dad I knew—is like trying to navigate some kind of ancient Celtic knot. This weekend, my family will have a memorial service to commemorate his life and to remember their loss. It is months later, and I am still wandering through the tangled knot of feelings I have about my father’s passing, observing my grief, considering what I can possibly say to honor this man.

On Saturday I will attend a service for my dad, among family members who will undoubtedly remember him differently than I. I didn't know the little boy who worried about his mom's feelings, afraid to leave her alone all day when he went to Kindergarten.  I don't have memories of the thoughtful young man who asked the nurse to cover his broken arm so his family wouldn't worry. I don't remember the little brother who kept his older siblings busy with his antics, although I occasionally saw him at his most vibrant, being the life of the party at family gatherings. On Saturday, I will go to a memorial to support my family as they commemorate their pleasant memories of a boy, a teenager, a young man I didn't know. I will also go to put to rest my memories of the man who was my father. I will mark the ache I have felt in my father’s absence; I will continue wading through oceans of grief. 

In describing those left behind when a loved one passes, obituaries often use the words “is survived by” to describe living relatives of the deceased. When it comes to reflecting on the man who was my father, what I will choose to memorialize is that I survived.

I survived the lies that led so many in, lies told so convincingly you simply had to believe they were true.  I think he was certain in his mind that the wild and crazy stories he told really happened. When I was a child, I believed that we were descendants of royalty, that my dad had once been a professional racecar driver and that he saved an entire ship from blowing up by stopping a nuclear missile with his bare hands. I can picture him sitting there, long legs in worn denim stretched out in front of him, head back and laughing as he recounted past glory days. It is easy to see why there was always someone over at our house, laughing and smoking and hearing him talk. Unfortunately, his lies weren’t always so harmless. He could be venomous, telling me my faults and hateful untruths about my existence. He could be manipulative, constructing a story that led to you doing what he wanted, even when you knew that he was wrong.

The storyteller has been laid to rest, and he is survived by a daughter who seeks to tell the truth.

I survived the neglect of a man who didn’t seem to know how to put his children’s needs before his own. My dad was inattentive, unaware of how to meet his own needs, let alone those of anyone else. When it suited him, he paid attention to others. As a four year old, I peeled the cellophane wrapper from a couple of slices of processed cheese, dug a few cocoa puffs from the bottom of a cereal box, and placed all of them on my brother’s high chair tray to feed him. My dad was home, but asleep, while my younger brother fussed and fretted in his high chair. During seasons when my father was unmarried and living alone, my brother and I were frequently responsible to meet our own physical needs. We learned to take care of ourselves and each other, finding food to eat, washing our own clothes or wearing what seemed reasonably clean. Beyond physical neglect, my father was also emotionally unavailable. He demanded perfection, but his requirements were capricious, and he rarely offered any kind of affirmation or praise.

The absent father has departed from this life, and he is survived by a daughter who believes her worth.

I survived the cycle of violence that my father perpetuated against the women in my family. The first time I remember seeing my dad’s cruelty I was very young. My mother had recently said she was leaving him, and grasping to regain his manipulative control, he tied a rope around her neck. I opened the door to their room and saw that horrific brutality. I can still recall the way my mother’s face looked up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face red and swollen. She looked down at the square of light on the carpet, I closed the door, and we never spoke of it again. His violent behavior returned one night years later at a friend’s house. I watched my dad wildly swinging a hammer in his right hand, waving it at his best friend, threatening to hit him, maybe to kill him.  To make this even more frightening, he was holding my baby sister in his left arm.  Soon after that, he threatened to kill our entire family and himself with a shotgun, standing and blocking the front door of our house when my stepmom decided she was through. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when his violence turned toward me. I was fourteen, and beginning to question his iron control, on the night when he bound my hands behind my back, pinned me to the floor, and struck me in the face.

The fighter has breathed his last, and is survived by a daughter who found safety and peace.

I survived, and I recognize that I suffered the loss of my dad a little at a time through the years. All these memories are but a glimpse into the reality that I never had a loving relationship with my dad. Where there should have been love, there was instead fear. For all of my childhood, I feared my dad.  As a teenager and young adult, I abhorred him.  Toward the end of his life, I pitied him.  And still, in all those seasons, I longed for him.  I longed for a father. I longed for a true and genuine apology that said I deserved more; I deserved better. There is a part of me that always hoped for a different resolution to our story. The lack of resolution caused me grief, brought me sorrow, and was my loss.

As I unravel this complex knot of emotions and memories, I see that the grief I now face is that my father is dead, and he never acknowledged the tremendous pain he caused. The ache in my chest and the lump in my throat are because now that he is really and truly gone, I have to be the one to tell the little girl that the apology she longs for isn’t coming.

I see you, little one.  You are strong.  You are brave.  You survived.

Somewhere inside me is the little girl who survived the lies, the berating and the demeaning. I carry within myself the child who endured being neglected and feeling unloved. I am the young woman who escaped being accused and bound and hit. I am still the little girl that wishes her daddy would stop yelling.  She wishes that he would lay down his gun, his hammer, his screaming and come into her room.  Hold her and tell her it’s going to be ok.  Say that he’s sorry, that he loves her and her brother and sister and they are all safe.

My father died, and he is survived by a daughter who has hope that the story isn’t truly over yet. I believe that his death is not the end. Now that my dad has been released from the bonds of this life, I hope that he has been freed from mental illness, from the disease that affected his mind and body and heart. I have hope that one day in eternity I will see my dad in his glorified body and his wholly right mind. I may recognize the thoughtful spirit of the boy who loved his mother, the brother who entertained his siblings, the man who cared for others. I will not be afraid, because we will be in the presence of Love, and perfect love casts out all fear. On that day, my dad will say that he is sorry.  And somehow, because of the great mystery of life and death and sacrifice and forgiveness and Love, I will believe his apology.  I will know with a deep understanding I cannot fathom that his apology is the truth, my forgiveness is the truth and our Love is the truth.

Kenneth Wayne Moore—my father the storyteller, the unfettered, the fighter—has passed from this life into eternity. He is survived by me—his daughter the truth-teller, the refuge seeker, the hopeful.

Yearbook Signing

The school year is wrapping up, and my kids are bringing home stashes of artwork and used-up pencils, celebrating their accomplishments, and preparing to spend a few days having fun with friends before school’s out for the summer. One annual task that is right around the corner is yearbook signing. My kids are young, so yearbooks seem a little extraneous, but I have to admit it’s pretty sweet to watch this tradition evolve. In Kindergarten, kids are just able to sign their names and by fifth grade, they are adding fun embellishments like hearts and stars to their signatures. Next up, middle school, where everyone writes, “Have a great summer!” and “Stay cool! C-ya next year!”

This got me thinking about my own yearbooks, and my high school self. I pulled my yearbooks out today because I remember the comments often surprising me. Of course most people say nice things, like “You’re a good friend,” and “It was fun having chemistry with you,” and always, “Have a great summer!” But when they became more specific, the personal comments in my high school yearbooks tend to have a similar theme, mostly about my perpetual optimism and joy.

“You are always smiling!”

“Thanks for being so happy and cheerful all the time.”

“I will miss seeing your smile and positive personality!”

In middle and high school, I was something of an incurable optimist. Search for the silver lining, point out the bright spot, think happy thoughts—these were my specialties. People who know me in my day-to-day life now would find this to be laughable. A bit of a skeptic, tired and complaining, and usually obviously stressed to the max as I run from kids to work to other obligations—this is the land I now reside in. Frankly, I miss the optimist within myself, and I’ve been wondering where she’s been.

It’s not as though the circumstances of my high school years were ideal, and I was simply enjoying the blissful ignorance of youth. You could argue that adult life is harder, and has more responsibilities and worries. But the truth is that when I was younger, not only was my home life much more difficult than my daily life now, the circumstances of my personal and family existence were pretty much public knowledge.

I remember the night my dad came charging into the high school auditorium. I was standing behind a giant wood and canvas construction made to look like a house that had been the backdrop for a play ending that night. I had called my dad to tell him that I would be home late, because we needed to strike the set that evening. I had asked for permission to attend the cast party afterward, and he had said no. I hung up the phone, telling him I would get a ride home after I finished helping to tear down and clean up. It would be late, but getting a ride home was normal for me. It was no surprise that my dad hadn’t attended a single showing of my first ever performance.

So there I was, standing on the stage of my high school production, holding onto a heavy backdrop while another person was breaking it down. I began to hear whispers from the other cast members. I heard yelling and a scuffle in the room just off the stage, and someone saying, “I think it’s her dad.” I looked up to see a friend standing at the end of the backdrop, and the look on his face was one of compassion.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“Your dad is here,” he answered simply, and held out his arms to me.

I felt a wave of red-hot shame and embarrassment wash over my body. I ran into that hug, my head hanging down in disbelief, my ears ringing, and tears welling in my eyes. I could hear the drama teacher shouting, telling my dad he needed to leave.

“I think he punched Mr. B.” my friend whispered into the top of my head. “You’d better go,” he said.

I left quickly and quietly with my dad that night, without saying a word to anyone, and then had to return to that same school the following Monday. I was only a freshman. I remember the continued embarrassment of hearing the drama teacher retell the story in the hallway several times over the next few weeks. Visiting alumni, other teachers, administration, all got to hear about how Mr. B. feared for his safety when a student’s dad came charging in following an exhausting run of performances. When your dad storms into the high school in your freshman year and punches the drama teacher in the face, it’s pretty obvious to everyone you know that you’re not living with the most stand-up guy.

No one mentioned that incident in my yearbook. No one talked about how I was shy, or quiet, or closed off. Instead, friends mentioned specifically that they appreciated that I continued to smile even though it seemed like my life was hard. I know that I am blessed to have had many reasons for joy during that season. I always felt loved and supported by extended family, friends and teachers throughout that very confusing and abusive time. I participated in a variety of activities, because being at school was certainly better than being at home. My faith grew during that season, and I found strength in believing in a God who loved me.

When I consider it now, I also believe the fact that others were completely aware of my reality influenced my optimistic perspective. My friends knew the facts of my upbringing and home life, yet they were still my friends. Having support in the face of such tremendous difficulty gave me the space and freedom to be myself without fear of rejection. My friends understood that circumstances were hard, but they didn’t judge me based on those circumstances. They regarded me separately from my dad’s actions, and they gave me tremendous grace. I can’t even explain to you the incredibly positive influence that my peers had in that short season of my life. When things were difficult, they sent letters and cards and notes of encouragement. When things went well, they had barbecues in my honor. They were high schoolers. Just kids themselves, really. But they supported me in ways that have anchored me ever since.

Maybe it was because I was surrounded by so many caring people that I found the strength and determination to regard myself as separate from my circumstances. I became defiantly opposed to being like my dad; I wholeheartedly refused to believe that I was as bad and shameful as he often labeled me. I made it my mission to become the opposite of what my life appeared to be. Daily life was hard, but I was hopeful. Shame abounded, but I found strength. The story did not look like it was going to end well, but I became the surest optimist.

In more recent years, I lost that sense that things would turn out well. I started to think in terms of my failures, rather than my successes. Maybe it was becoming a mom, and feeling terrified that I was doing it all wrong. Perhaps it was seeing others around me fall into old patterns and cycles repeating themselves, as they often do. The messages in my head told me that I couldn’t be better than where I came from, that I was incurably messed up, and that no matter how hard I tried, things would not end the way I wanted them to. I felt as though I no longer had control over the person others would see in me and that I couldn’t influence or change the inevitably negative comments they would leave about me in my yearbook.

Since I have been openly sharing personal stories of my past and experiences on my blog, I have felt a lightening taking place in my life. Learning to walk without shame over my past, or even my present and the ways my past has influenced me, is unbelievably freeing. Deciding that I am unwilling to hide what I am dealing with, or make excuses, forces me to address the real roots of my exasperation, my stress, my cynical heart. It is only by facing those issues head on that I can break free from them. Acknowledging the truth, being unable to hide, is terrifying for sure. But for the most part, if I am being honest, finding tremendous support from so many who either identify with or find new ways to empathize through my stories has been an incredibly uplifting experience for me personally. It is helping me find my way back to that high school student who was known, and not ashamed. I am once again feeling pretty optimistic these days about how my story ends. After all, I play a major role in determining that outcome.

I was thinking that it might be nice to do some yearbook signing again. Consider this a note from me to you, telling you to stay cool. Thanks for reading my story. You matter to me, and you have helped me feel known and unashamed, and are aiding me in shifting my view back toward optimism. I really do hope you have an amazing summer and you keep in touch. But I want to take it even further. I want to be the supportive friend who isn't hiding her truth, and makes room for others to share honestly when they are struggling. I want to acknowledge your struggles, and be able to point out that you are not your circumstances.  I want to write for you a note telling you all the good I see in you that you might not see in yourself. I want you to believe that you can change your future, today, and be the kind of person that you want to be, no matter what you're battling or where you come from. That's what I'm writing in your yearbook today, friend. LYLAS.

The Thief Will Not Win

After posting so many difficult stories recently, I find myself asking why on earth I am doing this. I don’t really think people want to spend their precious time reading about trauma, and I would guess that those who know me might feel a little bit uncomfortable with the amount of personal information I am disclosing. I know that I am on a journey, and getting part of my story out there in this way is one small part of my process. So much of what I have shared so far has been facts, information about the realities of my own past and history. But sharing the facts is not the whole of the story I am trying to tell.

What I really want to share is that while there is a level of brokenness that impacts my life continually, there is a tremendous level of grace that impacts it more completely. In the book of John, Jesus tells a story. It is a beautiful parable about how a shepherd cares for his sheep. The shepherd is portrayed as kind and gracious, looking after his sheep tenderly and calling them to himself.  The sheep know their shepherd, and follow the sound of his voice. The shepherd is calling his sheep away from those that would harm them. John 10:10 says “The thief’s purpose is to steal and kill and destroy. My purpose is to give them a rich and satisfying life.”

Here is what I know to be true. I know that there is a thief at work in this world.  I can see the work of the thief stealing, killing and destroying in my life, and in the lives of those I love. So much has been stolen—my innocence, my trust in those who should have cared for me, my childhood. So much has died—my relationships with my biological parents and extended family members, my children’s relationships with grandparents. So much has been destroyed—the life of my abuser, my brother’s life, the lives of other victims.

This week I was overwhelmed with the feeling that this is not how it is supposed to be. This feeling produces tremendous grief. I want things to be different; I long for it. At times, the realization of the present level of destruction threatens to crush me. I cannot explain all that I feel other than to say that it is incredibly painful.

Yet in the midst of all this destruction, this intense pain, I can hear a shepherd calling as well. I can see his work all around me. While he did not prevent the thief from coming in, he was there with me and he called me away from that place of darkness. By some miracle, I heard the voice of a shepherd who loves and cares for me, and I can honestly say that I believe he was calling me all throughout those challenging days. By believing in that truth and following his voice, I have found myself led into a completely different life than the one I knew when I was a child.

I cannot explain why I have been given the opportunities I have throughout my life, when I see others whose suffering is greater than my own. I can only keep listening for the voice that guided me away from destruction. That voice continually encourages me to stop allowing my own bitterness to steal my joy, my lack of forgiveness to kill my future, and my hatred to destroy my chance to feel and express love. When I listen to that message, I find peace.

So I return to the original question: Why am I sharing these difficult stories? Why not leave the past in the past, and enjoy peace in all that I have today? I am telling these stories because it is evident the thief came with a purpose in my life, and he made it his mission to steal my future from me, to kill my faith, and to destroy my hope of something greater. I am telling these stories so that the thief will not win. For me, that means that the story of my past will become a story of redemption. It means that what the enemy meant to use to harm me, God will be able to use for good. It means that I cling to the belief that I have been brought through much so that another sheep might hear the echo of a Good Shepherd calling them away from destruction, into a rich and satisfying life of their own.

This blog is only one part of the work that God is doing in me, but it is something that I feel strongly that I have to do. I know that in this process I will make mistakes. Sometimes, perhaps I will share too much. Other times, it’s possible I will disclose too little. For all of those mistakes I will make, I ask forgiveness from those who read. Truthfully, I am doing all of this as an act of obedience to my shepherd, and that is reason enough.

I believe God has a purpose and a plan for these events, these stories, these heartaches I have experienced. The opportunity to speak up and use my voice to reflect back on my story reminds me of his grace covering me, his light shining through the darkness, his love bringing forgiveness and healing to the broken places. In order to find that place of healing and peace, both the darkness and the light need to be shared openly.

The Good Shepherd promises me that the thief will not win. That promise is enough for me.