New devotional in the works!! What do you think?

I'm hoping for some input.  This is the beginning of my next project.  But first, some background.

When I went through multiple losses, I went through PTSD.  People go through PTSD for a variety of reasons.   I have lasting effects from it.  For example, when I had my recent accident, I had trouble concentrating--focusing.  I still do from time to time.  It is hard to listen to people for any length of time.  Even today, I found myself "fuzzy" during a meeting.

When I was able to realize I needed help, I tried to find something that would give me focus.  I couldn't do it.  I'm not sure why--all I know is that there was nothing out there that was helpful.  Everything was too long, and everything was too cerebral.  Anything more than a line or two was overwhelming.  What I needed during those first days was a sort of mantra.  I found it in the words of Julian of Norwich.

As I've thought about this, I've decided that I want to write a devotional that would have helped me.  I prayed about it as I was prayerfully considering my platform, and this is what I came up with:

• It has to be in sections, not day by day.
• It has to go from very short thoughts to longer short ideas to normal.
• It should have a section for times when you wonder what you can do to help others.
• It should be short on reference and long on love, especially at the beginning.

With this in mind, I've decided on this format:

• The first section will consist of sentences with short instructions on how to use them.  I remember that it was hard to breathe.  That was the major thing.  I couldn't focus enough even to take a full breath (if that sounds weird, remember, this is me).  This section will help you breathe in the words and let them rest in your soul.
• The second section will be short paragraphs--still in the mindset of coming to your soul, but with a little more meat.
• The third section will be more like a traditional devotional.  There will be the verses, the short story, the summary idea, and verses for further reference.

• The final section will be similar to the third, but it will be focused specifically on how others have taken their pain and lessons learned to help those who are hurting.  The idea is based on my life verse:  2 Cor 3-4:   Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, 4 who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.

Here is a sample of the first section.  I'd like to know--if you were in the midst of heavy suffering, would this help you?

All will be well, and all will be well, and all will be very well

St Julian of Norwich

Breathe deeply, and say this quietly to yourself.  Stop.  Let yourself feel the truth of what you’ve said.  Stop.  Repeat, one phrase at a time. Understand that even if you don’t believe it, something inside you is being fed.  Accept that.

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.

Philippians 4:13

Breathe deeply, and say the entire verse quietly to yourself.  Stop.  Let the truth sink in.  Repeat the entire verse again, breathing in on “I can do all things” and out on “through Christ who strengthens me.  Stop.  Breathe deeply and let the truth of the verse soothe your soul.  Understand that you will understand the truth of this, even though you may not believe it right now.  Accept that your subconscious can grasp what you can’t right now.

Never, never, ever give up!

Winston Churchill

Take a deep breath. Say this to yourself with strength.  Even if you feel stupid doing it, say this to yourself in a very strong voice.  If you feel your heart shrinking inside, it’s because it doesn’t believe (yet) that this is possible.  It is.  Remind yourself that you are in control of your body, your mind, your soul, and your spirit.  If you choose not to give up, then you will not.

I don’t normally put in a second paragraph, but I want to remind you that I’m speaking of essential things, here.  Don’t give up on living.  Don’t give up on being whole.  Don’t give up on walking forward.  Please don’t mistake essentials for non-essentials.  It might be necessary to give up on a non-essential in order not to give up on an essential.  Just remember—at this stage, you are working on trust and confidence and the ability to stand.

Why does God allow bad things to happen?

On Thursday, I met with my editor and got the most welcome news:  my book is finished and ready for editing!  I went to Red Robin to have a celebratory burger, and on the way home, I got into an accident.  I began to wonder right away if it was my negligence (yep!), or if God was also trying to teach me something.

Aside from the obvious "If you are turning right, it's a good idea to look left before you go in the road," I was pretty sure that there was something more.  I had several reasons for this.  The first:  there seemed to be absolutely no damage to the other person's car, second:  my damage--a smashed driver's and passenger's door on the driver's side--didn't impede my exiting or being able to drive. The third:  God had told me that I was not, in fact, finished.  There was one thing more that I was supposed to do.  As I drove home and got inside, it became really clear--I needed to do Peter:  feed my sheep.  To do it justice, I needed to remember PTSD.  Imagine Peter.  Every time he closed his eyes, I'm sure it was right in front of him:  cursing and emphasizing that he didn't know Jesus, and then realizing that his Lord was looking right at him and hearing the cock crow.

We are quick to claim that God does not want bad things to happen to good people.  There are some who say that if we are faithful enough, the bad things would stop and we would experience good health and prosperity.  My question, then, is this:  what did God have against the apostles?  What did God have against his own son?  Were they not faithful enough?  Jesus knew that Peter would be crucified, and yet he gave him no pep talk on building up his faith to become immune to hurt.

My own feeling about suffering comes in large part from Therese of Liseaux.  She said that she was the plaything of God, and if he wanted to use her as a little boy uses a ball and then leave her abandoned in a corner for a time, that would be fine with her.  Suffering, like everything else, has a purpose and a plan.  In my case, I would not give up a single bit of the suffering that occurred in my life.  It's made me a stronger, better person. If you are suffering right now, have you considered thanking God for what you're going through?  We are forever being told to be thankful--I think that includes being thankful for what we see as unfortunate things.  Thankfulness means that we understand that even though we can't begin to understand, we are in his hands and acknowledge his control.

So friends, in all things give thanks.

On the path

The more I walk this road toward publication, the more divided I become.  Part of me is excited; part of me wonders what I'm doing.  Too late now.  I've made up my mind and there is no turning back.

It seems like every day I'm reminded of another reason that I should speak about suffering--minister to those going through trauma.  Today, a beautiful woman with a horrendous story came to SADD club to speak.  She was an ordinary mother--she had a son who was in Salpointe, and she and her husband decided to rent a video.  They went to the video store, and as they were coming back, she remembers approaching Mountain St.  She remembers nothing after that, but she was told that a 19-year-old was celebrating his birthday by driving drunk.  She had the right of way and was making a turn, and he slammed into her car.  Her husband was killed and she was forever changed.  She has walked through a lot in the years since, and now she is giving back by sponsoring an endowed scholarship.

After the students left, she and I stayed together for awhile and talked.  She has been a speaker for quite some time, and I told her of my plans.  It was crazy how many feelings we have in common.  We both lost our husbands, though in very different ways.  We both had encounters in the hospital with people who were sent by God (in fact, I've always wondered if my hospital visitor was really an angel).  We've both walked a long way to come back to ourselves, and we both feel mandated to share our experiences so that we can help others.  Donna is an important part of our substance abuse awareness program for parents, and she also volunteers for MADD and other organizations.  As I've said, I'm readying myself for a ministry to the person who is walking through trauma.  Both of us agree that the training that we've received--and the life that we live--is exhausting.

Exhausting.  I sometimes wonder how I'll make it through.  For example, right now it is 10:13.  I am writing in my blog because I know I need to record this.  It's a marker for me.  But it means that once again I'll be late getting to bed.  I'm exhausted all the time these days.  If I'm not teaching, I'm grading papers. If I'm not doing school work, my mind is working on another story--sometimes unbeknownst to me!  I'm constantly second guessing myself, and I often find myself thinking that this will fall by the wayside.  I have never managed to be published, so why should I think that I can do it now?

Another thing that I deal with is the overimportance that I place on relatively unimportant things.  I have misplaced some files.  I know they're here someplace--but there is no need for me to overturn my house looking for them.  If I can't find them, I know there's a reason.  But still I obsess.

This is all part of the walk.  I'm sure of that.  I promise myself, here and now, that I will keep walking.  I WILL finish this book.  I WILL fulfill God's plan and purpose for my life. I KNOW I will, because I know that HE is here--right now--guarding and guiding me.  Amen.

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.

Never never EVER give up!

My story didn't start yesterday.  It didn't start last year.  It didn't even start ten years ago.  While my story, like all of yours, has been in a state of becoming since I was born, the part of my story that nearly killed me started in 1990 and first became traumatic in 1991.  That's over 23 years ago.  After my father died (not unexpected--he was 81), I felt the grief that anyone would feel at the death of a father.  I was the baby, so maybe it was harder for me; I'm really not sure.  However, in July, 1991, my world was shaken.  My baby, Tommy, died at 24 weeks gestation.  It was not a stillbirth; he lived for eleven days.  Miracles happened both during and after his birth; still, my precious son died.  I'm not going into that now--that's not the point of this post.  Thirteen months after Tommy died, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy named David.  Two months after David was born, I started a new job.  Four months after that, my husband unexpectedly died.  He had a cerebral aneurysm and lived for eleven days, just like my son.  I'm not going into any of that right now, either.  That's not the point of the post.  I struggled with grief, suicidal thoughts, horrible decisions, miserable choices, and then--I began to experience healing.  THAT is STILL not the point of this post.  But patience, friends.  I'm getting there.

As I began to experience healing, I was unable to do much more than receive for the first several years.  When I was able to reach outward, at first it was only through writing and singing.  But before too long, I began to want to serve others--to help others in the way that I myself had been helped.  I took 2 Corinthians 1:4 as my life verse: He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us. However, the more I asked God to allow me a chance to help others, the less likely it seemed that he would do so.  I never understood why, but nothing ever seemed to work out.  Whenever I asked for a chance to help, the answer I got was "wait."  But I didn't want to wait!

Well, here it is, 23 years later, and I find myself preparing.  I know that the time is not yet at hand, but it is coming.  I am resting in the Lord, waiting on Him, and He is reminding me every day of something that He wants me to take into this new life.  One day I will remember a miracle, another day I will remember the sweetness of a healing, another memory will come of something that he showed me in his Word that brought an understanding that I hadn't yet received.  I see all these things coming together.

One thing, though, that I hadn't seen, was this.  I understand now why I had to wait all these years.  It took that much time for me to be ready.  Not healed, ready.  I couldn't have taken the steps that I'm about to take even 5 years ago.  It took people criticizing my Spanish to understand that people mean only good when they criticize.  It took people proofreading my stories (in Spanish) and projects for me to realize that you don't disintegrate when you receive criticism.  It took me having opportunities through the years to sing, to share my story, and to share my readings to understand that it moves people when I do so, and it can bring healing.  I didn't understand that 23 years ago.  I understand it now.

So I wait again, and hopefully for the last time.  I know that at the end of this waiting, I'll be free to help others receive the hope and healing that they can find through God.  It will be truly time.  And I will be so thankful that I waited.

So this is my point to you:  as Winston Churchill said, Never never EVER give up!  You might be in a holding pattern, too, and the days may see pointless and long.  Please do remember that God is walking your path with you.  He knows how long you need before you're ready to take wing and fly.  Please don't despair--he will give you the desire of your heart.  He WILL.  Just have faith.  

By the way, I'm discovering that you are leaving comments and somehow they're not appearing.  Please email me at meggiev7777@gmail.com until I figure out what's going on.  I so want to hear from you.

God bless you!

Forgiving yourself

Forgiveness.  Such a beautiful word, but such a difficult thing to give.  It is one thing to forgive a thoughtless action or careless word; it is quite another to forgive action that caused serious hurt, harm or death.  Above all, it is nearly impossible to forgive pain that you yourself inflicted.  How can you forgive yourself?

I was 15, and I was going through a particularly rough patch in my development.  I was easily embarrassed, easily offended, put off by anything that seemed to my arrogant little mind as selfish.  The prime culprit, in my opinion, was my mother.  She seemed to be a constant irritant.  She had to be helped out of her chair.  She couldn't walk long distances.  She told stories of falling and staying there until someone came to pick her up.  She seemed overly concerned about her weight.  I understood none of this and resented all of it.  What I didn't realize was that my mother was desperately ill.

In my defense, I need to explain that my mom, Violet Wood, had been seriously ill since I was 18 months old.  She was so often in the hospital that I thought visiting the hospital was normal.  I didn't realize the severity of her condition, and I didn't see the gradual decline.  I was too young to fully understand.  By the time I reached 15, my mother was months away from death.  However, the changes weren't visible to me.  I saw them as new things for her to complain about, and I resented them.

Reading this, I can't believe how shallow and callous I was.  But I'm trying to be as honest as I can, and that was how it was.

Two events stick out in my mind.  The first is just a memory.  I know I was 14 or 15.  It's like a photograph--an event frozen in time.  My father, mother and I were going to JC Penney.  By this time, Mama couldn't walk for long distances, so for this trip, she was in a wheelchair.  I didn't understand, and I was embarrassed.  It seemed to me that she was lazy.  She could walk (using a walker) in the house, so why wasn't she walking now?  I didn't want to be seen with her, and I lagged behind, looking into shop windows and pretending not to be part of the family.  Of course, Mama picked up on it right away.  She called me on my behavior.  Now I wasn't only embarrassed, I was ashamed.  I don't recall asking for her forgiveness.  I just recall resenting having to share space with her.

The second event is frozen in my mind.  It was the morning of September 23.  My mother was in the dining room in a chair.  Once again, she was going to the hospital.  I was in bed, asleep, as was my brother.  Her breathing woke me up.  It was as if she had a bunch of phlegm caught in her throat.  I couldn't stand the sound.  I remember being irritated.  'Why doesn't she clear her throat?' I thought.  My mother didn't have the strength to go to our rooms.  She called out to my brother that she loved him.  He responded.  Then she called out the same thing to me.  I remember groaning to her.  I couldn't be bothered to tell her that I loved her.  Those were the last words she ever spoke to me.  My dad took her to the hospital, and I went back to sleep.

The next day, my brother and I didn't go to school.  I don't remember thinking too much about that, but I do remember having lunch when we received the call--your mother is dying, and if you want to see her, you need to come now.  We all hurried to the hospital, and for the first time in my life, I was allowed into her room.  She was in a coma and unresponsive.  I remember going to her side, taking her hand, and saying over and over, "I love you, Mama!"  Nothing.  At that time, I didn't realize that people in a coma can hear you.  All I knew was that I had lost my last chance to let my mother know that I loved her.  I became fascinated by the heart monitor.  I couldn't stop watching it record my mother's heartbeat.  As a result, I saw those beats stop.  I saw her die.

For many years--over 30 years--I couldn't forgive myself for the miserable way that I had treated my mother.  I was in a strange place--the person that I had offended was dead.  There was no going to her and asking forgiveness.  I did, of course.  I spoke to her as if she was still there and asked her forgiveness.  I believe with all my heart that she heard me and forgave me, but how could I forgive myself?

The answer didn't come easily.  The unforgiveness that I felt became seated in my heart and turned me cold.  It began to distort my personality.  I thought of myself as unworthy, unloveable.  I built walls between myself and the world--the pain and hurt that I felt was a barrier that walled me in and kept love out.  It didn't happen overnight, and it wasn't healed overnight.

 I don't remember one specific moment that led to my ability to forgive myself.  I think that it was a gradual understanding of an overwhelming truth:  God forgave me, and my mother forgave me.  Of that I was certain.  So in my refusal to forgive myself, I was stating that their forgiveness was incorrect.  If they could forgive me, then I had the ability--the responsibility--to forgive myself.  I didn't have the power within me to do it, but I had learned obedience, and in that obedience I claimed forgiveness.  I forgave myself for the foolish behavior of my youth.  The italics show the understanding that came with that forgiveness.  As long as I was mired in my own guilt, I couldn't see that.  There was no category, there was just self-loathing.  But as I forgave myself, my soul began to speak to me the peace that had always been available to me in Christ Jesus.  I began to realize that I was judging myself far more harshly than either my mother or my Lord had ever judged me.

Dear friend, what is there in your soul that is waiting to be forgiven?  Please look into your heart and see what is behind the hurt that is there.  What is keeping you from feeling free to express that loveliness that is you?  Is it youthful indiscretion, a life of sin that is still bothering you, although you repented long ago?  Are you refusing to forgive yourself for the pain that you caused others?  Please, in obedience, grasp the forgiveness that has been given to you and then apply it to yourself.  I promise you that it will set your soul free and allow for the healing that you know you need.

Father, I pray for the person who may be reading this right now with tears in their eyes.  I pray that as you speak words of love and forgiveness to that person, they understand that your love is always free, always open, and always available.  I pray that as they accept this truth, they find the obedience that they need to both accept your forgiveness and then apply it to their own soul.  Let them see that the self-forgiveness that they do not feel worthy to claim is the very key that they seek to unlock their hearts and admit the love and peace of Your Holy Spirit.  In Jesus' name, Amen.

A bruised reed...

He will not cry out, nor raise His voice,
Nor cause His voice to be heard in the street.
³ A bruised reed He will not break,
And smoking flax He will not quench;
He will bring forth justice for truth.
⁴ He will not fail nor be discouraged,
Till He has established justice in the earth;
And the coastlands shall wait for His law.”  Isaiah 42: 2-3

I started this post with the story of the woman caught in adultery.  Got pretty far with it, too, before I realized that her story isn't the story that I need to write.  Once again, I need to write my story.

I first heard this verse (actually, simply "a bruised reed he will not break") when I was at First Baptist Church.  I was a shell at that point, bruised and broken and hurting over the loss of baby, father, husband, and the life I knew.  I heard it and it gave me hope.  Others heard it and knew immediately that it was a word for me.  

It wasn't until much later that I went so far as to look up the context for the verse (never let a verse stand on its own.  You always need to make sure of the surrounding verses so that you know what it is actually saying).  It begins clarifying that he is speaking of His Servant in whom He delights.  He goes on to say that he will neither cry out nor raise his voice.  He will not break this bruised reed; he will not quench smoking flax.  These two verses bring hope. He will not allow a suffering person to be broken; he will not allow his spark of grace to be quenched even though it is surrounded by corruption.

I think about my pain and the pain of those around me--those whose pain I have observed and whose suffering I have shared in.  I have wondered how God could think that they could stand any more--why God doesn't intervene.  I think about others who have not been able to withstand their suffering--those people who have gone insane, committed suicide, or who have turned from God in bitterness.  I wonder about the truth of the verse in light of these examples.  No, I have no easy answers.  All I have is the picture of Aslan the Lion in the Chronicles of Narnia:  "That is not your story.  That is their story.  You do not need to understand their story, only your own."  Added to that, I think we have to admit that only God understands, and he will let us know in time--if we need to know.  If not, he will still comfort us.  That is what he does.

As for myself, healing took many years and the help of a faithful friend.  It took faith and love, both on my part and on the parts of those around me who knew my turmoil and prayed me through.  It took forgiveness and time and patience.  But it did happen.  I am still here and I can actually look back and say that I'm thankful for the experience.

That is the thing that is so wonderful about God's presence and his love during these times:  he does reveal himself.  I saw him more clearly after my husband's death than I ever did before.  I was able to depend on him more completely than ever, because there really was nobody else left.  I went through a lot, yes--so did my children--but I am glad that I did, because it left me stronger.  

Every time I write these words, I hear you say, "What?  You're glad your husband and child are dead?" Always before I have said that I'm not happy they're dead; I'm happy that God brought me through it as he did.  But just this once, I'm going a little further.  Yes, I'm glad.  I'm glad because they're with God.  I'm glad because they're together.  But most of all, I'm glad because I know that Tommy would in all likelihood have been severely brain damaged had he lived.  I know that Val would have been a vegetable.  I know that they would not have wanted to live like that--not compared to the wondrous things that they experience every moment their existence in God's presence.  So yes, I'm glad--for them--that they're dead.  But oh, how I wish they were here on earth for me.  And that's the truth of it.

Are you a bruised reed?  Are you suffering under a tremendous burden?  Take comfort in the fact that he has promised to be with you.  He has promised that his strength is there for you. Reach out to him and he will answer you and show you great and mighty things. Amen.