Here I go. *deep, cleansing breath*
Jesus is not some magic pill you take and then forever more you never feel pain, you never feel sadness, you never ask questions, you never have struggles and you never talk about the past...it's just not that simple...
especially when you have been wounded by Jesus' so-called followers again and again and again. That kind of screws things up in a big way for how you really perceive God or anything, really.
Bubble gum was one of my favorite things as a child and like any child, in my mind, worth a fight over. I snatched a piece from my sis and then it happened. My mother tried to stop him, she tried to stop him my whole life.
I was snatched up by the arm and I dangled in terrified revolt from the living room to the bedroom and a trail of urine was left behind me, every drop filled with fear.
Then for snatching a piece of gum he proceeded to endlessly beat me so much so that He was red-faced and out of breath. Then the isolation came. Anger, rage and the beating, then the isolation. I was made to sit on my bed when it was done and left alone...no words of comfort and no prayers, no love, no one was allowed to speak to me until I was sanctioned to leave. And I don't know what was worse. The fear, the beating or the utter isolation afterwards, the ignoring of me, my pain and the deep ocean of silence and the lonely, abandoned feeling I felt.
And I always wondered again in my mind what was worse....the yelling, the beatings, the screaming, the rage, the name calling, the sheer hatred or the isolation. And again I wondered. I wondered. I wandered and shuffled it off my shoulders in vast repetition, seizing me, remembering, but forgetting, bombs in the brain and running off to play and smiling once again. As a child I wanted to forgive him. I wanted to come to a place of resolution, even after the things he did to me, but there was no peace and no resolution and absolutely no restoration of any kind, except for a very rare, sick hug that came as a quick response and with no explanation after a hateful beating.
I was running. Children run, they love to run, they are full of life. They are full of hope and wonder and freedom. Children are young and they make young mistakes. It's normal. It's the way it is and always will be. I was running in the house. I ran through the doorway to the kitchen and I bumped right into a small table by the window where my mom had her glass jar of instant coffee grounds. It fell and the fear came. I was scared half to death. Smash. I had done it. The worst thing in the world. I had broken something and had made a mess. It was so loud and the pieces of glass were everywhere.
I was trying to pick it up, clean it up as fast as I could, but I knew he was coming. He was coming. "What was that?!" I was hurrying, I was going faster because I was afraid. I was terrified because these things, these child like things are what sent him over the moon. Not lying, not hitting, not cheating, but silly kid mistakes. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the dining room this time. I was counting in my head and I stopped at seventeen. He hit me eleven times with his belt and mid stream his belt buckle flew off, but that did not deter the anger, the rage, the abuse for one second and six more wails came. I beat myself up, I should have known better and did I ever try to not do it again. And again I was left alone in isolation and in my pain and in my tears in the aftermath.
Why? Why was he doing this to me over bubble gum and a broken, glass jar of coffee grounds? Why? Because he himself had been through hell and back as a child? Wait, I thought Jesus sets us completely free from our past the moment we come to know Him? I could write a whole book about how things really were in my home as a child. I shared some mild things with you compared to some other examples. And all I want to know is why?
He had the scriptures memorized and I mean much of it. He read his bible every day. He claimed to pray. He went to bible college. He was a pastor. His church was typed up in a church directory listed with so many other Independent Fundamental Baptist churches in the area. He went door to door and told countless people how to know Jesus. Why was he persistently abusing me, my brothers and sister and my mother?
Why? I say why God? I say why? I was a child and I should have been protected from all of this by someone. Where was my protection from your follower? I really want to know.
Silence is deadly people. Children die every day in this country from the mere silence of those who are in the know or have an inkling that something is wrong...that something is just not right. Children die, people die and much more by silence than we can imagine. Not only do they die physically...that is just one part.
Children are made to die inside, while people watch and while people hold their silence. Abusers love for the abused to shut up, take the beating and move on to pick up the pieces alone and in fear and desperate for love...from someone.
Controlling abusers love the power, they fight for the power and they keep the power until God through the hands of good people comes down and dethrones them once and for all.
And there I was broken, washed up, the light had gone out of my soul, and I was waiting for a miracle.
And that's just the beginning to my long journey that has brought me here to this clean, white page of a flat screen in front of me.
It's pure white and it's freeing me with every. single. word. Because I am free to think, free to process and ask questions and I am free to feel pain, the pain that was never fully permitted for me to feel when I was a child.
The frightened, little girl is coming out one painful step at a time.