Shattered

there is a place where the sacred is unsafe
the holy burns,
and unsinged we dare to ask if we are secure

we think we purify ourselves
by removing our shoes
never thinking we stand a world apart
paperthin
between this world and the next
where our clay-frail bodies one day will shatter
like the stars

the dead sloughed off
shines nova-bright, now--

how unsafe it is to be burned down
only to be consumed again by holy fire

we shatter

A Girl Named Fragile, A Parable

this is my first bit of fiction. i'm afraid to share it, yet knowing it is imperfect, i feel emily's is where it belongs for a spell.




once there was a girl who lived in a Dark Wood, only she didn't know it was dark because she'd never seen the light. She came of age and chose to travel--she wanted to know what went beyond the trees. she came upon a forked path, and having never left her little yard, was forced to choose one way. she chose blindly, as one must always do in the Dark. little did she know that one path led further into the wood and the deep dark, and the one she chose led towards Beyond. as she walked and walked, little golden beams sometimes showed through the canopy of branches, and she felt a prickling sensation when she stepped into the little puddles of brightness. she was being introduced to Light, and she felt she loved him. by the time the last tree was behind her, and she walked openly in the well-lit Beyond, Fragile felt she'd known Light all along. in fact, she thought she'd seen glimpses of him even in her Dark Wood; had he not been in the fire where she cooked her meal and warmed herself? had he not been in the stars where she imagined her friends? yes, he'd been quiet and unnamed, but he'd been there. yes, she loved this golden Sun.
But one day, it felt too immense, too surreal--perhaps she was dreaming and it was still Dark. thus, she was introduced to Fear, and he wooed her for some time. Fear introduced her to his friend Anger, and he was so seductive, so beguiling. he made her feel safe and made her forget Fear's cold hands. she also forgot the warmth of the Light she'd loved once. Fragile and Anger journeyed for years together. he taught her the meaning of her name and how to abuse it. little by little, cracks were appearing all over, though Fragile wasn't aware of her changed appearance. what she did know was that she was getting weary, often having no strength for more than a day or two at a time on her journey. Anger became impatient with her, and so she became impatient with herself. the fissures were getting bigger, and now that Fragile saw them, she wondered what was wrong with her-why was she breaking? Anger didn't notice the cracks; in fact, he didn't notice Fragile at all anymore. Depression met them then, and she took Fragile's hands in hers, hugged her tight and whispered lies. "you were happier in the Dark, weren't you? the Light is making you ugly because if you were in the Dark you wouldn't even be able to see them. you deserve the pain you feel and inflict on others-wasn't it you who kept Anger all these years?" Depression's sister Loneliness visited often, and Anger kept his distance but followed still.
Fragile was more tired than ever, and the cracks began to hurt. she wished for Peace. she didn't know who he was, only that she'd dreamt of him long ago when dancing in the sunbeams in the forest. she wondered if Peace could ever find her. she went to sleep that night flanked by Anger, Depression, and Loneliness. She wished she'd never wake up; maybe that way she'd find Peace. In her sleep she dreamed a child named Hope cried. When Fragile asked why she was crying, she merely cried some more. waking up and confused by the dream, it took a moment for Fragile to realize someone was watching her. it was the child Hope. "you! i dreamed you were crying! why would such a beautiful child cry?" the child answered quietly, "i was waiting for you." Hope then introduced Fragile to her companion who came forward, Peace. Fragile looked around for Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, but to her surprise they were gone.
Fragile walked with Hope and Peace and asked what more they could possibly see in the Beyond. they arrived then at a castle ruins, and she was told it was the most precious thing in all the land. "but it's just an old broken castle," Fragile muttered, disappointed. "not, 'just.' it is also the house of the sun, and you are welcome." indeed, the castle was aglow, and from it shined the Light she'd once known so intimately. a tear trickled down her cheek as she whispered, "im sorry i forgot you on the way." upon entering the hall, the castle righted itself and transformed into its glory, and she was asked to bathe in the fountain of life. she did so, half-thinking her cracks would disappear, but when she emerged she was no different. Light took her hand and led her to his great mirror. "what do you see?" he asked. in it, she saw her travels with Fear, Anger, Depression, and Loneliness, and her short time with Peace and Hope, and she said, "i see Fragile." "no, my child, that is not who i see. look again. i see Treasure." she asked Light "why did i have to break, then?" "look again." this time when Fragile looked in the mirror she saw what Peace had seen and called Beauty and what Hope saw and called Worth waiting for. looking into the Sun's mirror, all she could see was the Light shining. she realized if she'd never been broken, she'd never have seen the Light inside her.

(hard)

hard.
i can't even begin to express here the storm of uncertainty in my heart. but i need to get it out somehow.
how do you share words that hurt, even when your aim is to protect? how do you write real when you can't forget last night's dreams (the bad kind)? how do you mama-give when you curl fetal?
hard.
i know i can't make sense to you. (ambiguous you) i wish you knew i loved you and hurt for you, but i hurt for me, too.
how can there be seasons of certainty and others of mere fragility? days when i'm strong for me and others where i ache for you?
silence lingers these days, and i know neither of us knows what to say. i'm sorry. i'm praying for us. even if you don't know it.



311. breathing out this prayer for all of us involved: when you can't trace His hand, trust His heart.
312. for broken hearts so he can heal
313. for bravery where he allows
314. for the wind that whispers his name and the rocks that cry out, and the faith it takes to believe
315. for grace, daily
316. for the little things that help deflect these cloudy thoughts:
317. such as this gorgeous fall-like weather
318. and owen now 4 months already
319. and homeschooling freedoms to play-learn
320. and little boy haircuts
321. and husband's strongest arms to rock wee babe and tender-wrap me
323. for chocolate chip cookies
324. and coffee shared with friends
325. "for God so loved the world"

linking with the gratitude community as a discipline to share humble thanks even in a hard season right now. thank you for sharing without sharing some of my heart's cries today.

Reflection

sexual abuse is part of my story. and while it's something from my past, like a light illuminating from behind, shadows project, affecting some of my todays, some of my tomorrows. i have come a long way from the hurt and pain, and i'm joyful to be in the process of repairing some of the resulting broken relationships. i'm reposting this from my archives because it still hits home after certain discussions with my counselor. this poem, in fact, was a previous response to an exercise she had me do. thank you for grace in reading.



breasts, once touched til my heart
was RAW-
please stop-
flimsy layer of lace no shield,
now sway, stretched with
nurturing
those little red lips
those closed eyes
small hands clutched close
how can i hate these breasts, still?

stomach, once held sucked in a constant POPULARITY
contest
now squishes out, having won 3 times
-MAMA-
but i had no mama to help me push these
little ones out
where was she, then,
and now?

no was meaningless.
hands felt helpless
now cradle sweet, sweaty palms.
voice left powerless
now sings lullabyes
and kisses boo-boos away.

old body, ragged cavern of hate
(don't look, don't want, don't touch)
new body, birth-scarred victorious
nursing love and milk
wombing body and soul
turned inside OUT.

linking with emily and the other imperfect journey-friends on the way

Prodigal's place

we were talking about unfairness, and she tells me she chafes against the story of the prodigal son, that he gets all the attention while elder brother suffers.
i myself always related to that older brother, viewed her as a prodigal of sorts.
our stories start at the same places, but like true mirrors, we react oppositely. funny how it works that way, now, when we're bound tighter in our spiritual sisterhood than we ever were in flesh and blood growing up.
yes, that unruly son got his way, and felt the father's embrace. i cry tears at the grace of it all, and i want to stay humble to this understanding that she and i, we're different. there are many reasons to point fingers at a God who chooses, but all i see is the grace of being chosen. it's what i cling to in faithless times and weary seasons and hopeless winters. the grace goes down like whiskey, all choking and spreading warmth.
there is a place at the table for both of them, and both of us.
i wonder how i can share the awe of that with her, the unbelievable truth that his scarred hands will serve broken bread and wine, that he will hold out freshest white robes and slay the purest Lamb for us to eat?

Storm

the bells from the church down the street hum "how great thou art" and the tea scalds my throat. it's too still this morning (that's how i can hear the bells at all), but only outside.

thoughts are cloudy, thrum against brain, try to drown out the bells or the message, i'm not sure which.

~~~

cats need feeding. dogs need letting out. two little ones awake, and the stormcloud in my head keeps threatening. mundane should be the antidote to get me through. it makes a heavy contrast.

~~~

milky tea sweetened with real sugar this morning in defiant protest. for whom? i sigh. feed animals. i realize sugar is not what i need right now, either. even sweetness can't sugarcoat angry pensiveness. the bells go quiet. i wish for them back.

~~~

i should be writing gratitude, or asking for humility, but the truth is i can't count right now and my heart hurts from being low. i want my heart to trust how great He is, even in a storm.

Goodness, like a fetter

i am not the only one who's ever hidden under
the sin of fig leaves, hiding when i could be Known.

today i struggle with self-sufficiency and my way is best. if it were up to me, i'd run away and hide instead of allowing the shadow of a Friend fall low and lovely, asking, "where are you?"

i am not the only one to tread endless desert waves
pining for the shackles of egypt.

hardness is easier than forgiveness, and it's too easy to choose a thousand days over the one.
it was easier, before, when there was quiet. we didn't say a single word for five years, and as hard as that was, this talking is hurting my heart in an awful kind of way.

i, too, have chosen to run away from ninevah
for fear He might be right, dole Grace.

i went, but with heavy heart. heart is heavy, still.

i have also struggled with doing what i hate
and hating what i do, the inner fight.

i have felt the rage bubbling up again, it seemed i'd made such strides. i am tired of spewing my anger and fear and disappointment all over again, one step forward, five back.

..... so today i'm feeling fettered, bound to the one who loves me most, and i who would wander because it gets so hard. there are lies being told from brother to sister and from mother to another, and i think i will get lost in all the webs. i want to quit. i'm so tired. sexual abuse is awful, but there have been so many years since then, and i'm actually numb to so much of that, but THIS, the aftermath of youngest sister getting healing for the first time, and the family that is slowly tearing away bit by bit. i don't know what i'm doing anymore.

A time as this

i talked to my mama yesterday and i wanted to cry and scream and let violent out after.

she has cut off youngest sister, the one who's held on the longest for all the wrong reasons, but who was always there hurting and dying inside, holding onto her mama because she was afraid if she let go, she'd slip off the edge. and now that mother says she can't handle youngest, that she sees Another Woman, and i want to scream and let go and run to hold sister.

i talk to surrogate-mama, meg, and she tries to soothe and pray comfort into my heart, but i don't know if i can listen.

she reminds me of the story of esther, how since we know the rest of the story, the ending, when the king storms from the room, it makes sense. but it didn't make sense to esther; was he running because she admitted Jewess, or running because of evil planned? and, too, we see the power of a mighty God when mordecai whispers, "for such a time as this," but all esther could have felt was fear, uncertain footing in a palace not hers, the weight of a people crushing her soul.

i wear my sister's weight heavy, but what if for a time like this one my own relationship with my mom is patching while sister's breaks away, for life? for her time to heal, for emotional space to be raw and real?

God knows the rest of the story; i often can't see past teh very words of yesterdays to allow todays and tomorrows to look any different. yet i am not author, and it is not my vision alone. i can't often sift sense out of this mess, and yet this is one piece of the whole tapestry, the one where the ending is the same as it has ever been.

today i'm writing with Ann and others, choosing to walk with Him, for i know no other way.




***
there is also change in our family's lives on the horizon. many decisions need to be made, and there is not a lot of time. help us pray for clarity and peace?

m&ms

i heard the plinking and dinging
and wondered, but didn't go
heard shuffling and rustling
thought i should check it out
and found
that
little monkey
all blue eyes and
yellow hair
sitting on counter
he found the bag of
secret candy

he cried seeing me spy him

once
i would have been angry
and snapped
and crunched little boy fear
into pinking skin

today
i said, "shhhh.
would you like some candy in a little bowl?
why don't you get down from here
and let's clean up
this little mess,
here, now, don't cry."

and i smiled
over tussled hair,
arms wrapped tight around
little boy

and i know that
i'm loved just like this.

linking up with suzannah today. join us?

red

i scrub furiously, all this energy to come out in some way, best if productively. cleaning highchair grime from three years and counting, lifting stovetop eyes to erase rust/grease/dirt rings, washing walls and dishes, all the while praying and singing one refrain.



my washrag is red and unraveling a bit, and towards the end my hands are wrinkled and red. all this red to clean, and i think that's all it's ever taken--red running stripes to clean soul dirt.



work it out

figure it out

scrub harder on stains

use more effort

be better



these thoughts carry guilt and fight the stain that Red Love leaves. would i surrender self, stop working so very hard to just be, allow Red to cover and leave me blameless white?

Speechless

she said it, admitted it. i am jonah under a shade palm, fearing nineveh and the hardness in my heart, knowing full well i belong there, preaching a gospel of Good News. knowing the outcome.

a few short weeks of halting, cautious phone calls, the how'reyous and long pauses and static air on more than just the line, we went There. we crossed the comfortable limit, we talked about him. she didn't want to, insisting there is no present in the past, and i fight, but there's no present without the past, and so i shyly, insistently, suggest i'd never had my say. and she said,

"you're right. i never believed you when you were younger."

my heart freezes, tears drip hot. i've longed for these words, but they make me hurt in a blinding way, and i don't know how to hold the universe in. breathe.

we talk about the sticky grace, and i'm reminded all over of ann's post on forgiveness.

the boys watch a favorite tv show and the cat comes to nuzzle a foot, and i wonder how can all this normal be, when she's telling me the reality didn't match the princess she finally believed herself to be? she felt alive and full and knightly woo'd, and when we told her he hurt us, she couldn't believe. he wouldn't let her, and so silence won for years.

but today we courted the words, danced shakily around that one word louder than all others, abuse, and she cries tears that i seem to feel wet on my own cheek.

life intervenes (when did normal become ironic?), and it's time to return to hungry boys and rush to lifegroup, but she asks if we have time to pray, if we have time to practice sticky grace, and my heart rebelled, no...i'm not ready for this yet, i'm not ready. glue. she prays for healing, and i stream silent and whisper amen, and the phone clicks and i shake. it was easier before. silence was righteous and proud and i knew my way home, but now i'm in a foreign country and i can't read the signs and i don't know where i'm going, but i'm jonah called to preach. to live grace that's not mine to harbor, for as meg says, at the foot of the cross it's all level.

i'm torn. i hope. i fear. i'm angry and excited. prayers would be welcome.

Story

it has taken me years to believe, accept, and find relief in the fact that God had his hand on me from Beginning. he used to simply be something not unlike Santa, big, friendly, "up there," and desirable, but possibly not true. then he was a mysterious cloud to be feared, always on the verge of punishing me for sins committed and unknown. then in academic stagnancy, he was clock-maker, marionetter, distant and solid. but then, slowly, a ray of light shining in a storm cloud, he became Real. not quite the God-as-Father or Friend or Lover, but very, very real. so real i wanted to reach out and touch him. so real i feared i'd never touch him. he created me. he has broken me and molded me. he has Authored me.

i grew up for a while in a single-mom household, not much different from other single parent families, excepting the unavoidable fact of my being a triplet. compare and contrast was a fact of life growing up. we only went to church on easter and christmas, and then only when granny made our outfits (always matching, of course). we were poor, often without electricity and food, though i don't recall much of that. i remember eating blueberry doughnuts and riding the carousel. it wasn't til later that my mom confessed she'd bought day-old doughnuts for a quarter and that we went to the "shady" mall to ride the carousel free on thursdays.
then, she met a man and remarried. this was such a novelty for us girls: we were receiving attention from a father figure for the first time in our lives, and we were giddy with it. we were 7 when they married, and we went to church on a regular basis for the first time. we actually had to, because dad was a pastor, and in the early days he often filled in for various holy-ghost types. it was very new and very impressive to a young sponge, and i made a profession of faith. i was mostly scared of going to hell, but i also wanted to be good. i wanted to be loved. i wanted to be complete.
dad seemed to delight in his new brood, and gladly sat us on his knees and gifted us with goodies we'd never been privy to til then. soon, i smiled shyly and smugly at the whispered favoritism i received and was only mildly alarmed at the lingering hugs and kisses. mild alarm swiftly turned to inner dismay and guilty sadness as being tucked in turned to being touched and caressed in a way i knew was wrong. the touches and provocative words and threats lasted for years, and he preached all the while. i began to hate god, but i didn't know those strong words then.
i learned my sisters were also favorites, daddy's little girls. we told mama. nothing and everything changed. he never touched me again, and our family never talked about it again, but i felt a shell forming.
throughout high school i sought solace in grades and quiet perfectionism, fearing being singled out, but forcing myself to continue to be good, do good, seem good. because i wasn't, you see? i was dirty, and shameful and ashamed. i was wounded and bleeding on the inside and perfect and calm on the outside.
i made it to a small, prestigious private school and i feel my true story begins here. i met christian girlfriends for the first time, a sweetness of relationship i didn't even know existed beyond the bond i shared with my sisters. i attended my first ever bible study and remember my leader crying joy-tears when i asked her so shyly what 'grace' meant? i thought i was pursuing grace; little did i know it was pursuing me. i wrestled with faith for the first time, not ever having faced Doubt before (we were required to fulfill a religious component, and i didn't know at the time that it was going to bible-bash!).
and in all of this: quiet, sick-to-stomach anger. and i finally told.
flood.
i went home, asked them why we never talked about it again. why, if we girls were crazy hadn't we been seen by someone? why, if it was true did we never deal with it? why why why why why?
they told me i was crazy. that i had lied. that i had misunderstood. they tried to pit sister against sister. the anger balled but flatlined into unknowingness. i didn't know how to deal, and i was unequipped. i still talked, though, to a couple of counselors, band-aids.
i found relationship, my first boyfriend at 19, and we were pups, new and excited and it didn't last. i'm not sure i expected it to. i still didn't feel complete. my senior year i met another and he took my breath away. we danced and shared what wasn't ours to give and when that tore apart, i felt the ebb of pain pushing against my fragile-ly held barrier. i seeped.
anger has a way of breaking through the cracks and cracking itself wide. i know exactly how a bullet-pierced windshield must feel, spiderwebbing fissures running til there's no stopping them.
real counseling to help: stringent lidocaine to help me stop. breathe. tell. break. breathe. be. believe. hear. all truth.
i finally met him, and he loved me whole. we, too, awakened love before its time, and this time the hurt came from the Bride, who cut us off and faulted us for the beautiful life we created. tails tucked for a season, we nursed wounds and baby boy. this new life! and the Lover woos again. slowly, timidly, we crawl into lap and pray together and share fears/wants/hopes. we return to the fold.
three boys.
i mourn loss of my mom, no one to teach me to hold these little ones close. no one to show me how to love unconditionally. the fissures still stretch, and i lash out at my babes. i cry with them all too often and i breach that promise, unspoken always, to never harm my child.
my heart has been torn wide, and i have suffered long and i know a hope that burns fire and glory and sadness unlike any other. i know the despair of being broken, of breaking others. i know storytelling and storyletting and storymaking, because i am witness to, character in, and daughter of His story. my story.
new counselor, new tools, new sense of cautious, carefree love. i wrap arms wide around the men, big and little, in my life and i thank Him for writing us. i thank him for being bigger than and infinite. i thank him for loving me and using me and folding me under his wing.
story goes. it sears sometimes. it delights othertimes. it teaches and exhorts and testifies. it is I am.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
my story is one of Redemption. i was born in need of a savior. i have experienced the woundedness of sexual abuse. i have known premarital sex and its precarious hold on the heart. i know the kind of severed relationship that feels forever. i know unhealthy anger. but i also know sins forgiven. healing. evil-for-purpose. and a way of turning to Him, to glorify how much i'm not and how much he Is. i am still in professional counseling to aid me in my control of my anger and to find right and proper channels for it. i have been blessed with 3 beautiful little boys, and i am finding new ways to delight in them daily, as hard of work as they can be sometimes! if you have more questions for me, i'd welcome your email to mistygreen13 AT gmail DOT com.