Love Song, IV — Mystery

continued from Love Song, III — Death

She sat across from me, knuckles clasped white except for streaks of mascara swiped from her cheeks.  She didn't know why she came; she'd stopped to turn around many times. But here she was. No coffee, thanks.

"I was given up for adoption at birth." Words trembled between shaky lips. "When I was 14, my parents who adopted me put me back in the children's home. I found my biological mother and went to live with her. But then she kicked me
out . . ."

Her life spilled in fragments through chattering teeth. By the time Hannah turned 27, she'd been married and divorced twice, had an abortion, given a daughter up for adoption, birthed three other children, been in and out of rehab, and became an alcoholic. But years of hardcore drug use made it hard to remember things. "And I also died," she said. "I overdosed on heroin and the only reason I'm alive now is because my boyfriend knew to stick me in a tub of ice and shock me back. But I was dead. I really was. That's another reason why I can't think straight." She showed me her arms, crisscrossed and sculpted by life, each a story of blade, of pain. "But I'm a neat freak. And I love to sew." She showed me a quilted coin purse, dark and eclectic. "I sew all the time. It keeps me focused." She looked at me with tears. "Can I give you a hug?" she asked, almost shyly. "Thank you for listening." Then like a fragile doe, she bolted away and I never saw her again.

I went home and cried for hours.

Sisters of Sorrow

Children born within a Quiverfull or religious, conservative family have the reassurance of knowing we are, above anything else, wanted. This is a fundamental element of a Quiverfull life. Yet I wonder how many of us sometimes feel, deep down, more like Hannah? Given up at birth. Rejected by her adoptive family, then yet again by her biological mother. Married and divorced ~ not once, but twice.

Not good enough.
Not good enough.
Not good enough.

Unwanted. 

Roots of Darkness

The pressure to look like a godly woman, controlled by performance-based love, acceptance, or approval, is nothing less than a death sentence for many girls raised within a fundamentalist environment. For example, you are probably familiar with this simple directive: "Smile." Or its twin siblings: "You need to smile more," and "Turn that frown upside down!" We learn at an early age what emotions are acceptable, and which are not. We learn to reveal only that which is positive, "godly." Yet when truth whispers otherwise, when reality is that we want or need to cry, or rage, or be spontaneous, and yet we stifle what is real in favor of what looks better, what looks Christ-like, what looks like a godly, joyful spirit, what does that do to our hearts? This form of fake-it-til-you-make-it is deceptive. And deception does not lead to healing, nor to life.

We read the words of Jesus, "The truth will make you free," and yet as we strive and struggle to attain the level of perfection established for us, required of us ~ freedom grows distant. This is cognitive dissonance in its most disturbing form. It is confusion, for it is done in the name of God who is not the author of confusion, but of peace. What is peace? It is the state of being at rest. And in the furious trampling of the ancient paths, worn down by the Pharisees of old, rest came not to my weary soul. 


A Depressed Perfectionist Finds Grace

I've carried Hannah with me now for years; she's etched on my heart as her cries echoed my own.
Not good enough. Not loved for who I am. Not accepted "as is". There was always more I could be. More I should do. Things I ought to do. The shoulds and oughts of life tormented me daily, hourly. Despite what I heard, what messages conveyed, what was real to me is that I, an ungodly, full-of-the-flesh blight of the earth, needed to be cut off from life, broken down, remolded, smothered.

There is a reason I've titled this series "Love Song", but more accurately it is a mystery. My spiritual journey, a story longer than time allows here, culminated one beautiful starry night when Love came home. But first, first my childhood dream would come true.

I had to die.
To be continued: conclusion

Love Song, III—Death

 . . . continued from Love Song, II
God, why did I have to be born? I just want to die . . . 

A deeply Christian, teenage girl who wants to die is not a simple soul to explain. As a little girl, I was relatively "good" in the sense that I yearned to please and could not bear to be in the wrong, to be guilty. My sensitive nature sent me to tell my parents when I needed a spanking. As a young woman, I was not "rebellious" as many define typical teenage angst; I struggled with things like being patient and sweet to my younger siblings, trying to say and do all the right things, and with severe depression because no matter what, I felt as though I never measured up to what my parents wanted—I was too artistic, too dreamy, too worldly in their eyes. But, “I don’t know why you are so depressed," they said. "You shouldn’t feel that way. You are just reacting from the flesh.” 

The flesh, which we were to crucify with all its desires. The flesh, which made it impossible to please God.  The flesh, the old man which needed to die.

I blamed only myself for not meeting the implied ideal, and cursed the stupid "flesh" which haunted every moment of  living. I was the one who "had different values", who was "going a different direction". I felt like a failure, a disappointment as I set a "bad example" for those who looked up to me in all things. My years became an endless cycle of trying, failing, religious effort, and trying again. I grew weary while life dimmed.

Dreamy and emotional, my artistic little girl soul craved life—but even more so, the assurance of love.

I’m trying to think of something I can do to make dad love me for reasons other than the fact that I’m just his daughter. There is nothing about me, other than me being his child, that he would love me more than say, if Jane Doe was his daughter. It’d be the same. I wish I could make him proud of me, something other than being his daughter. What I’m saying probably doesn’t make sense. I can’t describe it. But there’s nothing extraordinary or uniquely lovable about me, his daughter, that anyone else wouldn’t get just the same if I was non-existent, and someone else was his 1st daughter.


But lately I’ve caused too much stress. Like the mistake I made the other day . . . that was the pits, and dad admitted that he was disappointed in me and I should know better than that. I am so immature, I stink. I want to do better. I pray and pray but I don’t change. It’s frustrating. I better change the subject before I start to cry. I’m so fat. I’m so immature. There’s nothing outstanding about me. I’m so ugly inside. At least God loves me. And I know mom and dad do, it’s just that other than the fact I’m their daughter, I haven’t given them any reason to love me. I’m trying to think of something.

Love Song, II—Shadows

 . . . continued from Love Song, I
"We ought to obey God, rather than men. Even when He hands us the crucifix and bids us Come. 
And so we come, and die."

People always asked me if I wanted a large family. “You gonna have ten kids too?” A relevant question—falling on shadowed heart. “Well, probably not ten . . . ” I let trail off with a smile. I used to say I'd done everything a mother has, except give birth. While I’m sure that’s not the case, living in close quarters with several younger siblings afforded me much practice for mothering. I tried not to complain, but it left me exhausted. At sixteen, I wrote in my journal:

I hate myself. I am a jerk. Mom acts as though I hate the kids. I am such a rotten person. Mom told me how I have lost all my patience with the kids, that I am not patient anymore. I try so hard. What will it take? I try and pray and instead of improving, get told I have gotten worse! I’m so discouraged. I hate being impatient with them. I know I am sometimes. But it must be all the time, because mom says what she said. I’ll never become better. It’s so frustrating and it hurts. I wish I was so gentle and sweet and mom never had a reason to say anything like that. I hope God can use me. Use me, this clump of imperfection! This mess of impatience! This blob of sin!

As a perfectionist first born, my perceived failures as a sister and daughter, as “Happy Helping Hillary” fueled intense depression. Name-calling was not allowed, of course, yet subtle labels stung worse than petty words. Bossy. Impatient. Frivolous. Worldly. Dreamy. Impractical. All were bad. “You aren’t good enough,” messages sneered. The harder I tried to measure up, the louder they shrilled.

Sanctuary

We lived in a land far away, my sisters, brothers and I. At least it seemed so; surrounded by acres of field and wood, we scoured every inch of ground and knew every rut forged by deer. In spring, we exulted upon the Bridal Path—a dark, verdant knoll plush with ferns waist-high, fringed by Dogwoods dripping white blossoms. In summer our feet sank into gripping sands of the Sunny Meadow, which we raced across to pet horses who eyeballed us from neighbor’s pasture.

When we discovered a steep, long hill perfect for flying down on bikes, we rose at dawn and fought dewy webs of spiders who wove all through the night a mystical corridor, which caught our faces as we rode through. And after we dashed back to the frantic calls of parents who woke to find us vanished, the spiders sighed and shook their heads in despair, rolled up their sleeves, and set to work again.

Years and years we dwelt there, a sanctuary with shadows.

I knew where to go, when shadows lengthened, and darkness ached. You could always find me within the pine. Warm, fragrant silence emanated from serene timbers which anchored our land. We swayed in unison with summer, these trees and I, sharing a common bond, with our heads in the clouds. Lush branches with flowing green tresses hid me lovingly, inviting me to stay for long, lazy moments and dream, unrestrained. Home to a billion cicadas and the mournful cry of the whippoorwill, they regally presided while my child-fingers scrawled thousands of pages in my little books. They asked no questions, kept all secrets glimpsed over my shoulder.

I turned and returned to that safe place; I lay on soft, velvety needles while catching twinkles of sapphire sky. It winked at me and gently teased, spurring jealousy—for that great blue expanse did not know her fortune, to live next to God.

On this day, wind blew softly, warmly. My elbows bore tell-tale crisscross from leaning on the ground when I rolled to my stomach and picked up my journal. My eyes drifted “up there” while I scribbled. God, why did I have to be born? I just want to die . . .

 . . . to be continued.

Me, Myself, and Shame

Why is it when someone uses our names in conversation, it is usually for emphasis in a negative way? I can still hear mine rolled out like it was a thousand times . . . “Hil-la-ry!”

“Don’t be so defensive, Hil-la-ry!”

Here is an entry from my journal, from a time I was about sixteen years old.

I just feel kind of alone right now. I feel bad because dad said I responded defensively to something he said, which I really am trying not to do. I did not feel defensive, mean to sound defensive, or even have a single reason to be defensive. So it is discouraging.

I try to let it go when he gets frustrated at me, but it’s like, he is always getting onto me for how I react to something he says. If I try to explain why I may have said something a certain way or reacted in a certain manner—he shuts me off as being defensive.

I am trying to be patient. But it makes me cry and grit my teeth and sometimes long for when I can be out on my own and not have to deal with it. Wrong attitude I know. But it’s getting so that I don’t know how to say anything without it “sounding defensive”. And even if the total concept of self-defense never even occurs to me, dad still often perceives and treats me like I’ve reacted defensively.

It hurts and is discouraging and is really unfair of him. I can’t avoid talking to him—I don’t want to not talk to him. But sometimes even casual conversation is difficult because I’m just waiting for him to pounce on something and label it defensive. It’s like he expects it, is looking for it. I don’t know what to do. Just be very patient and continue trying to watch myself and let things go. He’s probably under a lot of stress and is taking it out on me or something. I hope I can get better, be better. God, help.

This is one glimpse out of a thousand other moments that stacked like bricks in a wall around my soul. The shame of feeling as though I never measured up—the very core of who I was as a person: thoughts, dreams, ideas, interests, being—constantly under attack and criticism, and the labels slapped like curses across my face, all compounded my confusion and torment.

It is no wonder that self-deprecation became my forte—almost as though my agreement with the perceptions of others towards myself somehow, in a very sick way, gave me something in common with them. Common ground produces camaraderie and temporarily relieves some of the pressure, eases tension, and numbs the sting. Yet just as we speak out of the abundance of the heart, my self-deprecation poured out of a heart overflowing with shame.

Women who have been trained by shame often become very needy. I know that I did; codependence overtook me like a wall of water, soaking every inch. Are you mad at me? Do you really like it, or are you just saying that? We need lots of reassurance; when we learn that you are truly sincere, we become infatuated with making you happy. Many times this can lead to poor choices in relationships and exhaust well-meaning friends.

Women with shame-based identities often become perfectionists. Knowing we can’t please everyone paves the way for desperation, and we try harder. If only parents and others understood the sheer condemnation we place upon ourselves! No matter what shameful message we hear, our own becomes the most savage. In the end, we still aren’t satisfied because regardless, we cannot please anyone, ourselves included—much less God. And so, darkness settles in—a consuming darkness that can take many forms, including addiction, depression, suicidal fantasy, and other devastating manifestations.

I could have done better. I don’t even deserve to live. No one would miss me if I were gone. I only cause problems for others, and make life harder on the people I love. It would be better for them if I didn’t even exist. I should show them how much I love them, and take myself out of the way. Then I wouldn’t hurt them anymore. Then there would be more time for the other kids. More attention to go around. Then I won’t be a burden. I won’t be the “worldly one” corrupting all the others with my evil ideas. They won’t have to worry about my bad “influence”. I don’t know why God made me. I am just a bad person who should have never been born.

These lies, conceived by the enemy and birthed by shame, require the cleansing, healing grace, mercy and deep, overwhelming love of our Heavenly Father.

For you see your calling, brethren, that not many wise according to the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are called. But God has chosen the foolish things of the world to put to shame the wise, and God has chosen the weak things of the world to put to shame the things which are mighty; and the base things of the world and the things which are despised God has chosen, and the things which are not, to bring to nothing the things that are, that no flesh should glory in His presence. But of Him you are in Christ Jesus, who became for us wisdom from God—and righteousness and sanctification and redemption—that, as it is written, “He who glories, let him glory in the LORD.”(1 Corinthians 16)

This love, embodied in the One who is the Way, Truth, and Life, waits longingly to heal the shame that keeps us locked, frozen in darkness.

Come to Me, He says. For I will heal your heart.

He has abundantly healed mine.

Stolen Years

John 10:10 The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.

Life.

Abundant life.

This is often marked within the world—the religious world, even—as prosperity and blessing. Many denominations preach that abundance is indicative of our status with God, that He has found favor with our actions . . . whether they be tithing, donating to charity, homeschooling, or ensuring that our left hand knows what our right is doing. Some believe that this life means we have found peace, that we can finally "relax" and enjoy the fruits of faithfulness. Others eschew this concept, believing that asceticism is the key to true holiness.

What is abundant life?
How many of us can truly say that we are hereby deeply refreshed?

I believe that we begin with our hearts genuinely in the right place—desiring to walk obediently to He who calls us by name. This desire sets our feet in motion and launches a quest for discovering what pleases our Lord. Sadly, it is all too easy to become swept away by the shackles of religion, becoming ensnared along the way.

"The thief," John says, "Comes to steal, kill and destroy."

This destruction is not unlike that of the swarming locusts, who can descend on a lush, ripe garden and in moments, strip away every tender leaf, each verdant tendril—leaving a brown, barren plot of earth in their wake. In a short instant, all of the careful nurture is gone to naught; months of planning and careful work, obliterated; a future of darkness and hunger looming with frightening reality.

Dear one, does this epitomize your heart? Do you feel stripped of the spring of life that should throb and course within? Do you feel as though your deepest feelings, hopes, dreams, and thoughts have been strangled by the crushing weight of bondage and oppression? Has your spirit become a dry wasteland and a lifeless wilderness? Does the hot, suffocating wind of annihilation steal away the refreshing gentle breeze of the breath of God?

I was born upon this path.

Many of you have written to ask for more of my personal story. Many of the particulars are included in my book, Quivering Daughters, which is still unfolding (hence any infrequency in blog posting—I am working diligently to get it wrapped up quickly!). However, today as we celebrate the resurrection of our Saviour, I am reminded just how miraculously He brought me back from death myself—rescuing me from the way of destruction and setting my feet upon the path of life. I praise Him with every breath for His grace and mercy!

The following is a portion of a letter I wrote recently.

My personal background was drenched in Scripture. I read and memorized the Bible on my own, daily, sometimes 2 or even 3 times a day—in addition to family Bible time. I am grateful for this, because the words are drilled into my core, which helps me now.

However, as I began to desire as an adult to truly grow and heal and question and wrestle with many of the things that occurred, experiencing loads of shame and guilt—not only hearing my father's voice while I read my Bible, but hearing his voice when others prayed, or seeing my mother's disapproving face, or hearing my own conscience speak to me in her voice—I became aware that this was very unhealthy enmeshment which I was desperate to overcome.

. . . The long-story-short version is that I stopped everything. I withdrew from society, from everyone really except for my husband and one or two trusted friends and mentors. I stopped reading my Bible. I know that this sounds blasphemous. However, I have discovered that when someone uses something inherently good—like the Bible—as a tool for abuse, it becomes essential to distance one's self from this and heal.

The truth is, I didn't want to view the Bible or God as abusive like I had been conditioned to believe; I still loved God with all my heart and knew that beneath it all, the god I thought I knew was not the true God . . . so for me, I had to in a sense, undergo a spiritual "de-tox". It is not unlike a de-programming regime for those who exit cultic groups.

During this time, which lasted nearly a year (some suggest that it can last usually up to 18 months), I determined that I wanted to decide what to believe for myself, and not because I was told that it was true (due to elements of religious abuse and mind control)—and was willing to let go of everything I had ever been taught. I still clung to Jesus and His work on the cross, for I knew deep within that He is the Way, Truth, and Life. Anything besides Him I shed off of me like a fur coat on a summer day.

This quest launched a journey that has literally changed my life. This has become the backdrop of my book, but let me fast-forward to say that as God healed me from my past, the hurts and religious abuse, the emotional wounds, everything—suddenly, honestly without me even trying, the Bible came alive to me again! I could read it freely, without pressure or hearing other voices in my head. I was understanding and seeing things I had never seen before, in light of God's transforming work in me. My Scriptural foundation proved to be a huge blessing because I was able to build upon it and not start from scratch. My biggest "rule" for myself was not to read it because I felt like I "had to". I chose not to listen to the accusing voice of false guilt if there was a day that went by and I didn't read it.

Slowly, a true relationship with God, based on my BEING and not DOING or TRYING began to blossom and I have truly fallen in love with Him in a way that is so personal and so far from "religion" that it saddens me to see so many oppressed by religious doings.

This journey also showed me God's nature—yes He is a jealous God, and judgment belongs to Him. However, for me, the key is balance. So many from fundamentalist backgrounds show a very imbalanced view of God. I had to re-learn everything; knowing His love was the hardest for me because as one of 11 children I could not understand how I could be loved in any special way that wasn't the same as everyone else. "God loves everyone" I would say and shrug like, so what?

If I were to suggest anything, I would recommend that you start simply with Jesus. He says, "No one comes to the Father except through Me." Start with Him—and He is the one who says, "Nor does anyone know the Father except the Son, and the one to whom the Son wills to reveal Him. Come to Me, all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light." Matthew 11

If the god you serve does not fit this description—offering rest, who is gentle and humble, whose burdens are light—you are serving a false god who leads unto destruction. The enemy has come to kill, steal, and destroy—and how often does that truly describe how we feel? Is this life, that we truly live? "I have come that they may have life," Jesus said, "And that, more abundantly!"

It requires faith, certainly. But start with the Son of God, and let Him lead you to the Father.

This is what it means to have life, abundant—to live freely, knowing that God has accepted you and loves you as His child, created in His image, aside from the law and aside from the religious efforts that we put forth! Can you imagine life like this? To truly know what it is to be loved and accepted for who you are, not what you do? To be loved based on who you are, and not how well you perform? Or how "holy" you appear? To be wanted and desired, regardless of your mistakes and imperfections which torment you daily? To be able to lay aside every weight that hinders, to run with endurance knowing that your faith, even if it is a small as a tiny seed, pleases God?

Matthew 27:54 So when the centurion and those with him, who were guarding Jesus, saw the earthquake and the things that had happened, they feared greatly, saying, “Truly this was the Son of God!”

I am humbled and in awe of the mercy, grace, and faithfulness of God who has brought me forth from the way of destruction and set my feet upon the path of life. It is here that I fall to my knees and say truly, this man is the Son of God!

Joel 2:25
“ So I will restore to you the years that the swarming locust has eaten, The crawling locust, The consuming locust, And the chewing locust, My great army which I sent among you.

It is here, in this place, that He has conquered death and restored the stolen years.

Our Lord has risen! Glory to His Name!

The Myth of "Normal"

When I was young, I envied those who told breath-catching testimonials of how they came to Christ. I  listened, enraptured, to stories featured on our local religious radio station and dreamed of how thrilled God must be with these dramatically-acquired souls. Many met Him in death-defying places; others spoke of time in prison or gang life, and how God transformed them into amazing teachers or evangelists of the gospel. I hung on every word, and then slowly returned to the dishes or laundry or the care of my younger siblings—my own daily reality.

My parents said that I always wanted adventure—an observation implying bad, branding me with the label "discontent".

In hindsight, I think that I wanted to matter. We read Martyr’s Mirror, and my thoughts drifted to foreign lands, where somehow I took the place of innocent young women patiently waiting their fates—my fate—while remaining faithful and devoted to God. And while sore fingers scratched page after page of stories in faded gray pencil, my characters reflected the inner angst that yearned to do something great for God—something glorious, that made Him say, “Well done.” I wanted approval. I wanted that certain air of pride that comes, not from selfish ambition, but rather from the sense that “She’s mine. And that is a good thing.” I wanted to matter, to have a purpose, and to make a difference—yet it seemed that every day was exactly the same.

This post has been on my mind for some time. In every movement and every culture—religious or otherwise—there are extremes. Within the homeschooling, conservative, and Quiverfull world, there are some families who go to great lengths to observe dogmatic, legalistic, and austere patriarchal standards. These are the ones who often gain national attention as the waves of public interest ebb and flow, inciting controversy and awareness of "peculiar" lifestyles and beliefs.

However, there are others within this Christian sub-culture—typical, traditional families, with perhaps a few non-mainstream practices. Not often found on the covers of magazines or the subject of articles or books, many are still well-known and well-liked within their church and community. Perhaps they aren't dresses-only; some do not live on a farm, others might have "only" 3 or 4 children. Some home-school, yet participate in local sports or other extra-curricular activities. Those who relate will understand clearly.

No one has hurt me, so why do I feel hurt?

Daughters within these conservative yet non-extreme households face a unique challenge that I believe is not shared by their more dogmatic sisters. Many of the same emotional and spiritual struggles which arise from this lifestyle impinge them as well, but with a twist that can potentially crush life from the spirit.

These young women feel that since their external situation or lifestyle is not that "bad", it would be fraudulent to acknowledge the mystifying internal effects that such an upbringing can have. They embrace denial rather than admitting pain. Using phrases such as, "Well, that doesn't apply to me," or "That's not how it happened in my family" tends to dismiss deep, lurking, real hurts which need the healing touch of Christ.

A lovely young wife and mother writes:

“. . .my story was far from extreme, yet I have the same wounds from the same lies as the extreme cases. But they're harder to identify. My parents said things like "You have a rebellious heart", "You're going to lead all your siblings astray", "If this were God's will for you, He would tell us", " You should want to spend time with your family more than your friends", " You're too independent" etc. They used guilt and the Bible to keep me from going to college, from getting married . . .Then when I still chose to do those things, they acted like I had rejected God and our family. We were forced to wear dresses because "beauty is dangerous and you could defraud your brother". And on it went. Yet, on the outside, we didn't look too different, except for our dress. My dad was a teacher in the church and my mom very active in our church community. They counseled many families and many marriages. We went everywhere and had every opportunity you could imagine. But on the inside, our hearts were broken and there was much fear, shame, and guilt.”

The myth of “normal”

It is an identity crisis. The roots are the same—shame, fear and guilt—but they are made much more insidious by the choking fog of confusion. How can you acknowledge something you can’t identify? How do you verbalize something you can’t explain or understand? It is like watching blood slowly trickle down your arm and yet not find a scratch or mark. This is very disorienting—there is no apparent source. One is left troubled and aching, without knowing why—and especially not knowing how to address the issue and seek healing.

Those who have born years of emotional and spiritual abuse, neglect, shame, and depression find it easier to brush all aside when external factors do not make sense. It is easier to succumb to pressures that insist you are making it all up, that you are crazy and imagining things, or that the problem lies within you. The reality of alone-ness is compounded knowing that those closest to your family would not believe you, if you told them what you feel and what has been said or done; when you consistently hear, "What good kids you have!" gushed to your parents; when your family is held up as a model of virtue or shining example; when your parents think you are either over-dramatic or simply can't understand your own conflicting emotions. This internalizes, and places another layer of shame and confusion upon a slowly withdrawing heart. It must all be me--hormones, or something, you might tell the pain which dwells within, effectively shutting her up for one more day.

When we strip all away, a foundation rife with falsehoods can be often found at the core of our being. Believing these lies exacerbates all of the problems; until the light of Jesus illuminates error and transforms the heart, symptoms will only grow worse. Possible lies which may become ingrained into one's mind—and therefore blanketed across every element of life—could be:

• Physical abuse is worse than emotional abuse, so I shouldn't feel this bad
• I am stupid for feeling like this; there is no reason for it
• I just need to get over this--whatever it is
• I am just under a spiritual attack
• Others have it worse so I should just be thankful and pray the depression goes away
• I must not be reading my Bible enough
• It's not like I am being beaten or going hungry or anything, so. . .*shrug*
• It's no big deal

It is amusing when little children insist they are not tired. Yet they go willingly to bed after gentle reminders that they didn't take a nap, that their eyes will not stay open, and that they are face down in their mashed potatoes. It is similarly ironic when those who insist they are well, but flushed cheeks, warm skin, glassy eyes and lethargy indicate fever.

Have you ever staunchly refused to believe something until finally faced with a list of symptoms, the truth is undeniable?

Even if your family appears non-extremist—normal—within this conservative movement, if you are exhibiting the symptoms of deep, serious issues, I beseech you to sit with these things in stillness and prayer before God, asking Him to reveal to you what it is that you need to know. It is my humble belief that God desires truth to be known by you—the truth of the source of your pain. Abuse is abuse—whether it is physical, emotional, sexual or spiritual—and all of it grieves the heart of God. Minimizing it and shrugging it away does not honor God nor does it bring the healing that He longs for you to have. Wait on Him and His timing, trusting that whatever it is you find He will give you strength to bear. In the meantime, He will never leave you nor forsake you.

Signs and times

In most cases, symptoms and features indicate that something is wrong. In our fallen world, peopled by sinful creatures who bear the image of God and yet tarnish His name, the sad reality is that we have all been hurt at some point in our lives. When these wounds are caused by those meant to protect, nourish, and love us the most, we bear the most excruciating pain. Our loyal tendency is to excuse and dismiss hurtful actions—“They were just doing the best they could,” or “It’s okay,” or “That was so long ago; I don’t even really remember that,” or “I was just a baby.”

As I have written before, forgiveness does not mean its okay. Forgiveness is a separate issue; forgiving someone who has wronged you—while a godly spiritual discipline—does not miraculously ameliorate the scars inflicted upon you. That is the work of our Heavenly Father—who sometimes allows symptoms to smolder under the surface, occasionally erupting until they become present enough to sustain your attention.

It is here, into the pain, that our Savior invites you. Here, into the darkness, where His light can shine. Here, into the brokenness, where His hands can heal. Here, into the unknown, so that He can become known.

It is here we learn that we have significance.

It is here that He meets us, in our woundedness and vulnerability, in the shame of our nakedness, in the raw and the wild. It is here that He is glorified, for His strength is made perfect in our weakness. In the secret shadows of pain He infuses the light of His truth—redeeming, revealing, and restoring.

If you feel as though you are the proverbial “middle child” within Christian culture—not as extreme as some, yet more conservative than others—and stumble trying to find your voice among the confusing messages you receive, take heart, dear sister. You have been created and chosen, as you. Your wounds and your words have equal validity. You matter dearly to God, and He has a purpose for you. Perhaps your testimony will not elicit ooohs and ahhhs from the congregation; likely you will not become a martyr from foreign lands. As you dwell faithfully however, daily showing your devotion to God, it is quite possible that somewhere, your story might grant an exhausted young woman in the midst of dishes and laundry to catch her breath in hope—and keep going for just one more day.

Sparrows, Falling

I have been reading Isaiah 53.
The beautiful imagery painted within this passage nourishes the deepest parts of my soul; can we not all relate to this message? Let these words settle around you like a comforting, healing embrace and know--not only are you never alone, you are never alone within the shadows and the suffering.

Isaiah 53

¹ Who has believed our message
and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?

² He grew up before him like a tender shoot,
and like a root out of dry ground.
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.

³ He was despised and rejected by men,
a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering.
Like one from whom men hide their faces
he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

Oh, dear friends . . .can we not identify with every word?

Despised. Rejected. Of sorrows. Familiar with suffering. Like one from whom others hide their faces!

What a paradox; often we are taught that victorious Christian living is marked by peace and happiness. How often do we condemn ourselves for feeling incredible sorrow, depression, and sadness; thinking--if only I were stronger, or a better Christian; then the rejections and hurtful words wouldn't matter. The world has a popular saying. . . Fake it til you make it. While deceptive, how many believers subconsciously promote a form of this? If I read the Bible more, or prayed more, or smiled more, everything would become better, and joy will follow! How often do we apologize for our hormones--it's just PMS . . .these feelings don't matter--forgetting that God created us with wisdom, and that we are not a mistake? I don't say these things to lay burdens upon you, but to illustrate how subtle are the messages of shame which lurk among every facet of our being!

Regardless of the source of your sufferings, dear one, do not discount the things you endure. The God who knows when a sparrow falls also knows the private agonies that tear at your heart. The victorious Son of God, who was a man of sorrows, familiar with suffering, despised, and rejected, is the same Jesus who said: “Are not five sparrows sold for two copper coins? And not one of them is forgotten before God. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows." "Are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin? And not one of them falls to the ground apart from your Father’s will. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows." Luke 12, Matthew 10

⁴ Surely he took up our infirmities
and carried our sorrows,
yet we considered him stricken by God,
smitten by him, and afflicted.

In an admittedly controversial book, written by pastor and psychologist David Seamands entitled "Healing for Damaged Emotions", his chapter The Wounded Healer illuminates this verse in a way that has helped me tremendously throughout my own personal journey. He writes:

[Hebrews 4:14-16 KJV 14 Seeing then that we have a great high priest, that is passed into the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our profession.

¹⁵ For we have not an high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are, yet without sin.

¹⁶ Let us therefore come boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need.]

If we were to rephrase Hebrews 4:15 to a positive statement, it would read: "For we have a High Priest who is touched with the feeling of our infirmities." In the Old Testament, the infirmity is connected with the sacrifices offered by the priests. An infirmity was primarily a physical spot, a blemish. It was a defect or a deformity either in a man or in an animal. If a man had an infirmity, even though he was a member of the priestly family of Aaron, he could not function as a priest. His infirmity disqualified him from entering the holiness of God (Lev. 21:16-24). In the same way, offerings and sacrifices had to be "without spot or blemish." Scores of references in the Book of Leviticus make plain that no infirm animal could be offered to God. Both the offering and offerer had to be free from infirmities.

In the New Testament we begin to see a figurative use of the word infirmity. It is a metaphor, a figure of speech. The common New Testament word for infirmity is sthenos which means "strength." Now when you put the letter a in front of something, that negates it. A theist is one who believes in God; you put an a in front of the word and it becomes athiest, one who does not believe in God. If you put an a in front of sthenos, which means strength, you get the root word for infirmity, asthenia, "a want of strength, a weakness, an infirmity, a crippling."

The word is hardly ever used in a purely physical sense in the New Testament. Rather, it refers to mental, moral, and emotional weaknesses, to lack of strength. Infirmities in themselves are not sins, but they do undermine our resistance to temptation. In the New Testament, infirmities are qualities in human nature which may predispose or incline us to sin, sometimes without any conscious choice on our part.

. . .Because He never sinned, because He never yielded to the temptation . . .He never had to make a sacrifice on His own behalf. But since He was tempted, since He was tested at every point as we are, we have a great High Priest who understands the feeling of our infirmities. If He merely understood the fact of our infirmities, that would be good enough. But I've got better news for you. He even understands the feeling of our infirmities--not just the cripplings, not just the weaknesses, not just the emotional hangups and inner conflicts, but the pain that comes from them. He understands the frustration, the anxiety, the depression,the loneliness and isolation and rejection. He who is touched with the feeling of our infirmities experiences the whole ghastly gamut of emotions which goes along with our weaknesses and our cripplings. [Heb. 5:7,8 NKJV]

. . . Discover what it cost our Savior to be Emmanuel, God with us. Listen to His prayers. Can you hear them, as if for the very first time? He "began to be sorrowful and very heavy. Then saith he unto them, My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death" Matt. 26:37, 38 KJV

. . . If you have battled terrible loneliness, or pathological emptiness, if you have experienced the blackest bouts of depression, if you know that when you are in the pits, the hardest thing to do is pray, because you do not feel God's presence. I want to assure you He knows, He understands, He feels your infirmity. He shares all your feelings because He has been through them.

Romans 8:26 Likewise the Spirit also helps in our weaknesses. For we do not know what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself makes intercession for us with groanings which cannot be uttered. ²⁷ Now He who searches the hearts knows what the mind of the Spirit is, because He makes intercession for the saints according to the will of God.

⁵ But he was pierced for our transgressions,
he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was upon him,
and by his wounds we are healed.

⁶ We all, like sheep, have gone astray,
each of us has turned to his own way;
and the LORD has laid on him
the iniquity of us all.

⁷ He was oppressed and afflicted,
yet he did not open his mouth;
he was led like a lamb to the slaughter,
and as a sheep before her shearers is silent,
so he did not open his mouth.

⁸ By oppression and judgment he was taken away.
And who can speak of his descendants? For he was cut off from the land of the living
for the transgression of my people he was stricken.

I would like to pause briefly and mention a thought upon the lines: "And who can speak of his descendants? For he was cut off from the land of the living." I am not a Hebrew scholar by any means but I believe that part of the depth of this verse demonstrates another element of sacrifice . . the man Christ Jesus would not know the blessing of marriage and family. His purpose was sacrifice and salvation, but as fully human, it is likely that He could have contemplated the beautiful nature of fatherhood while receiving the little children who yearned to be near Him. I do not mean this concept for anything other than mere conjecture; however it is one more piece of evidence of His obedience.

⁹ He was assigned a grave with the wicked,
and with the rich in his death,
though he had done no violence,
nor was any deceit in his mouth.

¹⁰ Yet it was the LORD's will to crush him and cause him to suffer,
and though the LORD makes his life a guilt offering,
he will see his offspring and prolong his days,
and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand.

¹¹ After the suffering of his soul,
he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many,
and he will bear their iniquities.

1 Peter 3 and 4 reveals a beautiful mystery:

For Christ also suffered once for sins, the just for the unjust, that He might bring us to God . . . Therefore, since Christ suffered for us in the flesh, arm yourselves also with the same mind, for he who has suffered in the flesh has ceased from sin, that he no longer should live the rest of his time in the flesh for the lusts of men, but for the will of God. For we have spent enough of our past lifetime in doing the will of the Gentiles—when we walked in lewdness, lusts, drunkenness, revelries, drinking parties, and abominable idolatries.

. . .Beloved, do not think it strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though some strange thing happened to you; but rejoice to the extent that you partake of Christ’s sufferings, that when His glory is revealed, you may also be glad with exceeding joy. If you are reproached for the name of Christ, blessed are you, for the Spirit of glory and of God rests upon you. On their part He is blasphemed, but on your part He is glorified. But let none of you suffer as a murderer, a thief, an evildoer, or as a busybody in other people’s matters. Yet if anyone suffers as a Christian, let him not be ashamed, but let him glorify God in this matter. . . .Therefore let those who suffer according to the will of God commit their souls to Him in doing good, as to a faithful Creator.

Oh my friend, consider the implications of this! We have studied the sufferings of our beloved Christ; although not many of us will experience the torture of the crucifixion, as hurting women we have struggled and suffered through sorrows and rejection and grief. It is my humble belief that to these things Peter admonishes: do not be ashamed! Glorify God, commit your soul to Him in doing good, as to a faithful Creator! For God's ways are higher than our ways, and His thoughts are higher than our thoughts. Trust Him with your soul . . .the soul that grieves and aches with agony that often has no words.

I know that it can be difficult when well-meaning Christians tell you what you should and should not feel, what you should and should not do; these reproachings sadly do very little to edify and exhort. Often, they further heap shame and condemnation upon the heart of a woman who already feels inadequate as a daughter of God, much less as a human being. Scripture admonishes us to rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep . . .it does not counsel the weeping to dry their tears.

However, let me testify that the gift His joy and grace is exquisite beyond words!

¹² Therefore I will give him a portion among the great,
and he will divide the spoils with the strong,
because he poured out his life unto death,
and was numbered with the transgressors.
For he bore the sin of many,
and made intercession for the transgressors.

The man of sorrows, whose soul was exceedingly sorrowful even unto death, has trusted in His Father. Because of His obedience, therefore He is also able to save to the uttermost those who come to God through Him, since He always lives to make intercession for them. Heb. 7

What a beautiful fulfillment of the dreams of God! Moreover, He has perfected us:

. . .there arises another priest who has come, not according to the law of a fleshly commandment, but according to the power of an endless life. For He testifies:
“ You are a priest forever
According to the order of Melchizedek.”
For on the one hand there is an annulling of the former commandment because of its weakness and unprofitableness, for the law made nothing perfect; on the other hand, there is the bringing in of a better hope, through which we draw near to God. And inasmuch as He was not made priest without an oath (for they have become priests without an oath, but He with an oath by Him who said to Him:
“ The LORD has sworn and will not relent,
‘ You are a priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek’”),
by so much more Jesus has become a surety of a better covenant.
Also there were many priests, because they were prevented by death from continuing. But He, because He continues forever, has an unchangeable priesthood. Therefore He is also able to save to the uttermost those who come to God through Him,
since He always lives to make intercession for them.
For such a High Priest was fitting for us, who is holy, harmless, undefiled, separate from sinners, and has become higher than the heavens; who does not need daily, as those high priests, to offer up sacrifices, first for His own sins and then for the people’s, for this He did once for all when He offered up Himself. For the law appoints as high priests men who have weakness, but the word of the oath, which came after the law, appoints the Son who has been perfected forever.

Healing for the broken-hearted

I would like to conclude with the calling of Jesus. I know that my words cannot pretend to assuage the depth of aching and sorrow that you have borne throughout your life, but I pray that you will truly find comforting healing through the nearness of God, through the obedience of the rejected one familiar with suffering.

Isaiah 61

“The Spirit of the Lord GOD is upon Me
Because the LORD has anointed Me
To preach good tidings to the poor;
He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,
To proclaim liberty to the captives,
And the opening of the prison to those who are bound;
2 To proclaim the acceptable year of the LORD,
And the day of vengeance of our God;
To comfort all who mourn,
3 To console those who mourn in Zion,
To give them beauty for ashes,
The oil of joy for mourning,
The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;
That they may be called trees of righteousness,
The planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified.”

"Come to Me," says the Man of Sorrows, "all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take My yoke upon you, and learn from Me for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls."