IS YOUR BODY TRYING TO TALK TO YOU?

I honestly never gave this subject much thought. My body and I didn't really communicate-I guess you could say that we pretty much weren't on speaking terms. It didn't tell me when it was full, didn't tell me that it needed to exercise, didn't tell me much of anything. Or maybe it did but I wasn't listening to it. About the only thing it regularly told me was that it was hungry or tired or cold or hurting. Not a very big selection, and all pain-related in some way. But that has recently changed.

It started after I got home from Ashram. I knew that the miracle that I believed God was giving me was going to come through my work as well as his intervention (no, I don't believe all miracles happen this way, but I felt that this one would. I needed to step into a better lifestyle as well as being healed). In order to do that, I decided to do water aerobics three times a week and water yoga on Saturdays.

I felt that was a great start, but I wanted to do something on the other days--something that would help me with the achiness that was a normal part of a new exercise routine. So I started yoga on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Sunday was my day off :).

I didn't realize what I was in for. The first thing that you're told to do is to sit quietly and listen to your body. If you haven't done yoga or meditation you might not believe this, but my body was quite happy to start talking! Not about aches and pains--about sadness and grief. Certain parts of my body were not healed, although I had been spiritually long ago. I suffer from kidney disease and other related issues (to go into them would be TMI!), and that part of my body seemed to be crying. I can't explain it any better than that. I know now that my woundedness was not only mental; it was also physical. Just sitting and paying attention to that was important.

If you are like me-a survivor of some sort of abuse, whether it be mental, emotional, sexual, or whatever, it might do you good to really meditate on your body. Listen to what it's telling you. See if you can understand what kind of intervention may be needed. Some people might need to come into a new relationship with wounded body parts. For example, if you were raped, you might have turned off your ability to feel and respond to your feminine parts (again, not going in depth because of TMI, but if this applies to you you know what I mean). If you are a man who was constantly abused and bullied because of a body part, you might have turned away from that part because of the shame you felt with that bullying.

What can you do about disfunction within your own body? It depends. For some, I think it means that you begin an intentional relationship with that part in particular. If your shoulders and neck constantly hurt, you can consciously say, "My stress doesn't belong here. I give it to God. He has bigger shoulders than I do." That is intentional in that you are concentrating on your shoulders and possibly stretching them or circling them as you do.

For others, that may not be what's needed. It's possible that the damage done was deeper than you can handle yourself. You might want to go to someone who you can talk to and pray with to heal your body, specifically that part. This is especially true if your pain occurred in numerous different ways and through numerous people.

For still others, your body is trying to alert you to a danger that you can't see. If you are feeling a physical pain instead of or in addition to the spiritual or emotional pain, I would really advise seeing your doctor.

For many of us, it's a combination of all three. For example, my pain was both spiritual and physical. I'm planning to pray comfort to that area, but I think that it's also wise to see a gynecologist. If my prayers don't avail, I will seek out a prayer warrior to pray with me.

So however your body speaks to you, please do listen to it. If you find that you have divorced yourself due to pain or hurt, it's time to bring that relationship to life again. You won't regret it.

Bullying and its aftereffects

I have been overweight ever since the second grade. I have been teased since kindergarten. I remember the first encounter-not so much what I was teased for, but the fact that someone thought that it was all right to make fun of me. I was shocked. I said nothing, just felt a little bit smaller.

As I continued in school, the teasing grew and so did the teasers. The childish stuff in Kinder grew and developed barbs and claws, so that by the time I was 10, it tore at my very soul.

I'm sure that many of you share my story, and some of you might be wondering 'Why is she still talking about it? Why didn't she put on her big girl panties and walk away from it? We were just kids doing stupid stuff, after all.'

True. And if I was a normal kid, that would have happened. But I was anything but normal. My family was going through upheaval. There were issues at home just like at school. Without going into specific examples, I can truthfully say that I was walking wounded before I ever made through the doors of junior high. The teasing I endured in school just justified (in my mind) the self-concept I was developing at home.

More than anything else, though, I couldn't get over the teasing because it echoed in the shame that was already permeating my mind. Whenever anyone made fun of my hair, my complexion, my weight, my inability to play sports-even things that I knew I COULD do--things like singing and acting-I fully believed them. By the time I was in high school, I didn't just think I was hideous-I KNEW I was. I was embarrassed to be seen in public, and having to go to school day after day to be subjected to still more abuse just made it worse.

Thankfully, I moved to a larger town for college and became part of a group of friends that really liked me. I was able to begin to think that I might one day have worth-if I was talented enough, good enough, and Christian enough for others to overlook my many flaws.

Even today, I still carry the scars of the schoolyard abuse. Recently at a retreat, I was complemented over and over-on how nice I was, how interesting my views were, what a nice voice I had...all of it was beyond my comprehension. They were nice words, but not words that had anything to do with me. I am working on this, but it's slow going.

Why am I bringing all of you into my personal darkness? For two reasons, actually. First of all, I want you to know that the only way to really get over the shame caused by bullying is to forgive your bullies. You don't have to forgive what they did to you, but you have to realize that holding them in your soul-holding the memory of what they did hostage-is not hurting them a bit. It is, however, destroying you. You think destroying is a harsh word? Try thinking about letting go and see what your first reaction is. If you feel as I used to, that they are NEVER going to get away with it, that they deserve your hatred, that they maybe don't deserve to live, you are enslaved by your feelings to them. Let it go. Give it to God. Share with Him the full extent of your anger and hurt, then let him take it and bring it to the Cross.

Secondly, if you were really hurt by your persecutors, you need to ask God for healing. One way of doing this is to ask him to come into your soul, take each and every wound made by the bullying away and bring it to the cross, and then accept that you are a child of God and should always have been treated as such. After that, every time you hear the negative voice of the enemy saying that you are ugly, stupid, lazy, or whatever the trigger words are for you, simply speak God's truth--I am a not. I am a child of God. Saying it really does help you believe it.

I want to tell you that I am still on the healing journey with this as well. I walk every day, hoping that I remember. Most days I do, some I don't. But every day, I know that God loves me. You should have that understanding, too.

God bless you.

markers

She walked through the park with the old dog.  No, not that old, he was barely eight.  She remembered the day that she got him.

She'd met Charley through a friend a few weeks before.  He was handsome, funny, gabby--everything that her father was not.  A few years out of high school, she wanted to escape.  She still lived at home; she worked at Penney's during the day and came home to her father and brothers at night.  Her mother died years earlier; she was left to cook and clean and listen and be sympathetic--and dodge any drunken blows that might come her way.  Her father hadn't been the best of parents before her mother died; he was a miserable excuse of a man after.  She felt fifty years old when she was barely 20.  When Charley came, she felt that she was ready.  It surprised her that he got so serious so fast, but again, she felt that she could handle Charley and whatever might come her way in his company.  On the first date, he asked for a kiss.  By the third date he was taking her body.  She was a virgin, though not by choice.  She'd just never had time to date before.  Charley was different.  He met her at work and took her on walks.  One day, only a few months after they'd met, Charley met her after work with a little Pug tucked under his arm.  "His name's Pugsley," he said.  "He needs a mom, don't he?"  She smiled and said yes.  "Well, he's yours."  She giggled her thanks and began to take him from Charley.  "Oh, one thing.  Him and me--we're a package deal. Okay?"  It took her a minute to realize that Charley was asking her to marry him.  No ring, no bended knee, just a cute little snuffly dog.  She remembered thinking, 'Oh well, why not?' as she agreed.

One of the first things they did together was to find Pugsley a collar and a tag.  He only wore it for a year before his neck got too full, but she kept it.  It was her first marker--a reminder of the happiness that she felt that first year.  Life with Charley wasn't a picnic, but it wasn't hell, either.  He seemed to care about her.  Yes, she still worked at Penney's, still came home and cleaned house and made dinner, and she learned to live with the understanding that Charley was out of work as often as he was employed, but there were no drunken rages.  She was thankful for that.  Instead, though, there was Charley's pure meanness.  She hadn't experienced it before they were married, but Charley had a sarcastic mouth and a way of making her feel small.  Even though she was the one making the money, he criticized her for spending it.  Charley, however, could do extravagant things like buy himself a PS-3 and a new truck.  If she dared to say anything about it, he would look at her in a way that was a warning.  She soon learned to keep her mouth shut.

As time went on, Charley became more and more critical and less and less loving.  His sense of humor was now his tool to inflict pain.  In a group of friends (his friends--hers had somehow stopped coming over), he would talk about her as if she wasn't there--he belittled everything from her looks to her cooking to the way she made love--and his friends thought that he was hilarious.  The first time it happened, she was shocked.  She was serving chips and dip when he compared her to a rutting pig.  She was caught unawares, embarrassed, and so hurt that she set the food on the nearest table and ran to her bedroom.  Their bedroom.  There were no locks--not even in the bathroom.  She ran to the bed and held the pillow to muffle her tears.  Next thing she knew, she was pulled up by her hair.  "What do you think you're doing?  Get your butt back down there! We have company!"  "But Charley, what you said..." "Oh, shut up! Can't you take a joke?  It's your responsibility to be there for our guests, so get down there!"  Without another word, without checking the mirror, with her head hurting from his treatment of her, she went down and took care of his company.  When they went home, for the first time, he didn't ask her if she'd like to sleep with him.  He just made her.  That was how it was from then on.

For a while, life with Charley stayed ragged but manageable.  She had her dad's example; she even gave Charley the benefit of the doubt--maybe there was something in her that made men treat her that way.  But then she lost her job.

It wasn't her fault.  Penney's was losing money in her area; they simply couldn't keep their doors open. She had known about it for weeks, but she'd had no idea how to tell Charley, so she just didn't.  As a result, he came home from work (he had a job in the oilfields--something he'd found through a relative) and found her there.  "Why the hell aren't you at work?  He said.  "We were all laid off, Charley.  Penney's went out of business here."  "What?"  He was furious.  He went to the shelf and found a figurine that was precious to her.  "This is you!"  he screamed, and he threw it on the floor, where it broke into tiny shards.  He went to the kitchen, got the coffee pot, and smashed it into the sink.  Again, shards of glass littered the area.  And then he bent down..."No! Not Pugsley!"  But it was too late.  He threw the little Pug straight at her.  His twenty pounds knocked her down, but the dog was all right.  She lay on the floor with him, too stunned even to cry.  She carefully set the Pug back on his feet, quietly shuffled away from him, got the dustpan, and cleaned up the mess.  She was unable to save the coffee pot, but she painstakingly restored the figurine.  It sat on her dresser beside Pugsley's collar--another marker.

Perversely, Charley refused to allow her to find a new job.  He told her that she was too stupid to do any real work.  She might as well stay home and try to find something that she could be good at--maybe like having babies.  He continued to work, and his buddies at the oilfields were all hard drinkers.  He went with them round for round and often came home roaring drunk.  She didn't know which was worse--sober, mean, sarcastic Charley or drunken, amorous, romantic Charley.  Worst of all, though, was Charley once he noticed that she had done some little thing wrong--not to his liking.  Then Charley became a demon from hell.  He would take her into the bedroom or the bathroom or the kitchen and start whaling on her.  It was only when she admitted through her tears that she was a horrible wife and didn't deserve him that he would stop.

Of course, if someone is forced to admit to a lie long enough, that lie becomes a truth.  It didn't take her very long at all to believe everything she said.  She saw herself as unloveable.  She truly believed that she put Charley up to it.  She even began to rethink her relationship with her father--maybe he'd been the victim all along.  As her self esteem plummeted, a fatalism like nothing she'd ever experienced took its place.  Whoever was at fault, she would stay with Charley.  She knew that sooner or later he would kill her.  It was only a matter of time.  But until that day, she would stay with him.

She probably would have, too, were it not for two things:  the first was Charley's increased insistence on a baby.  He would get up with her any time she had to go to the bathroom to make sure she wasn't sneaking contraceptives.  He told her daily that a baby would make her a new woman--someone worthy of his love.  The very thought of bringing a baby under the same roof with Charley terrified her.

The second thing was her father's death.  It was not unexpected.  He died one cold January morning--so drunk that he couldn't make it home and died in his car.  His family paid for his funeral, and of course she and Charley went.  She sat on a chair at the cemetery and watched the casket as it stood beside the cleverly concealed hole--her father was so entirely gone--and yet she still felt his presence, felt the menace that even now seemed to hover around him.  Although she couldn't see it, she knew that her mother's stone was right beside his.  They would be buried together.  As she was leaving, she stumbled and looked down. There was a beautiful piece of granite--a chunk of rock that seemed to be out of place.  She wondered if it broke off a marker as they were preparing her father's area.  Hardly realizing she was doing it, she took the piece of granite and held it all the way home. She put it beside the collar and the figurine--not as a marker, just because.

That night, she had a dream.  In it, she was once again at the cemetery, but instead of Charley, it was her mother at her side.  Her mother walked with her to her father's grave.  It was older now, and the marker had been made and even grown a little worn.  To one side, as she'd known, was her mother's grave.  But to the other--there was another marker, granite the color of the stone she'd found, with a beautiful picture of an angel.  Written on the marker were the words Marjorie Wooten.  Beloved wife and sister.  Gone too soon.  She was stunned.  Then she heard her mother's voice:  "Marjorie!  Wake up!  You don't have to live like this! Get out!"

When she woke up, she knew that she'd only been dreaming, but she truly believed that the dream was prophetic.  She got out of bed, packed her clothes, her markers, took what little money she still had--she only took enough to get out of town--and left.  The one thing she took that belonged to both of them was Pugsley.  She felt that she had to; if she didn't, she was sure that he would take it out on the dog.

The next few years weren't easy.  She was in bad shape.  She startled easily.  She didn't trust.  She was afraid of everyone and trusted no one. But she had her markers and she had her dog and she got help.  She found a job and started counseling.  And most of all, she kept walking.  She started taking walks, first for her dog but then equally for herself.  She would practice breathing, feeling...being.  And one day, she realized that she wasn't afraid.  She felt that she was no longer running away.  She looked around the city park and picked up the first thing she saw--a little pine cone.  It was added to the parade of markers on the dresser in her apartment.  It signified hope.  Each of the little tear-shaped pieces of the pine cone had the choice--to stay closed or to open.  She also had that choice.  She chose to open herself to new experiences.

Marjorie kept walking, kept looking, and one day, she decided to go on a trip.  She hadn't thought in those terms since...well, to be honest she didn't remember ever thinking in those terms.  She thought about where to go and immediately the thought came--the beach.  It wasn't close and it wasn't easy--she lived in Arizona and had no car--but she made it work.  She saved up and bought a train ticket, and she had a beautiful time.  Starting with the trip aboard the Coast Starlight, she gave herself up to the experience.  (Pugsley was along, too, in the baggage compartment--she made sure he was well taken care of.)  It had been so long since she'd seen the waves, smelt the salty air, heard the seagulls, that when she arrived, she simply stood still and was.  She felt the years roll away from her, and she realized that she really wasn't all that old.  Maybe it wasn't too late.  Maybe she could try again....Out of the stillness of the moment, she heard a voice: gentle, musical, and firm.  "I will redeem all you have lost," it said.  Hope.  She went to the shore and...she didn't even have to look.  A sand dollar--pure and unbroken--was waiting for her.  She carefully wrapped it in a Kleenex--another marker to add to her collection.

Years went by, and slowly and gently, God was true to His word.  She found the will to go back to school.  She found a few friends--only a few, but enough.  From a life without hope, she began to have a few timid dreams--little ones at first:  another trip to the beach, a new laptop, going to a concert.  Then the dreams became bigger, took feet, and became goals--get her bachelor's degree, become a teacher, find a good job.  And then, one day, she realized--God had done what he'd promised.  He had redeemed her.

One night, just after sunset, she was walking Pugsley in the park. She walked through the park with the old dog.  No, not that old, he was barely eight.  She remembered the day that she got him.  She remembered without fear, without regret, without anything other than a sense of love.  Yes, love.  Charley wasn't evil incarnate.  He wasn't the devil.  He was a messed up kid who became a messed up man.  And she wished him well.  Then she realized a truth:  it was time to move down another road.  She went to the store and found a beautiful box.  Inside the box--all of her markers.  They were valid, they were important--but it was time to move on.  She shut the lid on the box, put it in the closet, and took out the other thing she'd found at the store:  a framed calligraphy of Jeremiah 29:11  For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you  future and a hope.   Marjorie took a deep breath and smiled.  Her journey was about to begin.

only the righteous man may pass

I've been going this way to school since I was five.  Ever since I can remember, I went up to the top of the street, run from the dog on the corner (just a dachshund, but what a bark!) picked up a switch and ran it over the whitewashed fence on my way, and then down down down to the bottom of the hill.  After that, There was a short climb up a little hill and a much longer walk down another hill to the little school beside the park at the bottom.  I didn't know much about the rest of the town, but I did know how to get to school.  And back.

I loved going to school. I hated coming back home.  Going to school meant playing with my friends, seeing teachers that knew me and gave me sad little smiles, and immersing myself in study.  I was always surprised when the 3:00 bell rang.  When I was young, I would beg to stay.  I always hoped somehow that if I stayed, one of the smiling teachers would take me home with them.  But they never let me.  I had to go back up the hill, back up the other hill, up again past the whitewashed fence and the yappy dog, and down to the next-to-last house on the street.  My house.  The curtains were always closed.  The door was always locked.  I had to knock, and wait, and hope that they would let me in.

Sometimes my mother would be there alone, and she would let me in with a tired little smile, and I would be safe.  Sometimes my mother and father would be there together, and she would let me in.  I knew then to run to my room and stay there.  If I was lucky, it would be okay.  But sometimes my father would be there alone.  When that happened, I would try to be a quiet mouse.  Sometimes it worked.  Usually, though, it didn't.  And when it didn't, it usually ended badly for me.

I had a brother, once, but he ran away as soon as he turned 16.  He was much older than me--he was my mother's son but he had a different daddy.  He told me once that his daddy had died, and he missed him every single day.  I used to wish my daddy would die. It never happened, though, and I finally stopped wishing, just like I stopped hoping that things would change, that my mom would be home every night, or that he wouldn't hurt me.

My daddy liked hurting people.  He hurt my mommy every single day.  She was really good at putting on makeup, so nobody knew about it.  He used to hurt Thad, too, and that was why he ran away.  But he was best at hurting me.  He knew how to do it so that nothing would show, but that didn't mean that it didn't hurt.  Sometimes he would make me put on my Sunday School clothes and then he'd make me sit in a chair and hold a Bible up in the air over my head.  He would make me hold it there till I couldn't hold it any more, and when I dropped it or put my arms down, he'd use that as an excuse to hit me and call me names.  He would tell me that the Bible could never help me, that it wasn't him hurting me, it was that blanking Bible.  Other times he made me stay in my room with all the lights off--he did that until he figured out that I wasn't scared of the dark.  Honestly, that was my favorite punishment.

I am not afraid of the dark because when I'm by myself and it's dark, the angels come.  They are white and shiny and only I can see them.  They tell me that they know how much it hurts, but my real father knows, too, and he promises that this won't last forever.  One of them is always there.  Sometimes I can see him and sometimes I can't.  But I can always feel him.  He tells me to be patient.  But it's hard, because sometimes I think that my daddy will kill me.  And other times it's even harder, because I find myself being more afraid that he won't.  I have dreams where my mommy dies or goes away, and my daddy and I are the only ones that are left.

One day I think that my dream has come true.  I woke up in the night to loud screaming.  My mommy taught me never to leave my room, but he comes in.  "Come in here and clean up this mess!" my daddy tells me.  He takes me by the hand and drags me to his room--their room.  My mother is lying in the middle of the floor, half of her under the bed.  Her eyes are closed and she doesn't look like she's breathing.  There's blood everywhere.  I thought at first that she was dead, but then I saw her eyes open for a minute and look at me.  There were tears in them.  My daddy brought me a bucket and a rag, and I washed my mother and the floor.  I was changing the sheets on the bed when I saw the little bundle.  I figured it out then.  My mommy had been pregnant and I hadn't known.  She lost the baby and instead of going to the hospital, my daddy was keeping her home while I mopped up.

I finished and went back into my room.  The angels were there.  "Please, please, help my mommy! Don't let her die!"  Without a word, the biggest one walked through my door. I ran after him.

When he left my room, he changed.  He wasn't white or shiny, and he looked like a normal man.  But he didn't act like a normal man.  He walked through my mommy's room, picked her up, breathed on her,  She didn't change all of a sudden, but it seemed to me that she felt a little better.

The angel-man held her in his arms like she was a little doll.  He took me by the hand and started out the door.  My daddy went after him, but he couldn't get through his own door!  "Hey, you! What's going on? Where you taking my family?"

He looked at my father with eyes of clearest blue, and he said, "Only the righteous man may pass."  No yelling, no loud voices, but he was the boss, not my daddy.  My daddy pretended to be very big and grown up, but I knew that he was only pretending.  I saw how scared he really was in his eyes.  "Don't you know anything?  Indiana Jones is my favorite movie hero.  The line is "Only the penitent man may pass!"

The angel just stood there, looking at him.  Just then the other angels went past, out into the street with the other angel, my mommy and me.  My mommy was saying something, but all I could hear was my daddy's heart pounding.  He ran away from all of them, into his room, and shut the door.  The angel said it again, "Only the righteous man may pass," and then we went outside.

The angel put Mommy into the car and then he drove and drove.  We went away from the house, my daddy, my school, our city, and then we drove even more.  He didn't stop driving for a week, just for food and for gas.  One day, though, Mommy came out of it.  She looked at me, took the wheel like she'd been doing it all the time, and drove down the highway until she got to a little town.  She pulled up beside a really pretty brick house.  It looked like a place I'd dreamed about--but it was real.  Mommy took me by the hand and led me up the walk to the door.  She knocked on the door, and Thad opened it! Right behind him was a lady that reminded me of Mommy, just bunches older.  She grabbed me in a big hug, and then she reached up past me and stroked my mommy's cheek.  When I looked at Mommy, tears were streaming down her face.  Mine, too.  We cried a lot those first few days.  We cried for the baby, for our house, for everything we'd left behind--we even cried for Daddy.  It still rang in my ears--only the righteous man may pass."  Mommy never said anything about those days, not until much later.

I went to bed with Mommy that night, and we stayed with Grandma--that was who she was, my Grandma, Mommy's mommy--for a long time after that.  I never saw the angels again after that, either.  I never told Mommy about them either.  But one day, much later, I did ask her if she remembered how we got out.  "It's so strange, LizAnne.  I'd tried to leave so many times.  Every time he'd hide the car keys or hurt me or threaten you.  But this time, it was different.  I don't even really remember how we got away.  I remember seeing you having to clean up the mess, and then I passed out.  I don't remember anything for days.  In fact, I don't even remember driving the car until right before we got to Grandma's.  I don't even remember deciding to go there!  My mom and I had argued, and I'd run away with my first husband.  Things hadn't been healed between us.  I guess it just shows what you're capable of doing when you have to protect the ones you love.  Not one word about the angels.  But then, I didn't really think there would be.

Daddy never came after us, never came looking.  Many years later, I heard that he stayed in that little house in that same city until he died.  He never got married again, never hurt anyone else again, ever.  He sort of just shriveled up.  He died not too many years after that.  I never saw the angels again, either,  though I never really thought that I would.  They were with me when I needed them, and I know that things would have been much worse for Mommy and me if they weren't around.  But I'm always going to remember them,and I will never forget the way that they protected me.  I have a new Bible, now, and I read it almost every day.  I love reading about my friends, especially Michael.  I wonder if that was him?  I guess I'll find out--one day.  For now, I'm happy to be a normal little girl in a normal school with a mommy, a brother, and a Grandma that loves me.  I like my life!