Shalom Shattered, Shalom Restored

It didn’t bloom last Spring, this tulip in its little pot. A stem came up with promising green leaves but no blossoms ever appeared. Perhaps the confines of the planter restricted its roots.

What a sweet surprise to discover it pushing up through the soil a couple days ago. As I’ve been led recently to look at the shattering of shalom in my life, God is using this plant to speak to me. My heavenly Father has brought a lot of healing to my heart’s garden over the years. But I recognize that there are still constraints that choke my growth.

One of my earliest recollections of trauma involves the death of my sister, Debbie, at age four. I was born eleven months after her so we were very close. And yes, I remember her clearly. When she died, I was told that she’d gone to be with Jesus in heaven; my constant companion, my best and essentially only playmate, had left me behind. Such a time of confusion, bewilderment and the unfairness of it all. Then when I thought we were going to see her—it was the funeral we were going to but I didn’t understand what that was—and expecting to see Jesus too, because of being told earlier that’s where she’d gone, I was sorely disappointed that Jesus was only a painting on the wall, and my sister lay unresponsive and cold in a pretty box. I felt foolish for my beliefs and somehow thought I should’ve known. But how could I? I was only three years old.

I can see where this experience has led me to often see myself as left out, not worthy of being included. It seems silly, I know, to think of not dying as a message that I wasn’t worth including, but that is how my little three-year old brain worked. It was a lie I believed about myself and carried along with me, a box I restrained myself in. Also from this I can see where I hold myself away from whole-heartedly investing in relationship with loved ones because how could I stand it if they leave me behind too. Then there’s the sense of “I should’ve known” in any given circumstance where there really is no way for me to know in advance something that is beyond my comprehension.

Thankfully my Jesus is not confined to a painting. He was with me in that earliest time as He now is in this present time. The Holy Spirit has brought healing and will continue to do so. Fully experiencing the pain and sorrow and grief means that I will fully experience the joy He has for me. There is no shame in not knowing what is around the corner and failing to understand life and the confusing incidents in it. Like that little tulip in the planter on my balcony that didn’t reach its bloom last year but is poking its head up again this year, trying again for another chance, my heart is coming up through the grime of sorrow and finding a place of inclusion in His light. Shalom restored.

No Bump in the Road

I don’t own a lot of CDs. But there is one I’ve had for a dozen years. Listening to it has helped me encourage myself, especially after a time of betrayal. It’s called “The Mercy Project.” A favorite song on it, sung by Martina McBride, is called “You’ll Get Through This.” The chorus says,

“You’ll get through this, you’ll break new ground.

When you’re lost within your weakness, hope is waiting to be found.

You’ll get through this, no matter what it takes.

I believe in you for heaven’s sake.

You’ll get through this.”

It irks me when I hear someone say “just get over” it. I don’t believe we “get over” being betrayed by someone we trusted. Okay, I don’t think I will “get over” being betrayed by someone I trusted. To me “getting over” something is like saying it was merely a bump in the road, no big deal. Uh uh! Betrayal is no bump in the road.

So this song is a favorite because I have discovered that I’ve been getting through it. It’s like digging a tunnel through a mountain to find what my part was in it, as I forgive and keep forgiving the person. I think I’ve broken through a lot of new ground looking at and acknowledging my own part in it, confessing my sin to God and others, accepting forgiveness, uncovering deeper roots—the lies I believed about myself—that set me up for the situation and dealing with those, healing. I can think about the situation now and talk about it and the pain is no longer there. I remember the pain and can empathize with others when they experience it but I’m not staring out my window anymore feeling bereft.  

At a women’s gathering earlier this year I heard a speaker said, “You don’t have to clean up the mess someone else made.” Wow! What a concept. It’s their mess and they didn’t make the mess in my house. They made it in theirs. No need for me to step over it. I’ll be right here getting through my own mess.

What are the messes you’re getting through?

Thumb Times I’m in a Zone

 If I circle my right wrist with my left thumb and middle finger, they don’t quite meet.

If I circle my left wrist with right thumb and middle finger, they meet without any problem. And if my thumb joint would allow me to straighten it, it looks like they could even overlap.

Does this mean my right wrist is bigger than my left? Weird.

Well, that’s not the case. But the real case is still weird. Turns out my left thumb is about ¼ inch shorter than my right thumb. My mom used to tease me that I stunted its growth by sucking it but then she’d say I sucked my right thumb and made it stretch. LOL! Wikipedia gives several labels for it: clubbed thumb, murderer’s thumb (further investigation needs to be done as I think it would be interesting to know the origins of that!), potter’s thumb, toe thumb, and finally brachydactyly type D of the congenital musculoskeletal abnormalities, which just means I was born with one thumb small enough to be Thumbelina. I’ve never attempted to hitch hike but I’m wondering which thumb would be more successful.

I know there are more Thumbelina people out there, some of them even have two brachydactyly (why do I keep picturing a dinosaur when I type that word?) thumbs. But double clubbed thumbs would not help me make my point today.

That is, before coming to a conclusion about something we need to get all the facts. If a person describing me only saw the first two photos, they could say, “Anita’s wrists aren’t the same size.” Or they could look closer and get out the measuring tape and realize it’s all about the thumbs.

There is something else about me with a tendency to get misconstrued. It’s even less evident to the naked eye than my thumbs. I’m an introvert. Doesn’t mean I’m shy or timid or that I don’t like people. It does mean that my energy level depletes quickly when I’m with people. I re-stock my energy by getting into my own head. So I love being with people but in shorter time frames. And while I prefer smaller groups, larger groups are doable if I can take breaks.

Sometimes when I’m in a large group of people and everyone’s talking at once—you know what I mean, girlfriends, we’ve all got something important to say and we just can’t wait to say it—I start to feel overwhelmed.

You ever see a little kid start crying in a room full of people and there doesn’t seem to be any reason for it? That was me. First day of VBS with my grandma’s church. Mom dropped me off and went home. Grandma, being one of the Cookie Ladies, wasn’t involved in registration. I felt so proud, not quite six years old and I was going to do this all by myself. Gave my name and answered the questions of the lady filling out the little card. Allowed my name tag to be pinned on my shirt. Followed directions to stand in that line. Looked at the crayons another little girl showed me.

And then suddenly I became aware that the room was bursting with kids, boisterous kids, happy kids, not a single one being mean or anything, but what could I do but inexplicably burst into tears! I couldn’t explain what I was experiencing to any of the adults who came running. I just knew I needed to “g-g-g-go h-h-h-h-home. My mommy needs me to h-h-h-help take care of my ba-a-a-by sister!” Eventually they located Grandma who took me with her to the kitchen where I helped her set out the cookies for snack time. When I’d calmed down she asked me if I’d like to see what the other children were doing—she’d come with me and be with me the whole time. Once I’d seen how they were all gathered in small groups around tables doing crafts (Oh, boy! Crafts! I’m there!), it was a piece of cake for me to stay with them, instead of with Grandma.

Retrospectively I’ve identified what that was all about. Changing the labels of “Crybaby” and “Scaredy-Cat” to “Excited Little Introverted Girl on Sensory Overload” is very healing.

Although on occasion I still cry when I’m with people (now for entirely different reasons—I mean, when hearts are being shared some discussions are just going to be five-Kleenex rated), I’ve learned to take a break without even leaving the room. I call it “zoning out”. It might mean that I close my eyes. Or my eyes will stay open while I retreat into my thoughts. I block out what is going on around me.

The awkward thing about this is that I’m not always aware that I’ve zoned out and my face may have an expression that could be interpreted as incongruent to my environment. I might even make a “huh” sound as I follow my own thoughts. But those around me could assume I’ve indicated an opinion about what’s being discussed. Oops!

Hopefully if you’re with me, or maybe with someone else you know is an introvert, you’ll ask clarifying questions. If you do, you’ll always get a thumbs up—little brachiosaurus and the other one—from me.

Beginning of the Shining (not to be confused with the movie of the same name)

Although this is not my first blog post, I feel like I’m groping around in the dark. What kind of luminary is that? LOL! Okay, so my first two posts were just about learning to blog—they still count. My groping now is about where to start with the light shining thing. At the beginning? Well, there’s an illuminating thought. And wouldn’t you know, I was asked recently to share something about my beginnings—with a group of friends in a book discussion club. They expressed they found it inspiring so I’m thinking this blog is a good place to share it as well. You’ll get to know a little bit about what makes me tick and I’ll have gotten one more blog post under my belt. Woohoo!

So here’s what I shared:

As some of you may know I express myself best through writing. Plus I can spare you the rabbit trails I’d take you on, and make sure I get to my point, if I stick to reading it. Hopefully you won’t mind.

As soon as I got the email from Kerry, my mind immediately went into gear, wondering what to share, how much, what aspect, etc and my heart prayer was for God’s direction. A story I wrote about my childhood for faithwriters.com in 2009 entitled Accidents Are Not Born came to mind. Within a few minutes of letting Kerry know that I was willing to share, she wrote back with the words, “Praise God from whom ALL blessings flow…you are one!” That confirmed for me God’s direction to share from that part of my life.

By the way, I didn’t start reading One Thousand Gifts until after I’d finished writing out what I’m going to share with you today. But once I started reading it, I felt confirmation there as well.

One might think, “A dairy farm, what a safe and pleasant place to grow up in.” That, I’m here to tell you, is a somewhat naïve illusion. Rural living, yes, can be pleasant but it can also be dangerous. I will tell you about a few, but not all, of the accidental injuries in my life that occurred down on our farm in the Pacific Northwest.

When I was born in 1953 I joined two brothers and one sister. My brothers, Larry and David, were six and five years old. My sister Debby, a beautiful blue-eyed blonde with naturally curly hair, was eleven months and about three weeks older than me so we spent ten days each year being the same age. But only for three years. She passed away in 1956 just a month after her 4^th birthday. That’s a whole ‘nother story I won’t go into today.

To just briefly round out the family history, my precious sister Robyn came along when I was five years old and the tag-along brother Brian arrived when I was almost fourteen.

Now the first dangerous incident I’ll tell you about might not meet the definition of an outright accident. It involved my oldest brother who experienced oxygen deprivation during birth which led to brain damage. His mental ability was too impaired to know right from wrong and likely his action in this wasn’t intentional—thus an accident.

Every summer my father baled hay in meadows through which an icy creek meandered straight from the Cascade Mountains. To cool off from the sweatiness of loading hay onto the wagons, also known as ‘bucking bales’, Dad and my brothers and the crew of local farm boys often took a dip in the creek. Someone decided damming the stream at a wide spot where the banks were high would create a swimmin’ hole worth diving into. That engineering feat accomplished, much refreshment ensued.

Enter Mother with picnic lunch for the workers, accompanied by five-year-old me—a little girl afraid of water and with an introverted temperament, easily overwhelmed by a busy environment. When it was time to go home, I found myself on the far side of the creek—I do not remember how I got there but the creek was just a trickle in some places so maybe I waded across. Perhaps the late afternoon shadows on the water now freaked me out. In any case, whining for help went unheeded except by my aforementioned brother.

Instead of carrying me across though, he threw me into the swimmin’ hole, now about nine feet deep. I swam like a rock. My short life passed before me. Hell’s fiery flames flicked at the soles of my feet, or so I thought. It was only dead leaves from the branches used in the dam, which could’ve snagged and held me captive. One of those local farm boys dove in and saved me—my first hero. I still remember his name—Les McDowell.

Danger zone ahead: the kitchen.

My chore as an eight-year old was putting dishes from the drain rack into the cupboard. To reach the higher shelves I used a chair to climb up and sit on the counter.

Our old farmhouse kitchen’s metal cupboards had one below-counter door that never latched properly. As I dismounted from the counter rather than using the chair one particular morning, the sharp corner of that slightly open door caught at the back of my knee and dug in. I’m sorry to be so graphic but I thought the sound I heard was my dress ripping.

Thirty stitches, and fifty years later, a wide scar due to ‘proud flesh’ sews a seam from back-of-knee to bottom-of-rump and gives testimony to the fragility of skin.

At age nine I decided to try performing a gymnastics routine. We didn’t have TV so I must have seen this at a friend’s house and no one said, “Don’t try this at home.” So I attempted it with my non-athletic body. On a mattress. Trying to flip. Using my head as landing gear.

Not having that tended to properly at the time, I’m grateful to have feeling in my arms and legs but I’ve dealt constantly with pain. I know I am very fortunate in not having broken my neck.

Getting the wind knocked out of me—a recurring theme.

Jumping off stacks of baled hay in the barn into piled-up loose hay was great fun. After many jumps it got pretty packed but not so solid that landing on your feet was of any consequence. My dad suggested doing a ‘preacher’s seat’. He explained, “That’s when you stick your legs straight out in front of you and land on your rump.”

I tried it. I thought my breath had died and gone to heaven. Walking was difficult for several weeks. As was sitting, standing, lying down, turning over, and just about every position known to my body.

Again not attended to properly, my tailbone and surrounding muscles remember the injury and take the time and trouble of reminding me daily.

Another breath-taking incident occurred when my brothers wanted me to learn baseball. Instead of a wooden bat they swung a heavy metal pipe. I shudder to think how much worse this could’ve been considering what I’ve seen on the Discovery Health channel. In my case, the pipe flailed the air in my brother’s hands and connected with my mid-section. It is a most awful sensation to be unable to get air in or out, which I also experienced the time I walked behind a cow and she kicked me in the stomach and sent me flying. Crazy, isn’t it?

All of the incidents I’ve mentioned happened in the first ten years of my life. At the age of ten, I realized how close to eternity I had come on many occasions and who knew how many more might be in my future and which one might usher me into it. My little soul responded in a personal way to the gospel message I’d heard since birth. I confessed to being a sinner, needing God’s forgiveness, and I invited Jesus into my heart as my personal savior and Lord. I trusted that according to Romans 5:1, I could now say of my eternal destiny “therefore being justified by faith I have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.”

But for years I pondered something my mother let slip, that Anita’s birth was an ‘accident.’ There was also an impression made on my mind that with Debby’s death, it was the wrong daughter who died. Other things happened as the years went by, including molestation, that seemed to confirm that to me. I stuffed all those confused, hurt and angry feelings that were woven into the fabric of my being, and pretended I was okay. Until in my late thirties, depression and suicidal thoughts took me down.

Thank God for good professional Christian therapists. Through counseling, support groups and prayer, I finally discovered this spiritual truth in a way that I could apply to myself. Yes, life has accidents but as a wonderful surprise planned by God, I am not one of them. I love what the Psalmist says.
“You saw me before I was born.
      Every day of my life was recorded in your book.
   Every moment was laid out
      before a single day had passed.

How precious are your thoughts about me, O God.
      They cannot be numbered!
I can’t even count them;
      they outnumber the grains of sand!” (Psalm 139:16-18a, NLT)

As with the physical pain, I confess I still struggle at times with the emotional pain of feeling unwanted, but God wants me to trust Him even through that. Pain and brokenness remind me that I need Him. Another passage in Psalms that resonates with me says, “My health may fail, and my spirit grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; he is mine forever.” Henri Nouwen, in his book Becoming the Beloved, encourages me with this: “The most-celebrated musical composition, the most-noted painting and sculpture, and the most-read books are often direct expressions of the human awareness of brokenness.”

And in preserving me from injury to the point of death, I see God had a plan and purpose for my life. Sometimes His purpose has brought me front and center, sometimes into the background. To God be the glory.