(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

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?

Face to face

i told her i was coming to town for a visit. i immediately wondered if i should've kept my mouth shut. after all, even she admitted the silent Before was easier. but she said yes, let's meet for coffee. she wanted to know if i wanted to see her garden. no, that meant home, meant seeing him, and them. the pause in the air said more than i did, and she got hurt, angry. we back pedaled and just agreed coffee, then let's see.
+++
i was late; she sounded irritated. i realized it'd been so long since i'd driven out there i'd misjudged just how long it would take me. she told me she'd go pick up a few items at the wal-mart next door while i drove the remaining twenty minutes. the hallowed, neutral ground of starbucks, not memphis, not home, the industrial in-between.

i got there before she did, and the butterflies i'd been able to keep at bay til that point flooded my stomach. the coffee i sipped turned heavy and tasteless in my throat.

so many years since i'd seen her- a marriage and three births all taking their toll on me' would i recognize her?
i did. noticed how long her hair'd gotten, the limp she had because of the foot trouble she's mentioned on the phone, but the same dark eyes. she looked more like granny than the mama i remembered, her skin looser and softer and powdery, and it seems ten years instead of five. she thinks i look like bet. touches my wedding ring, the engagement story she doesn't know being hinted at, sees pictures of my boys on my phone; me, realizing how few of them actually have face shots. her phone has pictures of her dogs, and she laments the fact.

we chat, i twirl my bands nervously; she twists and retwists her diet coke cap.
where to start lies heavy between us, so we plunge.

straight into the murky cold depths and i tell her how i fear sticking my hands behind or under things, that absurd fear of the unknown. she says she can light the way, but perspective is different and casts shadows, taints conversation.

she vehemently reminds she loves her husband, and i know she does an she should, and she asks if he's unwanted, unloved, and i don't know the answer to the question.

the heart doesn't like going under dark things either.

i mention ann's grace-post and how i know the need for forgiveness, even know i have for the first time in my life and how i even feel sorry for all those years lost. she seems to hear.

there is mention of a future and in the moment i know i want that above all else. it's when i've driven away, heavier than the coffee burning in my stomach, that i fear all the long future in front of me, all the hardness trying to come back into my heart and brain, and all the old bitternesses trying to take root again.

it is up to me to soften. to see her as the mother she wishes she could be, the grandmother she's never been, and the friend she may still be someday.
it is up to me to reach into the dark-be a light for Him, extending God-grace to self and her and continue this long road, one phone call, cup of coffee, and trembling hug at a time.

i'm linking up today at suzannah's shoutlaughlove because this is part of my story--journey deeper into grace.

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.

Forgiveness: a conversation

talking to her about the weather
when i really want to ask about Our Winter,
the time when life was untilled &
the future felt infertile.
ask her about the past &
how it wore her down, if at all
but we talk about her garden &
her health, the kids she doesn't know.
she mentioned weakness a luxury
& i secretly disagreed
but didnt' want to rock the boat
so i feigned agreement, "mmmm."
we didn't mention him
or Him
& i know we fear talking both.
how do we move past work & play
to Truth?
how do we move, if at all?
i'm weak, broken,
& it's not luxurious-
it's the weight of the world &
the cross,
today i carry it,
& pray.

Grow

i wrote this piece as a creativity boot camp challenge word prompt, but wanted to actually feature it here and not just under my create page.

mama was a natural despite being as northern-bred and citified as they come. she made plenty of mistakes early on, like the time she put a whole cup of sugar in the greens instead of just a tablespoon. granny b sure cackled at that and my dad wore his bemused expression which looks an awful lot like his annoyed expression.

she'd never canned before, but after that garden with more corn and tomatoes than we knew what to do with (and more shucking than i'd ever hoped to do again), she had so many rows of red the color of july, all lined up neat, brass rims a smart salute to her success.

and flowers, too, responded to her touch. she weeded to forget the hour-long commute to work, and she watered to forget the politics of an office. river rocks lined the pathway, and her little pond bubbled and shimmered fleeting gold below. she had primroses she transplanted from meemee's kentucky farm, all the assorted annual color she could find, and a few haphazard succulents for humor. we never wondered at the love she had for that garden.

i didn't love the idea of gardening until i lived with meg--and even then i never really asked her to teach me what she knew. i always assumed there'd be plenty of time to learn by osmosis. she had a different love for the garden, one that reveled in the sheer work of it, of the hands dirty and shade hat pulled tight and low, and the lawn immaculate, not just to HOA standards but to her own.

she shared her garden with gale who lived next door, and they separated too-thick day lillies and let sweet william grow all over the place, and waited breathlessly for the don juans to scent the air. meg always wished the peonies on her side would do as well as gale's, and gale always wished her quince would produce any fruit at all.

she gave me the ficus tree she'd had for years before i knew her, a beloved weeping benjamin. i threw it in the trash heap outside last weekend, its branches dry and brittle from too many forgotten waterings and too many grubby fingers snapping twigs and pulling on roots. the tree had died on my watch. she used to hang the jesse tree ornaments for her boys growing up, and my ornaments are still wrapped away, waiting til the boys are old enough not to tear them up. there's no place to hang them now.

we've always rented, and so i've never really taken time to rake soil and sow tender shoots, but i dream. i dream of a garden that i can fill with edible bounty and find treasure for the three boys that have grown inside of me and are growing outside of me. i pore over burpee catalogs and wistfully sigh at the jackson and perkins roses, but i have no garden, and no one close by to teach me to till the land.

i haven't been to mama's house in seven years. i lived with meg for only three, but we talk weekly and she asks after my little seedlings, those boys of big feet and tall stature and loud laughs that mama has never known. and i wonder what kind of garden i will grow. who will teach me?

Reflection

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.

(this was a response to a homework assignment my counselor asked me to do-to look in the mirror in my underclothes and make statements of affirmation. it was exceedingly hard to do, and painful. thank you for letting me share here)

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.