Forgiveness As a Choice—Not a Feeling

 

Forgiveness As a Choice—Not a Feeling

I’ve been struggling with an inability to forgive and I found a study with a completely new perspective. What if I chose to forgive now, instead of waiting until I felt like I was ready to forgive?

God sent Christ to die for my sins BEFORE I was sorry. God made a choice to forgive me. God canceled the debt, releasing me from anything I owed him. That’s what real forgiveness looks like.

True forgiveness is a total release from anything we are owed or they deserve as a punishment.

Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember, the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others. Col 3:13 NLT

Forgiveness is a choice, not a feeling. It’s choosing to cancel a debt owed to us. Our feelings may cry out against the whole idea of forgiveness. Still, we can choose. This mirrors what God did when he chose to forgive us.

The divine sequence God has given us is: think, choose, then feel.

1)      We can set our minds on the truth of what needs to be done.

2)      We can choose to forgive and release someone from the debt owed to us.

3)      We can remember the choice we made from then on.

4)      We can live in agreement with the choice we made.

We don’t have to wait for our emotions to line up with our choice.

When we choose to forgive someone, it’s mostly for us, the person we’re forgiving may never know we’re forgiving them; they may not even be alive anymore!

Do we pretend our anger and pain don’t exist or matter? No! Get alone with God and talk to Him. Be honest, He can handle it! You might want to talk to a trusted friend or sponsor too. Then tell God you’re choosing to forgive the person and releasing them from the debt they owe you. Ask God for help when you need it.  

It’s a sin to let my emotions control me rather than holding onto the unchanging truths of God.

Abba Father, thank You for showing me how to forgive, I choose to forgive Richard Eugene Dowden for molesting me when I was a child. I choose to forgive him for making me feel like it was my fault. I choose to forgive him for making it so hard for me to trust You. I choose to forgive him for making it so hard to trust people, including myself. I choose to forgive him for making me feel unloved and unloving and unlovable. I choose to forgive him for awakening evil desires in my mind. I choose to forgive him for demeaning my mother, myself, and my siblings. Lord, I release him from all debts he owes me in this life and in the afterlife. Dad, when I start to fall back into old habits, I ask You to remind me of the choice I’m making today to forgive Richard Eugene Dowden and help me stand firm in my decision to let go once and for all. Thank You for the healing You’ve already given me. Amen.   

Shifting the Blame or Avoiding Responsibility

Another characteristic of abusers is denial of responsibility. The abuser actively and constantly attempts to shift the blame for their actions or thoughts, from themselves to others. Abusers are unwilling to accept responsibility for their actions.

They minimize their actions and the aftermath. When I confronted my evil step-father Dick (by letter) about his abusive ways during my childhood (I didn’t have the courage to truthfully and concisely discuss the abuse, so my accusations were somewhat vague), he wrote back that he had “bittersweet” memories too.

Abusers claim others “made them do it” or “made them mad”. Dick was constantly talking to me about girls who were loose based on their appearance and walk. He made it clear that kind of girl deserved whatever she got. And all women are alike, so they all deserved maltreatment.

Abusers are rarely remorseful. Dick seemed quite uncomfortable with any show of emotion, except anger. I was encouraged to be angry with my siblings. When I was laughing or smiling, his demand was, “Why are you smiling?” When he didn’t approve of the emotion showing on my face, it was “Wipe that look off your face!” When I cried, he’d mock me or spank me longer. When I was bleeding due to an injury and crying, Dick threatened to let me bleed to death if I didn’t stop crying. I learned to deny my feelings for so long that eventually I couldn’t even recognize my feelings.

The abuser tries to make the victim feel responsible.

The victim is often expected to meet needs which are not their responsibility and often beyond their ability.  I never did anything to Dick’s satisfaction, my best efforts were always lacking. 

Once abusers are successful at making their victims feel responsible, the victims carry around an overwhelming sense of shame which makes them feel worthless. The abuser can then use that shame to manipulate and control the victim.

Often, other family members encourage lying or denial in dealing with the abuser; which reinforces to child victims that the abuser is somehow justified. When a victim tries to tell an authority figure about the abuse and is either not believed or encouraged to keep it a secret, they are led to believe they are somehow culpable for the abuse.

This is what the Bible says God feels about blame-shifting and the treatment of victims:

“Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent – the LORD detests them both.”                         Proverbs 17:15

Prince of Deception

My evil step-father Dick was a liar. Everything about him was a lie. He didn’t complete grade school, but he would use large words which he thought he understood. Often enough to make him sound ignorant, he would use them inappropriately. He didn’t want to be corrected: I tried.

We were told repeatedly that “we don’t air our dirty laundry in public.” We were taught to keep family secrets; at the same time, we were being told that God considers lying a sin. It is extremely common for abusive families to lie to hide the abuse.

Dick told me repeatedly that I was ugly, unlovable, stupid, of no value, etcetera, etcetera. These were all lies! Unfortunately, I entered adulthood believing all his lies.

Both of my parents and the church told me that a good girl would be a virgin on her wedding day. Dick took my virginity and when I realized it, I knew it meant I was no longer a “good girl” but I was confused because everyone talked like I had a choice in whether or not I was a virgin. I also had to continue lying to my mother because she didn’t know, and I felt a fierce need to protect her. I was profoundly confused.

As I got older, the sexual abuse stopped. When I began working, Dick knew when I got paid and would be waiting for me to arrive home. He would tell me he needed a favor; then ask to borrow my entire paycheck to pay a household utility. I lent him money every time he asked (I would have done anything for my mother and siblings); and he never paid me back. Once I realized what he was doing, I began going and spending my paycheck for what I wanted before I took it home. It didn’t occur to me until I was an adult looking back, but how did he pay the utilities before I started earning a paycheck?

As a teen, I purchased a vehicle using a bank loan. Either, I couldn’t have a title in my name or I couldn’t get a bank loan in my name due to my age. I did go pay on the bank loan every time I got paid until it was paid off. I was so excited. Until I saw my car on the corner with a For Sale sign in the window. (I had been grounded for breaking curfew and was riding the bus.) I asked Dick about it when I got home, and he told me he was selling. When the car was no longer there a little while later, I asked Dick if he’d moved it. He’d sold it. I asked him where my money was from the sale. His reply was “What money?” Lying, stealing, manipulative, abusive, evil man sold the car I paid for and kept the money. (Just when I think I’ve forgiven him, I feel angry all over again!)

I’m still confused by the level of lying in my childhood home. As a child, I lied all the time. I lied about my home. I lied about my step-father. I lied about my siblings. I lied to my step-father. I lied to my mother. If my lips were moving…I was most likely lying.

At some point, I stopped lying. I think it happened when I started to realize that Dick was evil. I think this was when I stopped overtly lying and began learning to deny the reality of the bad things that had happened in my life.

I became more and more verbally honest as time went by and even flipped too far the other direction; using the guise of honesty to say very hurtful things to people I claimed to love.

My mother (who has a pure, loving heart) doesn’t always embrace the truth. She often shades reality by suggesting it’s better than it is. I don’t know if she was in denial or if she was afraid that by facing the problems honestly, she would make them worse. This added to my confusion about lying and honesty.

Today, I hate lying, I pride myself on honesty; however, I’ve learned to be more loving in my approach. Every day, I’m conscious of the fact that I lived most of my adult life in denial of my reality and I need to be wary of doing it now.

I can’t stand a liar. I just figured out why today. What can I say? Sometimes I’m slow on the uptake.

My Experience with ADHD

I was gifted this amazing little boy from God.  His name is Fergus.  He has these amazing eyes, the color of almonds.  The sparkle with mischief and gleam with intelligence.  He is full of compassion for others and he’s curious about everything.  He doesn’t stop moving but he’s capable of slipping into super, super slow-motion when someone is waiting. 

For his first 4 1/2 years, it was just he and I.  Experiencing the world through his eyes with fresh curiosity and amazement was like a rebirth of sorts.  I didn’t have a radio in my car, so anytime we drove anywhere (which was often); we talked.  We talked like two adults.  Fergus had a very large vocabulary and an inquisitive mind when he started school. 

We didn’t have a lot of behavior problems prior to school.  He went through a biting phase and gave himself a concussion when he fell off the coat hook he was hanging on. 

His “behavior” problems started when he started school and my take on it is the schools had and have an expectation problem.  It is unreasonable to expect children as young as three years old to sit still, pay attention and behave perfectly for hours on end.  My opinion is that it’s unnatural.  Preschool was a nightmare. 

His Kindergarten teach was an amazing, loving and creative woman.  She called me to tell me he’d had a good day and I burst into tears of relief and joy.  She gave him a carpet square to use as an island and the classroom carpet was an ocean he couldn’t go into without drowning or being eaten by sharks.  It kept him from moving around her classroom and putting his hands on the other children. 

Fergus has always been a loyal person.  If you were his friend, he took that seriously and defended you if he deemed it necessary.  Which is how I got a phone call telling me he’d pushed another child off the top of the school’s playground slide.  That child had pushed his friend, so Fergus pushed him.  Off the slide.  Onto the ground, breaking the child’s backpack strap (when he tried and failed to catch him) but not injuring the child (thank God!).  I offered to pay for the backpack.

I took Fergus in to a mental health professional to be evaluated and he was diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD), which I’d never heard of previously.  I tend to question things and I seek out knowledge and proof.  I went to my local library and read everything they had on ADHD and ADD. 

As I read, I realized my son was being described and I was devastated that my perfect child wasn’t perfect.  Moreover, to my surprise, I realized that I fit the description even more readily than my child!  At the time, they believed there was a genetic component but it hadn’t been proved yet.  I’m convinced it’s genetic. 

Throughout the years, Fergus’ teachers would go on and on about how polite and likable he was.  Then, they started with the buts.  He can’t hold still.  He’s always touching others.  He doesn’t pay attention in class.  He doesn’t turn in his assignments.  He distracts the other students. 

Over the years, I’ve become convinced that ADHD and ADD run rampant in my family.  My mother and father both have associated behaviors.  Most of my siblings have characteristics of it.  Both of my sons have it.  Fergus has ADHD and Samson has Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), which is basically the thought problems without the hyperactive movements. 

I’ve never been diagnosed and I learned some great coping skills as a child.  Fergus had to be medicated before he was able to realize any kind of scholastic (behaviorally) success. 

All of the books I’d read told me not to expect a miracle pill, so I didn’t.  Imagine my surprise and sorrow when we switched medications and found a combination with dramatic results.  One after another, at the next parent-teacher conference; Fergus’ teachers remarked on what a difference there was in his behaviors.  It was PFM (Pure Fucking Magic).

At this point, I don’t think having ADHD is going to negatively affect my life. 

I Filed for Divorce

I joined the active duty Air Force. The sent me to Texas for basic training and then to California to my first duty station. The Rock called me while I was in basic training and told me all I had to do was tell my first sergeant I’d made a mistake, they’d release me, and we could continue our life together. I declined.

I was living in the barracks and enjoying the single life. I met a really nice guy on the dance floor at the Enlisted Members’ Club. We had a one-night stand and I got pregnant.

My parents told me The Rock showed up at their home in Arizona unannounced. He was traveling with a friend. He basically was trying to get them to climb on board his train of marital bliss for the two of us. They just needed to talk some sense into me. My dad Tom was home alone. He’s a retired highway patrolman. He offered The Rock coffee, then made sure he saw the handgun tucked in the back of his jeans as he reached to the top shelf for cream and sugar. The Rock and his friend left a short time later.

A day later, The Rock showed up at the base I was stationed at, without warning. I was about six months pregnant. He told me he wanted to reunite, and he would raise the baby as his own. We would be happily married for the rest of our lives. I couldn’t believe him. He had abused me throughout our marriage and now he wouldn’t? He would love another man’s baby and not abuse it? Right. I just couldn’t believe him. I told him I wasn’t going back to him and the only reason I hadn’t filed for divorce was because I didn’t have the money yet, because I was paying back my half of our debt. He continued to his new assignment in Alaska.

Three months later, I have the baby. A few days after I returned home, The Rock called me screaming at me because he wants me to take his name off the birth certificate. I tell him his name isn’t on it. It’s not and never was. I never considered putting him on it.

I file for divorce and it’s granted.

Red Flags to Avoid

As pervasive as abuse is, it’s important that we’re aware of red flags while we’re selecting our life partners. Better to completely avoid becoming entangled with an abuser. Survivors can easily connect with an abuser because we’re comfortable with the relationship dynamics with them. It’s what we know.

According to “Mending the Soul: Understanding and Healing Abuse” by Steven R. Tracy, the general characteristics of abusers include denial of responsibility, deceitfulness, harshly judgmental of others and calculated intimidation. I agree with this conclusion as it’s what I experienced at the hands of my abuser.

My evil step-father Dick was extremely judgmental. He seemed to hate everyone. He was misogynistic. He had nothing nice to say about women ever. He was also racist. Basically, it seems he hated everyone but himself and other pasty-faced white men. Yes, I still have a lot of animosity toward him. In retrospect, I think he was comparing himself to others and finding reasons so he could believe he was superior to them. At some level, he may have known his behaviors were wrong; however, he never had to look at his own shortcomings because he was busy badmouthing others for what he perceived as their problems.

We moved to a town which had a sign on its border which said (I apologize profusely) “No niggers, spicks, or chinks allowed.” He would say the “n*****” were trying to take over the world by interbreeding with white women. I was astounded by his ignorance. He would see a girl walking down the street and proclaim she was a whore and he could tell by the way she walked and dressed. He would tell me all women were alike if you turned them upside down.

My evil step-father Dick also used intimidation to keep myself and my siblings in line. I don’t remember Dick making any direct threats: I just felt this constant, overwhelming sense of dread. I knew I was going to be subjected to more abuse because my best was never good enough. I’m in a constant state of alert because I’m always expecting more suffering to come my way.

When it was time for a spanking, Dick would send me to get his belt. If I was crying, he would spank me until I stopped. If I was not crying when the beating began, he would spank me until I cried.

I wasn’t allowed normal emotions. I was allowed anger.

I split my knee open playing tag in the dark and was crying when I came inside the house. Dick was there and told me to stop crying or he’d let me bleed to death. I stopped. He put rubbing alcohol on my open wound; and I passed out from the pain.

He was always threatening to “wipe that look off your face” or “give you something to cry about.”

Abusers are master manipulators and use all kinds of strategies to trap their victims for as long as possible. I believed I had little to no power as a child. At 11 years old, I began planning my escape by trying to save up enough money to leave my childhood home. I believed that was the only solution.

People were always complimenting my parents for how well-behaved their children were in public. We were terrified of being beaten by Dick when we got home.

No one knew the truth. I didn’t know how to ask for help. When I finally tried, I was dismissed by a health care “professional” as a dramatic teen. My maternal grandmother sensed something was wrong but didn’t know how to ferret out the truth. What my childhood family showed the world was a lie.

“Over My Dead Body”

I was 15 years old and out to dinner with my family: mother Peony, step-father Dick, brother Adam, sisters Tammi and Rhonda.  We were at a Mexican restaurant set in our community’s small downtown. 

Our waitress had a beautiful tattoo and I couldn’t stop looking at it.  It was a beautiful flower nestled amid vines on the swell of her breast.  Gorgeous.  I announce that I wanted a tattoo when I got older. 

My mother announced, “Over my dead body! Or when you’re 18.”  (I used to think she was prudish because of these types of attitudes and comments.)

That gave me 3 years to think about what I wanted for my first tattoo. 

When I was 18 and away at Army training in Fort Gordon, Georgia, I walked to the local tattoo parlor on a Saturday morning and paid for my first tattoo.  It was $20 on my right buttock.  It was a black rosebud. 

It felt like my butt cheek had fallen asleep and was waking up with a million pins and needles in it.  I wore a one piece bathing suit and adjusted the leg hole so the artist could access the area I had chosen. 

A few months later and I’m home on leave.  I’ve met my first husband and we’re planning our wedding so my mother and I go shopping for a suitable dress.  We’re downtown again, in a fun little dress shop.  I’m in the very small, somewhat tatty dressing room.  My mom peeks over the top of the curtain and starts shrieking as she’s pointing.  I think I’m sharing space with a spider and I start spinning around looking for the little monster.  My mom finally blurts out, “What’s that?  On your body?” 

I realize she’s staring and pointing at my tattoo. 

That was many decades ago and I think I’m close to convincing her to get one with me. 

My First Library Card

I’ve always loved to read. 

My mother read to me while I was still in the womb.  She heard or read that by doing that, she would teach her child to love reading.  It worked for me. 

I don’t remember my exact age, but I do remember when I was allowed to get my first library card.  I was so excited!  My mom had been taking me to the library, but now I could walk to the library on my own and check out books with the help of the librarian. 

I felt so grown up!

I wasn’t allowed to choose a book from any section of the library, but I had access to as much as I could read. 

I was voracious. 

I visited the library frequently and read many, many books. 

The books opened up the whole world to me.  I could read about other cultures.  I could read about other countries.  I could read about subjects that piqued my curiosity. 

Books became a way for me to escape the reality of my abusive step-father Dick.  I would become so entranced in a book, he could stand right next to the chair I was sitting in and I wouldn’t hear him talking to me. 

I love to sit in the stacks and peruse the book covers for interesting titles.  Then I pare down my choices to a few select for me to take home and savor.  I can spend hours in the library.   

I’ve lived all over the country and had library cards everywhere I’ve lived.  In Georgia, I had no money so reading was inexpensive entertainment.  I read about Egyptian President Nasser and the Suez Canal.  When I lived in California, the library was an inexpensive source of entertainment for myself and my sons.  I enjoyed Stephen King, Aldous Huxley, and Nevada Barr,  We also read many African folktales including some narrated by James Earl Jones.   When I lived in Nebraska, I found books that taught me how to can produce from my garden.  When I lived in Washington state, I loved to wander the beautiful libraries looking for random reading material.  Since returning to Arizona, I’ve mostly read books to increase my knowledge about different topics, rather than purely for pleasure.  Unfortunately, my vertigo makes it very difficult to:  get to the library, see clearly enough to read, stay focused long enough to get past a page or two, and retain any new information learned.  Oh well.  I had a really good, really long run at one of my most favorite things to do. 

Thanks Mom.  Thanks for walking me up the stairs to the library entrance and allowing me to get my first library card.  Thanks for trusting me enough to allow me to walk myself to the library often.  Thank you for a gift of reading that I’ve cherished. 

Snow Day

Well, this is almost unheard of.  The forecast snow storm actually arrived.  My mother doesn’t like to drive in snow, so she had forewarned me there was impending inclement weather.   

Early this morning, she sent me a link to local traffic information which showed many road closures due to snow.  The city had already closed its offices for the day.  My brother works for the state and they hadn’t closed.  I let my brother know his boys could spend the day with me and was trying to decide whether or not they were going to have school at my house.  (The youngest has been doing his school at my mom’s for the last week and a half due to behavior issues which meant they needed to be kept apart.)  I began getting ready for their arrival.

An hour later, my mom sent a group text to my brother and I and our out-of-state sisters of her yard with five inches of snow and still falling.  I followed up with a photo from my front door.  My fun sister Tammi suggested we make snow angels.  I advised I do not want to touch the snow: I only like the way it looks.  My brother reported his boys were up at 6 am playing in the snow in his yard.  They did make snow angels.  He announced his office was closed for the day. 

Yay!  Now the boys get a real snow day to play!  I notified their online charter school.  Ours is an odd situation since they’re attending class online but not at my brother’s home.  We’ll have to catch up, but it’s worth it to have a rare day to play in this white stuff we almost never get. 

My brother added photos of his yard to the group message. 

I’m thinking I get a snow day too!  Hopefully.  My husband is horking (the sound he makes when he’s puking and nothing is coming up).  I’m thinking I’ll work on writing my blog and watch some scary flicks, maybe catch a few episodes of “Designated Survivor”. 

Three hours later, my mom reports her power is out.  Yikes!  We’ve already had two brown-outs, so I turn off what I don’t need.  I play nurse to my husband (I’m not very good at it): made him peppermint tea and oatmeal but he can’t hold anything down, brought him things he asked for and checked in on him while he slept.

I did watch two episodes of my series and two scary movies. I worked on my blog and actually enjoyed it instead of feeling like it was a chore.  I haven’t gotten dressed.  I ate homemade tuna salad on homemade bread for lunch (both made earlier in the week).  I snacked a bit here and there.  Our power never went out.  Yay!

I saw two cars drive past during the morning.  A little before noon, two more vehicles drove past.  The pickup stopped at a stop sign, then tried to turn right, couldn’t do it without sliding and skidding until he got some traction again.  Heard sirens approach and stop about a block away around mid-afternoon.  Have seen a few more vehicles drive past late in the afternoon.  It has stopped snowing.  The air temperature has increased to the point that it’s melting now. 

My mom reported their power was back on about five hours after it went out.  Mom and Dad had breakfast in their camper and listened to the news on their radio.  They’re fine and grateful. 

My family prayed for my husband and he got a good two hour nap.  He’s still not feeling well but at least he’s rested for the moment. 

I fed our little dog and she began whining because she wanted to be let into the side yard.  I let her out but she wouldn’t step off the covered concrete into the snow.  Pansy!  

I Was a Mixed-up Mess

We went to counseling with a Baptist minister. He told me everything was my fault because I wasn’t honoring my husband like the bible says I must, so my husband can do anything he wants. He is the head of the house and it’s my Christian duty to obey my husband. End of story.

He was sent on frequent temporary duty missions and was away from home a lot. We had a phone in the house, but I didn’t want to tell my mom the truth about what was going on. She and my evil step-father Dick were getting divorced; he abandoned her and his children and left town, so she was struggling financially. I didn’t want to be another burden to her. I entertained my husband’s “friends” while he was away. I did it because I was unhappy, abused by my own husband, trapped and angry. I did it. It was sinful and wrong. It was hurtful. I never admitted another affair. I loved him, but I had no idea how to be married. I had no idea how to have a conversation with him. I had no decent relationship skills. I tried but I was sorely lacking. So was my husband.

I worked in domestics at Montgomery Ward in Melbourne, Florida. I had a supervisor I really liked. She invited me to dinner at her home when my husband was away on duty. I met her husband and enjoyed a lovely meal. Then, she told me her husband wanted to get into the swinger lifestyle and they were wondering if either I or myself and my husband would like to join them in threesomes or foursomes. I declined. Later when she and I spoke privately, I explained to her it wasn’t a lifestyle I was interested in, at all. She apologized and told me her husband was unhappy in the marriage and pressuring her to invite her friends to join them in the bedroom.

Obviously, she and I confided in each other. I had told her about the physical abuse The Rock was often subjecting me to, and she was encouraging me to leave him. I felt trapped. I was raised to believe good girls were virgins when they married (I was not, thanks to my step-father). I thought of myself as a Christian and Christians don’t get divorced. I didn’t think I had anywhere to go, even though my mother would have welcomed me home. I was a mixed-up mess.

I’m Not an Effing Chair!

***WARNING: There is cursing in this one.***

It was early days in my 12 step meetings. I had gone from tentatively attending one each week; to attending multiple meetings a week on several different nights of the week. It may have been during a time when I was so desperate for change and serenity, that I was attending multiple meetings on the same day.

One person kept saying the same thing at meeting after meeting. (Over time, I realized I’m a slow learner when it comes to major insights into myself and God frequently uses at least three various avenues to teach me something or to get my attention.) I thought what he was saying was cute but not real helpful. Here’s the gist of it, “Just because someone calls you a chair, doesn’t make you a chair.”

And it finally hit me!

Just because my evil step-father called me stupid, ugly, unlovable, lacking in common sense, etcetera, did not make it true! All those years (and I’m talking decades) had passed, he had passed on, and I was still hearing his voice in my head saying those awful things to me.

I went home and thought about it. Was there any truth to the things he’d say about me? No. I got a three by five index card and a colorful marker and I wrote “I’m Not a Fucking Chair!” I taped the card to my bathroom mirror where I’d see it every day when I brushed my teeth.

I left it there for a year. Long enough for it to sink into my being. I rarely hear his voice anymore, but when I do, I respond to my step-dad like this, “I’m not a fucking chair and I never was.”

We Want a Different Outcome

I’m spending a lot of time with my nephews while they do schoolwork for their online charter school. It’s a blessing. They are 7 and 10 years old. They were not succeeding in a traditional brick and mortar school. I’m disabled due to vertigo and unable to work. I don’t have to run around chasing them, so it’s working out well.

I keep remembering my brother Adam at the age of 10. He would sit at our huge picnic-style dining room table working on his math homework. He would have tears streaming down his face. No matter how much time he spent working on it, it wasn’t good enough.

I don’t know why he was unsuccessful at picking up math concepts. I couldn’t see inside his mind. Did he have dyslexia? Were the numbers jumbled up? Did he miss a simpler concept prior to this, and therefore didn’t have the basics to support more complicated concepts? I don’t know.

My step-father Dick’s approach was to ridicule my brother. Ridicule is not quite right. He tormented my brother Adam. He told my brother he was stupid and wouldn’t amount to anything. He would pressure him to stop looking at the paper and just answer the question already. Dick told Adam he was lazy and that’s why he couldn’t do it, if he just put in the effort… It would go on and on.

All this from a man who dropped out of elementary school. He was uneducated and sounded like it. He was constantly using words he didn’t understand inappropriately.

I have no memories of trying to help Adam with his homework and I don’t know why. I could have tried to help him when Dick wasn’t around.

To try to help in the midst of Dick grinding Adam down verbally? No way! That would be putting a target on yourself and saying to Dick, “Me next! Be mean and hateful to me next!” We’d each had enough of that to last a lifetime.

I really wish I’d been able to do more to protect my siblings from Dick.

My 10-year-old nephew Nathan is struggling with math right now. He’s so frustrated and hopeless when it comes to schoolwork. I’ve had to explain to him that I love him, and I’m not trying to trick him or make him look stupid. He expects to be mistreated by me because I’m in the role of teacher. I continue to tell him I’m confident his grades can improve because they don’t currently reflect what he’s capable of doing. I DO NOT want to add to his frustrations. I don’t want to add to his negative self-talk.

He’s a great kid with an awesome sense of humor and a desire to please people. He loves his little brother fiercely.

I would like to help build his confidence in his ability to succeed. I’d like to step back and figure out why he isn’t getting it, so we can fill the gaps in his current education and continue to learn. I would like to encourage him to pursue learning new information about stuff that interests him.

Pray for me as I interact with this precious young man. Pray that I’ll do no harm to him in my imperfection. Pray that I’ll have eyes to see what he needs most each day.

I do NOT want to see the same defeat in Nathan’s eyes, which I witnessed in his father’s eyes.

A Summer in Georgia

After the break up with Willie, I was out of control.  My mom didn’t know what to do.  I felt worthless, unlovable, used up.  I began sleeping around and drinking to numb the pain.  My mom called my biodad and arranged for my sister Tammi and I to go visit him for the summer.   

My biodad lived in Georgia with his new wife Mini and their four children: Earl, Lizzie, Susan and Tommy.  They lived in governmental subsidized housing.  Beautiful brick homes in a lush, green setting with a wooded area where the neighborhood children played. 

Biodad left the house most days and I assume he went to work.  His wife stayed home with the children.  There wasn’t a lot of adult supervision. 

My sister Tammi and I stayed in the same room.  One morning Mini came into the room and breathlessly asked if we wanted to smoke a Thai stick.  I said sure.  She told me to go ask the garbageman for a lighter.  I ran off to catch the garbage truck before it left the neighborhood. 

I spent a lot of time that summer with siblings, new and old.  We hung out together in the woods.  Other teens were there pressuring Tammi into trying marijuana for the first time.  I took her aside and counseled her.  I told her if she wanted to try it, that’s one thing, go ahead but if she was just doing it because the others were telling her to, she didn’t have to and shouldn’t give in to peer pressure. 

I dated a young man in the neighborhood.  We hung out together and began having sex.  He gave me pills to take and I did, without knowing what they were.  He took me to the next state over to a seedy motel and tried to talk me into marrying him.  Thank God I chickened out. 

I was at my boyfriend’s house when the younger children came running to get me because my biodad was beating his wife Mini up.  I ran back to their house.  My biodad had Mini cornered in the living room and was punching her in the face.  I brought the children back outside and waited for the police to do their thing.  My biodad was arrested.  I’ll never forget Mini asking me, her 16 year old step-daughter what she should do.  I told her I’d never let a man beat me like that.  She replied that she loved him.  He had knocked her two front teeth through the flesh of her chin and she had a ragged, bloody gash from it. 

Grandma Pearl, biodad’s mom, came to get us and take us back to Indiana with her.  She took the girls, myself, Tammi, Lizzie and Susan.  She left the boys.  At some point, Mini spoke with my mother and told her I was out of control and could no longer stay there!  Grandma’s home was completely different, full of love and laughter, well kept, with family photos covering the living room wall. 

The first time Aunt Lizzie came to see us at Grandma’s, I asked her to check Susan’s hair for lice and told her that Susan frequently scratched her head.  Aunt Lizzie was a beautician and one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever known.  Aunt Lizzie checked but didn’t see anything.  Later, we were all watching television and Susan fell asleep on the floor in front of us.  She started scratching in her sleep.  I pointed it out to Aunt Lizzie.  When Aunt Lizzie checked again, she found them.  Hordes of them.  Tammi and I had them too. 

Grandma Pearl called Mini and told her about the lice.  Mini told Grandma it was no big deal, the kids get them every year.  Her solution was to shave the boys’ heads and put mayonnaise on the girls.  Lizzie and Susan went back home.  I remember sitting on the floor with newspaper in my lap while I ran the fine-toothed comb that came with the Quell shampoo.  The lice would fall onto the paper unmoving and after a little bit, they’d start to squirm.  Blech!  I cried and cried. 

I didn’t see my biological father again for 10 years. 

I Couldn’t Have Imagined This!

Thank You Father God!  With one plan, You’re blessing me, my nephews, my husband, my parents, and my brother and I’m sure the blessings spread beyond what I’ll ever know. 

It’s been a week and a half since I started coaching my nephews.  They’re 7 and 10 and were not succeeding in a traditional brick and mortar school.  I’m not here to bash teachers, there are good and bad apples in every barrel, but our education system is broken. 

I’d moved back to my hometown and was happily married.  My husband and I were attending a vibrant church with a loving Celebrate Recovery program.  I was working in child protection and we had more than adequate income and good health insurance coverage.  My husband was teaching me to hunt and I’d discovered it was fun to share his passion and I was reasonably good at it.  I envisioned us spending the rest of our lives loving each other, family, and forever family (fellow Christians).  I thought I was going to work right up to retirement.  All I wanted was God’s will for my life and I was asking him for a different job. 

The vertigo came on suddenly, taking me by surprise.  At first, I was just frustrated (I hate to be sick, period.)  I thought I’d be back to normal in a few days.  That hasn’t happened.  My health is preventing me from working and has basically turned me into a shut in.  I hate it.  I have no income.  I had to give up my position with the state because I couldn’t pay the health insurance premiums.  I can’t do normal things like house cleaning, grocery shopping, and personal care like I used to do; I have to find ways to accomplish these things with the help of family.  I felt like I wasn’t contributing to society.   

Because I haven’t been able to work for four months, the idea that I might serve as a Learning Coach appealed to me.  I was concerned I wouldn’t be able to do it, physically.  I want to be reliable.  After much prayer, much talk with my mother, and much research, I decided to commit to trying it out. 

Whoo boy!  My nephews are delivered to my home four mornings a week.  (I can’t drive right now.)  They’re always smiling and happy to arrive.  They each have a laptop and a seat at my dining room table and I sit between them while they do their online classes.  (Movement is a trigger.)  I clarify what needs to be done, answer questions, and try to keep them on task.  We eat a light, easy lunch:  sandwiches, pizza, leftovers, etc.  They don’t seem to notice when my symptoms get bad.  I hold still when I can, wall walk when I have to, lie down briefly when needed, and smile.  So far, so good.    

I’m blessed.  I get to contribute.  Even better than that, I get to spend time getting to know these marvelous young men.  I get to experience a wide range of emotions, including love (the younger nephew loves to hug and tell me he loves me, so sweet!), amusement (oh my gosh, they’re funny and the older nephew is exploring his gift of humor and testing what makes people laugh), boredom (yes, there are those moments when they’re both engaged in their lessons and I’ve nothing to do but wait), frustration (why can’t I find what I need easily on the school’s website?), fearful (can I handle this?), exhausted (sometimes I almost fall asleep during breaks and I’m not as productive on the weekends), grouchy (side effect of health issues and I try to keep it to myself), joyful (I love these guys!), optimistic and proud (it’s an amazing feeling when you realize they got a concept they were struggling with or are learning how to be students).  

My nephews are blessed to be taking online classes with teachers that are assigned to them, using technology to learn in a world that is technology-driven, with an aunt who loves them sitting next to them giving them tons of attention and love, and a family who loves them and works together to give them the best we can.   

In just a week and a half, I’ve been so challenged and I’ve learned so much about my nephews, my family, teachers, and myself.  I can’t wait to find out what will happen next!

“Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.”                                    Ephesians 3:20

Troll Assault

I met Willie in high school.  I fell hard.  I professed to be a Christian but I didn’t trust God and was doing my own thing while giving God lip service.  Willie wasn’t a Christian.  He asked me to have sex with him.  I thought it over and told God, “I love him and I’m going to marry him so it’s okay for us to have sex now.”
A little while after we began having sex, I got pregnant.  I was terrified.  I told Willie and he said “Okay, let’s get married.”  I told him we were too young.  I miscarried a few days later, so we didn’t marry or even tell anyone about it. 
Willie had taken me to a party out in the desert.  There was a lot of alcohol drinking going on and I’m sure even some drugs.  Willie was drinking.  I don’t remember if I was but I don’t believe my judgment was cloudy if I did drink.  I didn’t start drinking heavily until after the following incident occurred.
Willie was a fighter and someone had told him a fellow student he had a beef was at the party.  Willie told me he was going to have his friend give me a ride home.  I was disappointed but Willie is not the kind of person you argue with. 
Instead of taking me home, Willie’s friend Troll parked in the desert and sexually assaulted me.  During the assault, all I could think about was Willie is going to be so pissed.  I had no idea how to stop it.  Due to childhood sexual abuse, I had no boundaries and no idea that I could say “no” forcefully and perhaps stop what was being done to me.  Part of me believed I deserved it. 
The next night, I told Willie what happened while I cried and cried.  Afterward, I clung to Willie as if my life depended on him. I knew he was the man I would marry.  I knew I would love him until my last breath.
I don’t know what lies Troll told Willie, but Willie and he showed up at my home one night a short time later.  Willie was drunk, banging on my window, and calling me names like “whore” and “slut”.  Troll was standing next to him egging him on.  I was devastated but I didn’t want Willie to get in trouble, so I asked him to leave and told him we could talk when he was sober.  He asked me to come out to talk to him. 
I headed to the front door, but my step-father Dick was standing next to the front door against the wall and he told me to go back to my room.  As I returned to my room, I saw my mom standing in her bedroom door.  I went in my room, went back to my window, and told Willie he needed to leave before my step-father called the police and we could talk the following day.   
I felt like I was a worthless, unlovable failure and I attempted suicide.  My behavior was out of control.  I started drinking all day and night, skipping school, and sleeping around.  My mom sent me to visit my biodad in Georgia, with my sister Tammi.  It was the first time we’d met our biodad. 
A few months later, I heard Willie had been in a motorcycle accident and was severely injured.  I called him and we finally spoke, but he told me he hated me and never wanted to speak to me again and seemed to be planning to commit suicide.
My heart hurt so bad, I pushed the memories and feelings deeply into my subconscious and Willie became a high school crush  who I thought had died after a motorcycle accident. 
I will love Willie until my last breath. 

My Understanding Keeps Changing, He Doesn’t

I’ve believed in God for as long as I can remember.  My step-father taught me not to trust Him.

As a child, I understood God to be an angry man who hated me and wanted to punish me because He believed I was unlovable and unworthy. I believed this because my step-father was this way and he claimed to be a Christian.

In my mind’s eye, God was an old white man with a white beard and sandals.  He was red-faced with fury, hate and retribution.  He was looking forward to punishing. I was a sinner.  My best wasn’t good enough and He enjoyed tormenting me before He punished me.  I couldn’t trust Him.

After I started working a 12 step program, and had heard others describe their “Higher Power” as a tree or a group, I felt encouraged by God to see “My Higher Power” as a big, dark-skinned woman who gave the best hugs.  She smelled of yeast, cinnamon, vanilla and honeysuckle.  She was waiting for me in the kitchen, ready to listen to me pour out my troubles. She always had enough time.  She loved my sense of humor and was quick to laugh with me.  She made me feel loved and accepted.  She created me to be uniquely me.  I could trust Her.

I later read a copy of “The Shack” by William P. Young and was moved to tears by the author’s description of God.  I took it as confirmation that I was on the right path in my own journey toward learning to trust God again.

Today, God is my loving Creator who created everything out of nothing.  He desires a relationship with me, and every other human being.  God is love.  I am a sinner.  He has redeemed me by providing a plan for his son, Jesus Christ to die for me and all other sinners. 

My understanding of God continues to change and I trust the longer I seek His will for my life and read His scriptures, the more He will reveal about who He is and the more I’ll be able to comprehend.  He is not changing.  I can trust Him forever because He doesn’t change; however, my understanding keeps on growing.

“God is not human, that he should lie, not a human being, that he should change his mind. Does he speak and then not act?  Does he promise and not fulfill?” Numbers 23:19

“Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” Hebrews 13:8 

I pray for the same for you. 

The Most Important Thing About Me

As we’re getting to know each other, I feel it’s important to tell you the most important thing about me.

I love God! I have a personal, unique relationship with God! I’m HIs daughter. He has redeemed me through the sacrifice of His Son Jesus and I’ll be spending eternity with Him, in Heaven, when I leave the earth behind. He is healing me and using my brokenness to further His will.

I grew up in a “Christian” home. My mother and my step-father Dick both professed to be Christians. My mother’s actions were Christ-like. My step-father’s actions were evil. God intends for Christians to demonstrate to other people what He looks like through them. When they don’t behave in Christ-like ways, it skews the perceptions of those who are observing.

My step-father was not trustworthy and I mistakenly believed God wasn’t trustworthy either.

I accepted Christ as my Savior in the 3rd grade. I don't know how many times I was baptized: my home church, vacation bible school, church camps. I still wasn't perfect, so I didn't think it worked. I prayed asking God to fix my childhood home and nothing improved so I believed God didn't really love me and had failed me.

When I was 11, I remember God calling me to follow Him and be obedient to Him. I didn't trust Him so I told God I would do things my way.

God can use anyone. I have a girlfriend who didn't believe in God and He used her to tell me I might be codependent and might benefit from attending a 12-Step group.  God spoke to me in those rooms and I slowly let Him into my life and began to trust Him. I began to follow His promptings.

In 2015, I started attending church regularly and was deeply impacted by Christians who loved and accepted me. On August 23, 2015 I went to a church dinner. There was an invitation to accept Christ at the end of the evening and I couldn't get my hands up fast enough when asked if I wanted to make a decision to follow Christ. I wasn't getting saved again. I was surrendering to Christ for the first time.

I am convinced God loves and accepts me and I can trust Him with my life. 

These verses describe the change in me. "Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God-this is your true and proper worship. Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is-his good, pleasing and perfect will." Romans 12:1-2.

My Inception and Biodad Introduction

I’ve lived a long time and am in a really good place today.  A lot has happened over the last five decades and I need to give you some history so you have a chance to understand my story. 

It was early 1964 in Indiana.  My mom Peony was a beautiful, shy 16 year old from a farming family rooted in Christian values.  My parents attended the same school.  Girls at their school thought my father Thomas was very handsome and quite the catch.  Dad was a “bad boy”.  Grandma Jones tried to talk Mom out of dating him but Mom rebelled.  I don’t know how long my parents dated before the following transpired, but I do know he was Mom’s first love.  Dad professed to love Mom until his death in 2017.

Dad asked Mom to go to a party at the lake with him.  I don’t know the specifics about the party.  Mom told him she could only go if her mother allowed her to attend.  Mom thought Grandma would say no because it would mean missing church.  To Mom’s surprise, Grandma Jones said yes.  I was conceived at that party and was born on December 15, 1964. 

My parents married in my grandparents’ living room after Mom got pregnant but before my birth.  Neighbors of my grandparents rented a farmhouse to my parents.  Dad’s parents had steady factory jobs and got him a good job too.  My birth was followed shortly by another pregnancy and my sister Tammi was born.  Dad never paid their rent on time because he preferred to spend his money on himself. 

Grandma Jones came to visit one day and Dad wasn’t home.  Grandma asked Mom where Dad was and Mom told her he went to buy cigarettes three days prior and hadn’t returned.  Dad had a problem; he’s rather drink, fish and hunt than work or take care of his family.  Grandma told Mom to pack up and took the three of us back to her farmhouse.  Grandma Jones called her attorney and started divorce proceedings for Mom. 

I was unaware the father listed on my birth certificate wasn’t my biological father until I asked Mom why I had three grandmothers instead of two.  I didn’t meet my biodad until I was 16 years old.  Mom has been married to two other men; my wicked step-father and my dad.  The wicked step-father was Mom’s second husband and you’ll get to know him.  My dad is Mom’s current and third husband.  He’s an amazing man whom I cherish in my life.  I call him Dad and refer to him as Dad in conversation.  This is why my biological father is relegated to the title of Biodad in conversation.  Are we clear?