Rise Up

I remember most the pavement. The silver stripe of the car running board giving way to the dark charcoal colored asphalt, with flecks of lighter gray throughout. I don't remember it being painful, as my parents tugged me back and forth, between the car and the street. I just remember staring at the floorboard of the old Maverick, the edge of the curb, the pavement. Back and forth, back and forth, as my mom tried to keep me in the vehicle while my dad worked to pull me from it in an epic game of tug-of-war. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds. I was breathless during those seconds, my face growing red as I helplessly watched the ends of my long blond hair hanging down, swaying over the floor of the car, then once again over the pavement.

They were not equipped. They couldn't manage the situation calmly, having a discussion about what was best for the children. They reacted from the gut. My father, thinking the latest abuse allegations were an opening for him to win, to conquer my mother and take something precious from her. My mother, afraid in her mama-bear heart that her precious children would be taken by a man who had already stolen so much from her. In that moment, my parents' responses were animal-like. Just the deepest, most instinctive knee-jerk movements of two people so broken and conflicted that they could only grasp and pull on what felt like their victory. But they were grasping and pulling on me, their child, a real person who would forever remember the way the pavement looked as her parents struggled.

I've been doing my own wrestling lately. Playing a daily game of tug-of-war inside my own brain. It's overwhelming sometimes, the power those instinctive thoughts and feelings can have over a person. It is easiest to let the habits and the instincts win. It is a fight to hold on to truth, when your brain is overrun by lies. It is easier to believe that I do not have my own value, but that my value is only in what I can do or be for another. My instinct says that I should not try, since nothing I do will be good enough or make a difference to anyone else. So the knee-jerk answer is to shut down, to give up, to let the battle rage on and to feel helpless to change anything. But the truth is that how I live my life each day makes a difference to me. And the truth is that I am valuable. I am not just a pawn in the great game of tug-of-war in the world. I can stand on my own two feet, and use my voice, and it matters.

When I consider that game of tug-of-war my parents played I consider my own powerlessness in that moment. I think about what I would do if I could go back to that day, when the forsythia was blooming along the driveway and the men were pushing and fighting one another and I stood by silently, letting my hair fall over my face to cover my eyes so I wouldn't really see everything. 

I want to go stand beside that girl, and sweep her hair out of her face, and whisper to her of her worth. I want to tell her that she has value far greater than she can understand. I want to show her the beauty of the forsythia; sweet, tiny yellow blooms formed by a Creator who cares about her so much more than each beautiful flower. I want to step back and watch her rise up, fill her lungs with air, and tell the world that she is not a victory to be won.

I can't go back to that day, but I can rise up now. I can sweep my hair back from my eyes, stop hiding and fill my lungs with air. I can break free from the tug-of-war being played inside my heart and my mind. I can stand tall and overcome and keep telling the stories of that precious girl, who needed to know her worth. I can rise up. And although I may feel like I am repeating myself, like the story is the same, I can keep telling it until I don't remember the pavement anymore. Until all the fear in my heart is replaced with Love. Until my knee-jerk reactions don't leave me in a worthless game of tug-of-war, because my own heart knows its worth. Until the image of that day is of a girl, standing tall and proud beside the forsythia bushes, knowing how much more beautiful she is than the sweet, yellow flowers of spring.

Do you know the feeling, this game of tug-of-war that seems incessant and constant and overwhelming? Perhaps you can see nothing but pavement today. It's possible you are being pulled in different directions by commitments and responsibilities, or by the story of your past, or by feelings that you'll never have enough, do enough or be enough. I want to stand beside you, too. I long for you to break free from the battle long enough to see all of the forsythia in bloom. Those bright yellow flowers, the first to rise up and herald the arrival of spring, are created for you to enjoy. And you are more valuable than those flowers to the heart of the One that created them. So rise up, friend. Even if you feel like the battle is on repeat and you're crying out with the same words, rise up. Rise up, again and again, victorious in the battle for your own heart, filling it up with truth and love.

It doesn't seem revolutionary, but it is. Each of us taking our place, owning our story, rising up out of the daily battle, walking with one another, doing our part to see the beauty in this world and spread it--this is how we change the world.

Click the link below for some beautiful inspiration and strength for today, because we rise up together.

Rise Up, by Andra Day

Five Years: A Footnote

They told us this would happen. I read all the stories that promised me that one day, Down syndrome would be just a footnote in our lives. It would appear in teeny-tiny subscript, not as the bold heading at the top of every page of her story. At the time, I couldn't believe it. The day she entered our world, those words felt so huge and so heavy, I couldn't begin to imagine how much they would shrink. As I clutched her to me, staring at her red cheeks, folded ears and creased palms, I couldn't understand how this small, helpless, sweet bundle brought with her this enormous, heavy, scary suitcase we would have to unpack. All I could think was that I had so much to learn, there was so much we didn't know, and I was so afraid of what our future held. I didn't speak the language yet, of early interventions and individual education plans and occupational therapies. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

In the beginning, I tried to hope that one day our lives would not revolve around her diagnosis. But it was so hard at first to see past the feeding difficulties, my fears for the future, and the disappointment I felt because of what I thought her diagnosis meant. I thought it meant something other than our beautiful daughter being herself. I thought it meant sacrificing years of hopes and dreams.

We did all that anyone can do. We put one foot in front of the other, we tackled one challenge at a time. Those early days did take a lot of strength and energy. Even though our girl was born healthy, Down syndrome and the challenges it presented did seem to take center stage for a while. Feeding her was so difficult, waking her every two hours, pumping for 15 minutes after every feeding, mixing high-calorie formula with breastmilk and praying she would begin to gain weight. I remember sitting on the floor next to our bed, listening to the whir-thunk-drip of my pump, looking at her laying on a blanket next to me. I was thinking about the next therapy appointment, the books I should read and the sleep I wanted so desperately. I cried and prayed that I would have the strength to give her what she needed.

Just when we thought we were getting a system down, we began to hear strange noises in her breathing, lungs that sounded like a bowl of Rice Krispies that had just been hit with milk, snap, crackling and popping our way into an early and prolonged hospital stay. At just six weeks old, our baby girl was diagnosed with the respiratory virus RSV, and words that bothered me so much more, "failure to thrive." When her pediatrician saw my eyes fill with tears, he told me he was sorry, but she had to go to the hospital. It felt like my failure, my inability to keep her healthy, to give her what she needed to grow. It felt like the weight of her success was on my shoulders, and I wasn't strong enough to carry it.

That hospital stay was five years ago this week. When I sat up all night, rocking my tiny baby who was restless from steroid treatments and struggling to breathe, I couldn't even begin to imagine how beautiful her future would be. I was consumed by the now, by her needs and by my fear. I worried about her brothers, with needs of their own, being neglected for the sake of their baby sister. In those earliest days with our sweet girl, I thought Down syndrome would be the bold heading of every chapter of her life. I could not have been more wrong.

The chapters of Brynnlie's life right now are full and rich and exciting to read. There is a chapter on ballet, where we watch her twirl and jump and learn and interact and dream of being a superhero ballerina.

There is a chapter on the care and keeping of baby dolls, with interactive moments of loving on her favorite real life babies. Presently, every chapter has a reference to Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood, which she could not live a day without. Right now Brynnlie's story is about pretending to bake everyone birthday cake in her play kitchen and pouring us all a cup of coffee. It is about how she is leading her class of typical peers, telling them how to build a bus out of chairs, then making them all sit and take a pretend drive to the Zoo together (with her as the driver, of course).

I couldn't understand it then, but now I see it's true. Down syndrome has a place in our family's story, but it is not the bold heading at the top of every page. It doesn't dictate each new chapter we will explore. It is simply a footnote, a small piece of information that enhances our story and helps others to understand where we are on our journey. We have new chapters ahead of us, and I'm sometimes fearful about them as well. Starting elementary school, reevaluations and meetings and individual education plans are still part of what we will face. I still get nervous when she gets a bad cold. But I have learned that this story is really about Brynnlie Grace, and she is not about to let Down syndrome or all the rest take away from the chapters she gets to live.

I wouldn't want to write her story any other way. I cannot imagine our family, our community, without Brynnlie Grace. Our view of the world is broadened and brightened by her presence, and also by the fact that she does have Down syndrome. I love having that footnote enhance our lives, and the lives of those who know our little girl. If I could go back in time, to find myself young and dreaming of my future and family, I would tell myself to dream of one day having a little girl with Down syndrome. I would tell my adolescent self that it was the best thing that could ever happen to me. I would tell myself as I planned for my future family that it would be full of more love than I would have ever believed possible. I would whisper to my heart that this was actually exactly what I needed for my journey, that it would be the extra glue that would hold our hearts together, slow us down, and remind us of all that was really important. I wouldn't believe myself then. I have a hard time believing it now.

We're only five years in, but her story keeps getting better and better. Life is good. It's beautiful, really. And having Down syndrome noted among the pages of Brynnlie's story only highlights how beautiful her precious life is.

it is already winter

Today, the snow settled softly on the barren branches of our tree-lined street. I will probably never have words to describe the stark beauty of the landscape in winter, with the sky fading from rosy pink to pale gold to a deep sullen gray. The black branches of the bare trees shoot upward into that pastel colored sky, creating harsh contrast. It is already winter where I live, and it brought with it the kind of cold that settles in your bones and requires gallons of strong, hot coffee and layers of fuzzy, soft blankets to eradicate. In winter, everything is so crisp and clear and frightfully hard outside. The view is breathtaking, but so is the bitterly cold air.

Winter feels so... Decisive. 

You are either indoors, cozy and warm, or you are out in the elements, exposed and body shaking with cold. One step outside the door and you are slammed in the face with the reality that is Winter. Beautiful, yes. But so severe and unforgiving, too.

I am feeling, in the face of this decisive winter season, plagued by indecision. I am confronted with big choices about the work I will do, the words I want to write, the way I will live and love and parent. I am also challenged by tiny questions like what to have for dinner, whether or not to go to the store, and if I should even attempt to clean those mysterious blue scuff marks off the hardwood floor. I get lost in the space of making lists, brainstorming ideas and looking for solutions and never actually take steps to move forward.

The reality is becoming more and more apparent that the time for wavering in indecision has passed. I am running out of room for uncertainty and hesitation. I feel pulled to put on my coat and hat and gloves and risk stepping out into the cold, with all of its incredible beauty and bleak decisiveness.

One year ago this month, a friend of mine passed away. She was young, a mother to three-year-old twin girls. We thought the days were long, when we sat refilling steaming mugs of strong coffee, watching our little ones play together, bemoaning the trials of potty training and sibling rivalry. We were in the light and warmth of each other's company, unprepared for the bitter cold air about to fill our lungs.

Her passing feels so... Decisive.

Her bright spirit was here, and then in a moment, her light and warmth were gone from this earth. My heart aches, exposed to bitter cold, knowing that her babies don't hear her resonant, earthy voice singing to them every day. My body shivers and gets stuck, frozen in place, wondering how it can be possible that such a beautiful, generous, welcoming person has left such a cold and gaping hole.

Losing my friend so young and so suddenly makes me think more fully about the work I will do, the words I want to write, the way I will live and love and parent. Her absence, while it produces a harsh ache, simultaneously exposes me to the beauty still around me. It reminds me to be unutterably grateful for the blessed opportunity to wake up in the morning and choose what to feed my family for dinner, make that necessary trip to the store, and stare lazily at those mysterious blue scuff marks still covering the hardwood floor.

I have grown tired of my own hesitation. I want to embrace the decisions I make, to know that I am living the life I am choosing. This life is full of work and preparation and mundane daily tasks and infinite failures but each of them always begin with my choice. My decision.

My heart feels so... Decisive. 

I feel like I am finally ready to live with boldness. To stop wavering back and forth, caught in the web of my own inability to choose, and to be bold in ways I have not felt bold before.

My friend was bold. She was daring; some might have called her audacious. She made gutsy choices throughout her life and she owned her decisions as well as their consequences. Living boldly sometimes produced seasons in her life that were harsh and cold and severe. But looking back at the whole landscape of her life, all the people she loved and those who loved her, all the lives she impacted and changed, I believe it is easy to see that living boldly produced a life that was in all seasons incredibly beautiful.

Bold is not going to come easily to me; I doubt it comes easily for anyone. Stepping into boldness feels like stepping outside into cold winter air. It is beautiful and courageous, a sparkling cold adventure, but it can be hard and bitter, too. Just sharing the proclamation that this season will be one of boldness for me is like posting an icy prediction of my own failure. Deciding to be bold presents a danger all its own.

But there it is... I have already decided. I feel like I could waver more, continuing to consider how challenging bold will be. I could write about how scared I am or what it means or the ways I will need to prepare myself and bundle up against the cold. But it is already winter, and I haven't got the time.

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.