The Bravest Boy I've Ever Known

Recently, I shared about one night of shelter that my brother and I experienced, and how I held him and calmed him when he was crying and upset. While on that one particularly bright night, my brother had a weak moment and needed me, the truth is that my little brother was incredibly brave. Throughout his earliest years, he somehow found the strength to be honest. When police officers asked him about abuse that occurred, he was able to answer them truthfully, in great detail and specificity. He spoke the truth in the language of a child, and he did so without evidence of shame. Meanwhile I, the supposedly bright and precocious older sister, was unable to speak the truth. I cried in silence, and then I spent years minimizing what happened to me, living with the shame that it was somehow my fault and that telling the story only made it worse.

I remember one day in particular, grown ups showed up unexpectedly at our front door. I'm not sure who was responsible for us that day, but I know we were home alone. My brother had a sense that the grown ups could help us, that we should open the door and let them in and talk to them. I was silently shaking my head no, and crying in fear. As my little brother stood on his tip toes with his hand straining to reach the door knob, I begged and pleaded with him not to open the door. I was terrified of what might happen if we were found there alone, fearful of the questions we would surely be asked. My brother was willing to face the questions, willing to take the risk. Eventually, the grown ups stopped knocking on the door, and drove away.  We stayed together in the room for a while, shaken and uncertain. The light outside faded, and we cried together, both of us desperately wanting something better, neither of us knowing how to find help without the other. In time, my brother would take the opportunity to tell helpful grown ups what was happening to us. I will never be able to repay him for his courage. 

As we grew, my brother and I stayed close to one another. Our relationship continued to be this intense sort of give and take for several years. I continually acted like a mother hen, and shushed and rocked and calmed and cried with my brother. I told him everything would be ok. I encouraged him not to rock the boat, as that was my preferred method of survival. My brother, on the other hand, was not content to allow circumstances to continue as they were. He struggled to get along within our dysfunctional family dynamic at times, showing the outside world challenging behaviors and honestly answering questions about one parent or the other when asked. The ways we coped with the abuse we suffered were different, but we continued to cope together. He was my Bubba; I was his Sissy.

He was so small, and so brave.

 That little brother of mine grew into a charming young man. He was always trying to help someone in trouble. Often, he would put himself into a compromising situation in an effort to help anyone he perceived to be in need. He was loyal to his family, even to those who hurt him. He waited tables after high school, and was good at it. He never knew a stranger. He was like his dad, able to talk about anything. As time went on, his conversations occasionally took on an unbelievable tone. Like his dad, he started piling extras on top of truth, started to know about things he didn’t really know about, started to cover his reality with a story that sounded just a little bit better.

Somewhere along the line, my brother’s voice changed. There were a few times growing up when he told the truth but no one believed him or took action to protect him. I think that may be where his relationship with the truth started shifting. And when that happened, when the truth went unheard and the lies became more entertaining stories, I wonder if that was the beginning of what allowed him to step so far away from a healthy reality. Soon, he was drifting, keeping most of the very real parts of his life and story hidden in darkness. He remained outgoing and extroverted, he continued to meet and make friends everywhere he went, but he pulled further and further away from those who knew him best. He created the stories around himself that he felt others wanted to hear, and he hid the truest places. I guess he began to behave in adulthood as I had encouraged in childhood: keep quiet and let them believe all is well, because telling the true stories may cause too much pain.

It makes me unbelievably sad to consider that the person whom I regard as one of the most brave truth tellers I have ever known learned far too well how to hide his real self. That young boy, who could answer honestly and without shame, he got lost. The more darkness invaded, the harder it was to fend it off. I understand the feeling of balancing on the edge of a knife, feeling as though you could fall off the world altogether, and holding on by the thinnest wire to the belief that someone cares, someone loves me, I am worthy and enough. We traded places along the way, my Bubba and I. I grew more honest and open about the circumstances of my life and how they affected me, while my brother learned to hide and keep the darkness quiet. We both recognized the reality of what could happen if we stepped out too far in our various balancing acts. I am so crushed that my Bubba lost his hold on that thin wire at some point, he fell off the sharp edge and couldn’t find a place to pull himself back, and the results have been devastating.

The result of turning to hiding the truths and creating this strange alternate version of himself has lead to even more heartache than ever before. This week I learned that my brother now resides in a maximum security prison in the middle of nowhere. This knowledge wrecks me, and a heavy darkness threatens to pull me off my own edge as well. I knew that this day was coming. I saw him in jail, I watched the trial, and I heard them read the conviction. I read the story in the newspaper, saw the words “convicted sex offender” and “pedophile” tied to the one person who knows best the details of the earliest years of my own life. But seeing his name listed as confined in maximum security brings a deeper sense of the reality of what he will face in the next 20 years of his life.

Over the next 20 years, Lord willing, I will watch my children grow. They will go to middle school and endure emotional angst. They will attend high school, learn to drive, take someone to a dance, and hopefully find their niche. They may later go to college or get married. I pray they will find a course in life that fulfills them and brings them happiness. The opportunity to be a part of their lives, to watch these very normal events unfold, this seems to me an inordinate amount of undeserved mercy poured on my life. During that same 20 years, my brother, the one who spoke for me and was my voice when I could not speak, he will be part of a very different reality. He will, perhaps, fend off rapists. He will fight for his life to not be taken. He will undoubtedly consider taking his own life. He may, I hope, find some sort of routine in sameness. He will be confronted with his choices. He will be offered the opportunity for rehabilitation therapy. All the while, he will be only a shadow of himself, of all that he could have become. He will carry within him the ghost of the bravest little boy I have ever known, my Bubba.

I cannot begin to express the depth of emotion and heartache that carrying this knowledge of my brother’s daily existence makes me feel. I know that I feel angry. I am angry at my abusers, his abusers. I am angry at those who didn’t step in sooner to stop the abuse from continuing. I am angry with those who left us alone, abandoning us at various times and leaving us at risk of greater suffering. And I am so angry at my little brother. I am angry over his choices to pull away from the support and the community that knew him, that wanted to help and to calm and to comfort him, that were always trying to extend the wire he needed to keep from falling.

I know that I feel intense grief. I find myself asking a question I asked often throughout my childhood—how could a loving God allow such atrocity to happen? Where was God when my brother was abused and where was He when my brother was abusing others? This question devastates me. I find a sliver of comfort in the belief that God’s grief over all this devastation is perhaps greater than my own.

I know that I feel sorrow, and regret, and the weight of a thousand words I could not find before and struggle intensely to find now. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for my past silence. When we were very small, my brother was my voice. His honesty rescued me. His willingness to speak spared me from greater suffering. And now my brother no longer gets to have a voice; his choices have robbed him and he has stolen the truth from himself. But I will remember when he was brave, and find a way to echo his former honesty, and pray and hope that it finds its way to someone who needs a voice.

I wish I could go back in time and illuminate the places of darkness in my brother’s heart. I wish I could have helped him give a voice to the thoughts he had that confused and condemned him, that held him back from sharing his truth with someone who could have helped him along the way, before things progressed this far. I cannot change the ways that darkness affected my brother’s life, and now affects the lives of those he has abused, but I can change the ways it will affect mine. I will keep pushing back the darkness. I will keep sharing this difficult story. The shame and grief of the truth of this life makes me want to stop telling people about it. But I cannot. For the sake of the darkness in my heart, in my brother’s heart, in the hearts of those he hurt, I have to keep telling the story. I have to continue to work to find the words. I have to find the courage to raise my voice. I have to keep turning on the light.

One Night of Shelter

I remember that the house felt warm. It was December, so probably bitterly cold in Missouri. My parents had been separated for nine months, and we didn’t really have anything like a home during that time. When we were with my mother, we had been staying in her friend’s basement.  It was always dark in the basement.  You had to squint in order to see when you came down the stairs. We had also stayed for a short time in the empty house my grandparents had on the market, and it was always cold inside that house. When we were with my dad, circumstances weren’t any better. For a while we lived in a motel room, and I remember shivering while bathing in a plastic basin. When we were with him in a small house, we were often sitting with our feet on the oven door in order to be near a source of heat.

But that night in December, when we stayed with an emergency placement foster family, I remember that the house felt warm. It was brightly lit and cozy. Lamps glowed all over the room and overhead lights flooded the space with blindingly golden light. Maybe that was one reason why my little brother kept crying. Maybe he wasn’t used to the brightness and warmth we felt there. I remember the woman asking me if I knew anything that would help him feel better. He was screaming and crying so hard, his little face all scrunched up, bright red and streaked with tears.

 I asked if they had any books. Josh liked it when I read to him. They handed me a Little Golden Book, The Monster at the End of this Book, Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover. To this day, it is one of my favorite children’s books. That’s how it is—memory is what ties a book like that to your heart.

So there we sat, in the bright, warm living room on a big, cozy armchair. I was a skinny little girl, barely-five-years-old, with long stringy dishwater blond hair.  He was still a baby to me, just three-years-old and crying for someone and someplace he knew. The grownups helped me as I struggled to somehow pull his body, flailing in a desperate tantrum, onto my lap and I began to read. Josh quieted down, his arms and legs relaxing, his weight settling into me, sniffling and shaking a little as his sobbing ceased.  He began to listen to my voice as I went through the pages, trying to do a Muppet voice for Grover. When we got to the parts where Grover would frantically shout, “No! Stop turning pages!” he would even giggle a little bit.

I’m not sure how many times I read that book that night. I know I didn’t want to stop turning the pages. Everything about that moment felt safe. I cannot see the faces of the adults in that home, or remember anything about their appearance.  I remember them only as shadows, illuminated by the brightness all around us.  I remember the kindness in their voices, the softness of their hands as they guided and directed us, offering all of the comforts of their home.  I remember their concern and desire to calm my brother, rather than ignoring his fears.

I wonder if that family ever thinks of me the way I think of them. Am I a shadow on their memory as well?  Most likely, I was one of many children who received a night of shelter in their home.  I was only another poor child whose circumstances led to the need for an emergency place to stay, a haven and a retreat from the world around them. That day, someone had reported an incident of sexual abuse. I had been taken to the hospital and poked, prodded, questioned and examined. I wore a paper gown and sat on a cold, vinyl hospital examining table, shivering and nodding my head when I was asked shameful, personal questions.  But that night, I was sheltered in a home so well-lit it was able to keep out the darkness.  I was given a retreat from a world with poverty and low-lighting and cold that was hiding darker secrets of touching and shaming and violence.

I don’t know if that family ever thinks of me, but I will always remember them.  I am so grateful for their willingness to open their home to two dirty, terrified children, reeling from the effects of divorce, poverty, sexual abuse and fear. That one night gave me a glimpse into what was possible. Those shadowy figures of compassion and sacrifice gave me hope that I could be in a home like that again. That night was a shield and defense of my belief that life could be different, that it was possible for family and home to be a sanctuary and a place of peace, rather than a continually tense place of fear.

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month. While I wish my abuse could have been prevented, I believe that the moments of shelter I experienced throughout my childhood are what have allowed me to break free from the cycle of abuse in my own life. Connections with community, people who cared enough to get involved, family who persistently let me know they would be available to me when I needed them, faith communities who showed me the heart of a loving God—these things provided the backbone for me to be able to change my future.

I understand that the problem of child abuse can feel so overwhelming, and the solutions must be multifaceted. There are broad, nationwide issues of poverty, mental healthcare, family support structure, reporting and placement that must be addressed. Yet a simple act that anyone can take is to become more involved with the children and families in their community. Knowing your neighbors, becoming involved in your child’s school, participating in local groups that provide family support—these are simple steps that anyone can take to help provide a network of shelter for children at risk. Because of multiple occasions where individuals, families or groups cared enough to be involved throughout my life, I remain in a place of shelter now.

Don’t see child abuse as the kind of issue that is personal, family-related, or none of your business. Protecting children should be all of our business. We can all be a place of shelter for another child by taking an interest in their life and showing that we care. Find a way to be a place of shelter for a child.  I know that they will be forever impacted by the feeling that someone cared enough to notice them.

For more information on National Child Abuse Prevention month and ways you can get involved, please visit www.childwelfare.gov.

Hello there, shame...

Almost immediately after I hit the word “publish” on my post last week, my body was flooded by a very familiar feeling.  I felt exposed, as though everyone was seeing me, and in being seen, I felt ashamed. I felt as though an enormous, heavy boulder landed on top of me. A heat rose up from within my chest, and an aching pressure began to spread from the center of my body, throughout my limbs. I wanted to crawl into my bed and feel instead the weight of comforting blankets on top of me, bury my head in the covers. 

Oh, hello shame, my old friend. Here we go again.

One of my earliest memories, perhaps my very earliest memory, is one of shame. I was only about four years old. A friend I’ll call Sara was inside my family’s trailer to play. We were putting together a block puzzle, a scene of Winnie the Pooh’s birthday party. It was tricky as the pieces were all cubes, with different pictures on each side. My uncle was there, watching us I guess. We were all sitting, cross-legged, on the floor. At some point my uncle leaned forward and asked Sara if she would like to play a game. 

“What kind of game?” Sara asked.

“It’s a secret game,” my uncle answered, and leaned in closer toward me to show Sara what he meant.

Sara said no, she didn’t want to play, and she needed to go home and find her mom. I remember watching her leave, and feeling overwhelmed that what my uncle told me all the time must be true--I was bad. Every time he touched me, my uncle told me not to tell anyone, or I would get into a lot of trouble.  My parents would be very angry with me, because I was bad.

I feel like that day solidified that lie in my heart. Since Sara could tell her mom, she was obviously good. I wished that I could be as good as Sara, but it was too late for me now. If I told anyone about the game, I would be in trouble, and I hated to be in trouble. Even more terrifying than being in trouble was realizing that if I told anyone, then they would know how bad I really was. I stared at the chocolate brown shag carpet, at the pattern of sunlight from the window on the floor, at the colorful scenes from the Winnie the Pooh birthday party on the blocks, while my uncle played his game.

Even now I can feel the weight, the ache, the pain that the shame of that moment brings to me. Even now I am burdened that Sara was strong, and I was weak. The voice in my head tells me I should have known better, I should have told someone; I should have been able to stop it. Even right this second, shame would have me believe that by telling my story, I am letting people know that there is something hopelessly wrong with me. 

That is what I have believed, in my soul, for years. I frequently think of myself a bad mother, an awful wife, a terrible friend. Not as a good person, who made a few mistakes or a bad decision, but as a deeply flawed person who is somehow inherently bad. While it is painful for me to feel that way, the greatest fear I have is that those around me would suddenly see that I am no good. Part of the fear that keeps me from wanting to hit publish on any story about my life is that same lie my uncle told me: “If you tell anyone, then they will know how bad you really are.” 

The truth is not that Sara was strong and I was weak, or that Sara was good and I was bad.  The truth is that Sara was able to leave in part because she felt safe to tell others around her. I did not feel safe at that time. But I do now. I am so grateful to be surrounded by many family and friends who know most of my shameful stories, and they love me anyway. 

Now that I am safe, I can stop playing my uncle’s game.  I’m not going to sit in my living room and stare at the red and brown striped carpet, at the pattern of sunlight from the window on the floor, at my dog and cat curled up together, while his game continues to go on inside my head. The shame I experienced, the lies I believed, they do far more damage in my everyday life than any physical scars I may carry. I’m tired of listening to the same tape playing over and over. This time I get to stand up and call out my abuser and say I refuse to believe your lies anymore. 

It’s funny that even after years of therapy and time, writing these few posts has been where I finally realized the root of my self-loathing. I did have a counselor one time ask me if I thought I was a good person. I told her no, I didn’t think so. I think she asked me why I felt that way, and at the time, I didn’t have an answer. Today I do. I think that I am a bad person because I have been told that I am a bad person for as long as I can remember by people in a position of trust. But those people were lying.

 

I know that shame and believing lies about ourselves is not specific to survivors of sexual abuse. All of us experience shame; it is a universal emotion brought on by all kinds of circumstances. Shame would like to keep everyone in the dark, to keep us from telling our stories. The truth is that when we make our way out into the light by sharing a little bit more of who we are with the world, we find out that we are not alone. We find new ways to connect and to show grace and compassion to one another, which is a tremendous gift. I have been so blessed by the kind responses to my previous post, and the encouragement from so many to continue. That support is a large part of what is motivating me to dig deeper and find the strength to share more of my story. 

I hope that as I continue to share more of my story, others will join me and begin to be able to share their truths as well. It is in being open and honest and truthful with each other that we take away the power that lies and shame may have over us. Telling our own stories, receiving kindness from others, hearing truth that challenges old lies, this is what gives us more strength to throw off the heavy weight of shame that has been holding us down. 

So, goodbye shame, you jackass. Until we meet again.

                “Shame derives its power from being unspeakable…If we cultivate enough awareness about shame to name it and speak to it, we’ve basically cut it off at the knees. Shame hates having words wrapped around it. If we speak shame, it begins to wither. Just the way exposure to light was deadly for the gremlins, language and story bring light to shame and destroy it.”

- Brene' Brown, Daring Greatly

Right Type of Story

I have been thinking quite a bit lately about my story.  I have been trying to unravel the series of events that make up the narrative of my life until now.  I am searching for clues, trying to fill in the blanks, putting together pieces of memory and outside views of certain chapters of my existence.  Because my story has very dark moments, I struggle to decide what exactly I want anyone to know about this journey, the conflict and climax and resolution of my experiences on this earth.  I know that the antidote to darkness is light, and the desire to shed light on hidden places causes me to feel compelled to find words to share about those dark moments.  But the words don’t come easily.

When I was six years old, I was being evaluated by a mental health worker due to confirmed reports of sexual abuse.  My uncle admitted that he was a pedophile, and had violated numerous children.  He acknowledged that he had committed various acts with me so many times that he could not recall the exact number or complete nature of the encounters.  Throughout most of the proceedings in the case, I was silent.  While I accurately confirmed the accounts of the abuse in a matter of fact way when asked, the most frequent note in the reports from various police officers, family service workers and counselors is that I refused to speak, and that I cried.

During one of many counseling sessions intended to help me talk about my feelings regarding the abuse, the therapist asked me to complete an exercise by looking at various pictures and telling him a story about what I saw.  A family services worker who was observing the session noted that I was extremely reluctant to participate in the exercise.  His exact words were, “La’Tisha is very much of a perfectionist and was afraid that she would not tell the right type of story.”  Already, at the age of six, I felt a desperate need to please the people around me.  I had already seen that when a story deviates from the allocated plan, upheaval would follow.  I knew that my story caused problems, people were angry, and it was better to keep my mouth shut than to invoke more trouble by speaking how I truly felt.  I needed to tell the right story, the one the people around me wanted or needed to hear, and I made it my business to do so.

Years later, I want to find a way to speak for the little girl who cried silently.  I believe that the story I tell—with my life, my time, and my words—is important.  I know that a good story can open our eyes, shift our perspective, and change the way we see and interact with the world around us.  I want to tell my story of beauty for ashes, of restoration for what the locust has eaten, in a way that makes others believe that kind of reconciliation is possible.  I’m trying very hard, though, to be less concerned about telling the “right kind” of story.  The only story I have to tell is my own.  The only way I can tell my story is to share it honestly.  The only way this story can be wrong, I think, is if I do not tell it at all.

I am tired of being silent about how surviving this kind of childhood trauma affects my life every. single. day.  I know that I am not the only woman who is trying to be a loving wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend while constantly battling the demons of her past.  I believe that my children should know something of what I have experienced, because I believe that history we do not learn from is destined to repeat itself.  It is time to find my voice and speak.  I want to tell my story because I know how isolated, lonely and discouraged I feel at times, and I believe it may help others to know that they are not alone.  It is time for me to break the silence of what it means to live as a survivor.

Because these are the most important truths: I live.  I survived.  Each and every day that I continue to struggle to be here, to be present, to be enough, is a victory of survival.  I am realizing that the truth is that I will never completely move on.  I will move forward, but I cannot change what I see in my rear view mirror.  This is my life.  Every once in a while, I have to look back and notice that the past is still there, behind me.  Sometimes, peeking in that rear view mirror helps me to correct my course.  Keep moving forward, but don’t forget what got me here. 

That is what I’m setting out to do.  Look back through that past and acknowledge how it has shaped me.  Stop trying to shut it down and pretend that I am fine now, and that the story isn’t integral to who I am.  I need to accept the fact that my abusers took from me things that I will never be able to regain.  The plan now is to get loud about how I’m dealing with that loss, and to share gratitude over all that I have also gained.  Some days I will blog about the here and now, and other days I am dedicating to writing the past in a book.

As survivors go, I know that I am fortunate.  Throughout the storms I faced as a child, there were always places of shelter.  I am grateful, so grateful, for the opportunities to be where I am today.  I am overwhelmed with gratitude for the people who showed that they cared and intervened on my behalf.  And so I recognize that when I raise my voice, I do so not only for myself, but also for those who were not so sheltered.  I raise my voice for those who are forever silenced by their circumstances, those who are perhaps destined to repeat the cycles of abuse, those who had no pause for breath in a lifetime of shame, beating, berating, and abuse.  I also raise my voice for the little girl who could not find words, and silently cried.  This is ultimately where I find the courage to share my story, on behalf of the many, many stories that may never be told.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves;

ensure justice for those being crushed.

Yes, speak up for the poor and helpless,

And see that they get justice.”

Proverbs 31:8-9

Golden Day of Summer

Today, it felt like summertime around here.  We celebrated our rock star who is soon-to-be-five-years-old with an easy bash at the pool.  Friends and moms and dads hung out, had treats, and cannonballed off the diving board with wild abandon.  We lounged in the water all afternoon, surrounded by sunshine and smiling faces.  Heading home we showered and lounged some more, indoors with screentime for a break from the heat and sun.  Tonight was family night, spaghetti for dinner, a quick Wii contest, and mint chip ice cream for dessert, just to really bring that summertime feeling home.

As I gave Brynnlie Grace her breathing treatment and rocked her to sleep, I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for all the goodness we had today.  No sooner had I begun reflecting on how perfectly summery our day was, and how glad I was that we could share it together, than I started to become plagued by guilt and worry thoughts.  Why should I get to be so blessed? How can I enjoy all of this luxury when someone is starving, or grieving, or less fortunate? Shouldn't I be *doing* more with my life, or at the very least, doing a better job of what I am doing?

I stroked Brynnlie's hair and kissed the top of her head.  No, I thought.  I will not be robbed of the joy of this day.  God has given me this life, and it is an incredible gift, and I am meant to celebrate it.  It is OK if I don't spend my life solving world hunger, or looking for grief, or feeling guilty that I have been blessed.  That is the opposite of what he has for me.  I am meant to rejoice in today, and to know God's great love for me, and to look for ways to love those around me.  It is enough.

Days like this one are rare.  All of us will have days that are not so blessed. This is what makes it even more important for me to celebrate the day we had.  Our family.  Our friends.  Our love.  Our blessings.  

This is the day the Lord has made.

We will rejoice and be glad in it.

Psalm 118:24

There are only a few of them left, you know.  These golden days of summer are fleeting.  I'm making memories around here.  I'm celebrating the goodness of God, the heat of the season and the grace of the moment of life that we are in.  I'm going to remember this day, and I hope my children will too. I'm going to try to do a lot more rejoicing and being glad in the day the Lord has made, and less worrying about whether or not there is something else I am supposed to be doing at the moment.

Loves, friends.  Go grab a golden day.

Bread & Wine: A Recommendation and A Review

One stunning realization that has echoed in my brain since acknowledging that i. am. not. strong. is that my inherent weakness requires that I must care for myself.  I must nourish my body.  I must give myself rest.  I must build up and stretch the muscles needed to carry me through my work as a mother.  I must go to the source of all strength to sustain me, continually.  (If God's grace is sufficient for my weakness, I must learn to understand that grace.)  It would seem these are basic requirements for a life well lived, but they are tasks that have eluded me as of late.  I have skipped so many meals, and given my body a poor excuse for food when it grumbles.  I have not slept when needed, and tried to force sleep when fresh air would have been a better choice.

And then...

Right in the beginning of this season of relearning what it means to nourish myself, I was given the incredible opportunity to read an advance copy of Shauna Nieuquist's newest book, Bread & Wine: A Love Letter to Life Around the Table.  As soon as my copy arrived, I tore it open and began to feed my soul from this book celebrating food, love, and doing life together. Shauna's words nourished my soul and fed me something I was hungry for--an affirmation that the little ways we serve our family and friends matter.  The meals made for friends in celebration after having babies or in comfort after experiencing illness or loss, those meals put something of substance where we cannot find words. Bread & Wine showed me that Tasty Tuesday family meals around the table, trying new foods on our fanciest plates, are a way my children and my husband experience my love for them.  It reminded me that Coffee & Muffins morning playgroup with moms is that space--that table as a safe zone--that so many of us desperately need.

"The heart of hospitality is about creating space for someone to feel seen and heard and loved. 

 It's about declaring your table a safe zone, a place of warmth and nourishment."

The most beautiful thing about this book, for me, is the way Shauna's hospitality shines through the pages.  As I read her stories, I feel seen and heard.  Although our stories are different, the feelings she shares are universal.  The association between food and shame, the ways food is tied to both giving and receiving love, and the fears that hold us back from new experiences--these are pieces of each of our bigger stories.  Shauna inspires me to try new recipes, to invite more people into my home, without overwhelming me or making me feel guilty or like a failure because I haven't done it before.  She shares game-changing roasted broccoli and simply and perfectly prepared scrambled eggs right alongside elaborate dinner parties featuring printed menu cards--and I feel as though sharing love through each meal is not only possible, but the only ingredient that is truly necessary in any preparation.

If you are looking for encouragement as a home cook, a friend, a sister, a wife, a mom--you will find it in the pages of this book.  Leafing through these pages, I feel as though I am at Shauna's table.  I am sitting in her safe zone, and it is a place of warmth and nourishment for my heart.  Not only is my heart encouraged, but Shauna opens her heart to me as well.  She brings me into the hard places in her own life, the moments that catch you off guard and steal your breath and don't represent your best.  She shares with so much honesty that I am drawn deeper into her story, and become more wiling to examine the darker places of my own story.

"That's what shame does, though.
It whispers to us that everyone is as obsessed with our failings as we are.
...
Shame tells us that we're wrong for having the audacity to be happy when we're so clearly terrible.
Shame wants us to be deeply apologetic for just daring to exist.
...
But I want to dare to exist, and, more than that, to live audaciously,
in all my imperfect, lumpy, scarred glory,
because the alternative is letting shame win."

Bread & Wine may begin as one woman's love letter to life around the table, but somewhere in the middle it became a beacon shining on my own loves.  It continually reminded me of times where I did more than exist, where I have lived, at my own kitchen table.  My table is a well-worn hand-me-down from my husband's late grandmother.  It is a simple wooden kitchen table that held lovingly homemade dishes every Sunday afternoon for years, served to my husband's family and friends in his grandmother's dining room.  When we first married and the table passed to us, it mostly supported heavy textbooks and bowls of popcorn through late-night study sessions in our college apartment.  The first holidays I hosted revolved around that table, though, and then it was crammed to bursting with friends and food.  I have spoon fed babies there, admonished toddlers to sit still, listened to children roaring with laughter over their own knock-knock jokes, and shared in the first "real" conversations of growing big kids.  Although it is beginning to show signs of wear, I cannot imagine ever parting with that kitchen table; that table is where I have lived.

Shauna's words remind us of the way of food.  She brings us back to our need for nourishment and our need for one another.  The table is one space we share our common needs.  Shauna's invitation, throughout this book, is "Come to the table."  As I closed the book and began to digest her words, that is exactly what I wanted to do.  In my first reading of the book, I was ravenous--so hungry for soul nourishment I could not slow down enough to taste the nuances of each section.  I cannot wait to begin the book again, and this time consume it slowly, as you would a favorite meal that has been lovingly prepared, returning now and again to the table for a bit more of this or a little of that.  And as I reread it, I have every intention of coming to the table.  Bringing my family and friends, and preparing the recipes along the way.  I plan to make Shauna's Breakfast Cookies for playgroup and host a get-together that will involve trying Mango Chicken Curry--a whole new genre of food for my family.  I plan to revisit favorite recipes and freshen up our staples, being mindful and aware of the work that I am doing.

"...there's no replacement for what happens when we make something with our own hands, 

directed by our own senses, 

motivated by our own love for the people we're serving."

I look forward to sharing more of this journey with you, as I try recipes and share moments from around my own beloved kitchen table.  I encourage you to "Come to the table," as well.  Read this book and be inspired to try something new.  Read this book and be reminded of the places you have lived, the food you have enjoyed, the life all around you.  Read this book and be encouraged to love those near you well, by sharing your home, your heart, your food.  Above all else, friend, read this book and be nourished.

May I Never Forget

It's been 19 years...  How can that be possible?  19 years since the dark and rainy April night when I really learned how to put my life in His hands.  Almost two decades have gone by.  It seems like a lifetime ago.  Truly, it is only a blink, a tiny blip on the radar of eternity.

Our days on earth are like grass;

like wildflowers, we bloom and die.

The wind blows, and we are gone--

as though we have never been here.

He always remembers.  Somehow, it sneaks up on me.  I forget what a significant day I am living, but he remembers.  It is grace straight from heaven when he walks through the door, with arms full of those fleeting wildflowers.  Yellow flowers.  Beautiful cascading shades of yellow flowers that remind me of liberty, faithfulness, friendship, happiness.

The Lord is like a father to his children,

tender and compassionate to those who fear him.

For he knows how weak we are; 

he remembers we are only dust.

I am weak.  I am only dust.  And yet the Lord remembers me.  He thinks of me.  He sent a man to be my husband when I did not believe I deserved one.  He sent a man who would remember when I forget.  A man to remind me who I am and what God has done when I have all but forgotten.  

Let all that I am praise the Lord;

with my whole heart I will praise his holy name.

Let all that I am praise the Lord; 

may I never forget the good things he does for me.

May I never forget...  I will remind myself of what it meant to be a fourteen-year-old girl.  I will remember adolescent emotions and hormones and uncertainty wrapped up in too-long arms and legs and feet.  May I never forget that young girl, abused from the start, unsure of how much to take, wondering when she would find the courage and the strength to say, "Enough!"

I will remember her on that night, 19 years ago.  How she felt that day while being berated, enduring the hours of lies and deceit.  She listened to her father's voice tell her she was a liar, she was broken, she was wrong, she was unworthy.  I remember how she struggled against the binding he tied around her wrists.  How her face stung when he hit her. How her resolve strengthened within her as another voice began to rise up from deep inside her heart, combating the lies and overcoming the pain.

The Lord is compassionate and merciful,

slow to get angry and filled with unfailing love.

...

For his unfailing love toward those who fear him

is as great as the height of the heavens above the earth.

I will not forget how the promise of that unfailing love filled her heart as she laced the white tennis shoes on those early teenager feet, too big for her body.  How every breath was a prayer as she made her preparations to leave.  I will remember how her heart pounded as she placed her hand on the doorknob, "Trust in. The Lord. Trust in. The Lord."  Thump-thump, thump-thump, steadily pounding so hard and so loud in her chest as she turned the handle and threw open the door.

But the love of the Lord remains forever 

with those who fear him.

His salvation extends to the children's children

of those who are faithful to his covenant, 

of those who obey his commandments!

May I never forget that I am here today because 19 years ago a young girl encountered God in a real and tangible way.  The love of that incredible God filled her fragile heart and broken body with the courage and strength to choose another way.  God gave her the immediate strength necessary to race through the door, out into the dark, rainy night and he sustained her through the years of pain and struggle that bold move initiated. The Lord gave her a husband who reminds her of how great God's love is toward  her.  The same God gave her three beautiful, precious children and continues to extend his grace to those children now.  He continues to faithfully honor his covenant and gently guide her toward his commandments.

Praise the Lord, you angels

you mighty ones who carry out his plans,

listening for each of his commands.

Yes, praise the Lord, you armies of angels

who serve him and do his will!

Praise the Lord, everything he has created,

everything in all his kingdom.

Let all that I am praise the Lord.

It's been 19 years for me...  19 years since I placed my life fully and completely in God's hands, walked away from the abuse and out into the storm, and began to walk toward completely trusting him.  19 years of yellow flowers reminding me again of his continued faithfulness.  

Maybe for you, it is still a dark and rainy night.  Perhaps you are trapped and bound and beaten down by circumstances or people in your life.  Maybe you're still waiting and praying for the strength and courage to say, "Enough!"  Today, as I remember the good things God does for me, I will earnestly pray for you that this will be Day One.  I will pray he sends his armies of angels to steady your hands as you lace up your shoes, place your hand on the doorknob, and throw open the door to your future.  It may begin as an all-out sprint through the mud on a dark and rainy night. It will not end there.  I will pray that he sends you an angel who will not let you forget the good things he does for you.  He will be faithful.  You can trust in him.  

May I never forget the good things he does for me.

All Bible verses are from Psalm 103, New Living Translation.