Healing Continues Here

There was a ring that I’d worn since high school on my left ring finger. It was special. My daddy had given that ring to me in honor of a promise that I’d made to remain pure for my future husband.  The night the man took that purity away forcibly, I threw the ring in the bottom of my jewelry box, wanting to never see it again. It was a painful reminder that I had broken a promise. I had to lie to my dad and tell him that I lost the ring in the jumble of working three different jobs. I am fairly certain that he knew the truth, but he never asked any questions. I hated lying to him but that was easier than facing up to the reaction that would have come from just telling him the truth. I couldn’t have dealt with the look of disappointment that would have been on his face if he knew the truth. In some ways, I guess I was scared that he wouldn’t love in the same way. My dad’s approval was important. It was important that he was pleased with me and the things that I did. Instead, I threw myself into work.

I was searching for a place to belong where there was no pressure to fit into a set of societal standards.  I wasn’t pretty enough for the campus sororities. I wasn’t smart enough for the academic societies. I wasn’t a talented enough musician to make my dreams of being a music teacher come true. I didn’t fit in at the church that I was attending at the time. I began to believe the voice that said I was dirty, filthy, unlovable, shameful, a disappointment to my family. Those words pierced my inner being and stuck. I couldn’t trust people around me. They wouldn’t understand. They would judge and I didn’t need their condemnation on top of what I was already heaping on myself. I truly began to believe that the nagging voice that said these things was speaking the truth. I’d broken the promise. That’s what it all boiled down to. I was to blame and until I could forgive myself nothing was going to change.

You know to be perfectly honest; I have never considered myself a pretty person. Not really pretty. Of course the images and ideas of what makes someone pretty in my head were far from the reality of the matter. I know that I don’t fit into that Barbie, super model mold of what society finds to be the image of beauty and perfection.  Weight has been a struggle for as long as I can remember.  It never failed that every summer, I vowed to eat healthier, lose weight, and look better. I started out great. I stuck to the diet and workout regimen. And then one day, the images from the night of the rape, the sights, sounds, and smells begin to flash through my mind. Conversations replayed. Attention from people would come noting the change in my appearance and how pretty I was starting to look. I couldn’t handle it. I didn’t want that kind of attention and I would decide then and there that I didn’t want to be pretty. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth the risk of attracting another man that would treat me the same way as the one before had. Keeping a distance from people was the only safety that I could find. Looking the way that I do doesn’t attract the wrong kind of attention from men. There was safety in that knowledge. There for I stay the same, hating the fact that I am single and alone but comfortable knowing that it keeps me “safe”. This is such a messed up way of thinking.  It almost sounds self-destructive. It’s become my normal mode of thinking and it MUST change.

I am a lot more broken than I originally wanted to admit. Today is the day that I am saying enough is enough. My righteousness isn’t dependent upon anything I did or didn’t do. It comes from Jesus who paid the price for my sins and sent the fullness of the blessings from the throne room of God to me. I can’t believe this statement and listen to the accusing voice of the Enemy. Today I declare, Satan you have no more right to accuse or torment me about this rape. It was not my fault nor did I ask for it to happen. You no longer have the right to accuse or harass because I am choosing to stand in my authority as a Christian and rebuke this wrong way of thinking. I am cherished. I am precious. I am loved. Most of all I am forgiven and therefore you have no right to stand.

Healing is an interesting thing. It doesn’t come in the way that you think it is going to all of the time. We pray for healing at the drop of a hat. Someone asks you to pray for them or someone they know who is sick or hurt or whatever. You pray. Did you stop to think about what you are praying? Does healing always come in the form of the physical removal of an illness or injury? I can attest to the fact that it does not. The next part of my journey through healing begins with my daddy. Probably from the day I was born, I was a daddy’s girl. The song by Red Sovine called Daddy’s Girl probably sums it up just about right. The song describes a dad and daughter who do EVERYTHING together. That was us. You didn’t see my dad without seeing me trailing behind. We were fishing buddies, even though I had the attention span of a goldfish for fishing. It didn’t matter. We were spending time together.  My dad was my biggest fan and at times my harshest critic. It didn’t matter. He was paying attention to me and that was all I wanted. I wanted him to notice that I was being good or was good at something. There is just something special to a little girl about attention from her father. It makes her feel cherished, special, loved. It is important in developing her character where a husband in concerned. She learns about dating and the ways that a woman should be treated. The need to be noticed became that much stronger when he separated from my mother and began a relationship with another woman. It wasn’t easy seeing his attention that had been just for me was devoted to another woman’s children. I worked harder, smiled more, and tried to do everything better. It wasn’t enough. I was seen as spoiled and ungrateful because I had grandparents that lovingly took me in when no one else wanted me. I had everything I needed in their house except the one thing that I wanted… my dad. It almost seemed like he belonged to the other family. That’s how it felt to me at least. I felt abandoned and alone. I wasn’t accustomed to feeling this way. It had always been me and Dad. This other woman felt like an intruder into something special.  I made attempts to like her because it was the only way to still get time with my dad. Over time, things became different. Dad settled into a life with her and her children, and it wasn’t long before there was another child being born. Things most certainly changed after that. I was torn between wanting to live in the stability of my grandparents’ house and wanting to live in the crazy new normal at my dad’s house. Nothing made sense anymore. I poured myself into schoolwork and getting better grades. I was focused on being the perfect child and perfect student so that dad would notice and bring some of that attention back to me where I felt it belonged to begin with.  I thrived in this random chaos. It was the perfect outlet for a perfectionist attention seeking child.  It was sometime when I was in junior high that Dad began to have heart problems. He had several angioplasties over the years to open blocked arteries. It was when I was in college that he finally had to have quadruple bypass surgery. After many days in the ICU on a ventilator, things began to turn around for the better.  Diets changed for short term periods. It was a strange cycle of doctor visits, hospitalizations, and attempted life style changes. He had a defibrillator/pacemaker installed in his chest which helped temporarily, but eventually more needed to be done. Finally Dr. Leatherman suggested that he visit with Dr. Hall at Baylor Medical Center in Dallas. There was talk of a heart transplant, medications, and a wide variety of other options. It was during this time that I remember beginning to pray for miraculous healing. My deepest desire was for God to heal his heart and give him the testimony to proclaim to the world. He was hospitalized in Dallas in August right before my second year of teaching was to begin. I would love to say that my focus was wholly on him, but it wasn’t. I had a job to do and very little time to prepare to do it. I knew it was direly important for me to be the best I could be at this job, but it was also direly important for me to focus on my time with him. I had no idea at that time how important it would be. Dr. Hall determined that the best course of action for Dad was to put him at the bottom of the transplant list, install a PICC line, and start him on a course of medication touted to improve the quality of your life but possibly shorten the quantity.  It seemed like the solution we were all searching for. In fact there was a time that daddy got a phone call to get to the hospital ASAP because he was number two on the transplant list and if the heart wasn’t right for the number one candidate and It was for him he would get the heart. There was more than one occasion that we were at the hospital for doctors visits and we would see the doctor with the cooler that said heart on it. It was a strange assurance that there was hope on this new leg of the journey.  Around the beginning of November, the decision was made to send dad to the hospital to stay until he got a new heart. It was the only way to ensure that he stayed at the top of the transplant list without his status having to be reviewed every two weeks. He moved into a room in the ICU and life took on a new normal. We talked on the phone every day and had regular visits on Saturdays. The nurses often commented about how he was the healthiest sick person on the floor. It was true. He was able to walk around the floor to keep up muscle strength. He began to work on watercolor pictures. His art was absolutely gorgeous. His talent was amazing. He played marathon games of scrabble and sorry with the nursing staff. He had conversations about pace maker replacements with one of his nurses. Things took a turn for the worse near the end of January. They had to implant a device to help circulate his blood because his heart just couldn’t do it anymore. Just before that surgery would be the last time I would talk to my father and have an actual conversation. The device did its job, but it was determined that Dad couldn’t wait any longer for a heart and the Jarvis mechanical heart was his best option. The only drawback is that having the mechanical heart implanted automatically sends you back to the bottom of the transplant list. The prognosis with the mechanical heart was good and most people decide to just live with the mechanical heart. The surgery was to take place on Monday February 1^st. I took off of work and was prepared to sit through the hour’s long surgery knowing that the outcome would be fine. I had prayed for this healing and finally it seemed as though that was going to take place. On Saturday night, the hospital called and said that Dad had acquired an infection and his health was declining quickly. We found out that because of the infection and the fever he would not be able to have the operation on Monday. We gathered around the bed and watched as the nurses came in repeatedly to check vital signs or to stop some machine from beeping. We hadn’t been there long when both the nurse and Dr. Hall came in to talk to us. She told us that his time was short. His heart was showing signs of shutting down. His kidneys weren’t working and his liver was beginning to shut down. We talked with the chaplain and spent most of the time in tears. Everyone else left the room to go secure hotel rooms in the hospital hotel for the night. I stayed in the room. Dad and I had our final conversation. I told him how much I loved him and how much he meant to me. I had gotten a text message from a friend asking me to relay a message of thanks to him. I did and tears began to stream from his eyes. I knew he understood. It wasn’t very long before I found myself tearfully telling him that it was okay for him to go to Heaven. It was okay for him to let go. I said it, but in my heart I didn’t mean it. My champion. My hero. I was telling him it was okay to be gone from me for the rest of my life. That wasn’t really okay.  I wanted him to be here forever. Who else was going to understand me? Who understood the absolute hilarity of Vivian and Victor? Who knew how to make Ken do pushups for hours? Who was going to be there when I got married? Who would be there when I was sad or happy or needed someone to just listen? Who knew the significance of I love you all my muches, Shucky, the blanket show, schwa, and all of the other millions of memories we had together? I felt like a part of my heart was dying with him. Healing came to my daddy that night in the ICU. It wasn’t in the form that I believed I had prayed for. I never prayed for him to die. I prayed for a new heart to come so that he could do the things he wanted to do. Daddy did get a new heart and a new body to go along with it. The heart that God chose to provide was far superior to any that I could have found for him here on Earth.  It wasn’t fair. It had barely been a year since Momma died. Why me? Did I do something wrong to deserve to lose both of my parents? Was I strong enough to go through this again so soon? I had just learned how to deal without my mom at holidays. It was too much to expect for me to be able to function through family gatherings without some sadness. However that was what was expected. I was supposed to be the strong woman who had dealt with this once before already and knew all of the answers and how to deal with all of the emotions and stress. I’m not that woman. I wasn’t strong. I tried to make people think I was. I took one day off to deal with the grief and then had to get back to work and deal with everything there. It didn’t matter that I didn’t want to get out of bed much less face all of the people at work. It didn’t matter that I hurt and the hurt went so deep that I couldn’t bear it most of the time.  Yet again, I slapped on that happy face and trudged along through it. The service was planned and things were set to be wonderful. It wasn’t going to be your traditional service, but that was how Daddy wanted it. I went to praise team practice and was ready to play through the songs that we had picked out. It didn’t hit me until I went to bed that night what I was getting ready to do. The family questions began and the criticism was sharp. I shouldn’t be up on that stage playing. It was shameful. It was not my place. My place was to be with the family grieving. Those of you, who truly know me, know that I love to play. It is a release. It allows for the expression of numerous emotions and stresses. I was grieving, but I had promised my daddy that I would play at his service. I don’t back down from my promises. It is just part of who I am. In spite of the criticism I knew what I had to do.

I am ever so thankful for friends that love me like I am a part of their own families. The night before the service, I had no idea the surprises that were in store for me. I had plans with my sweet friend Gayla to go shop for something new to wear to the service. We shopped and had plans to go eat Mexican food afterwards. On our way there, we were about to take a detour to Mardel when her phone rang. I was still blissfully out of the loop. We decided to go on to the restaurant. We walked into a very busy restaurant and I figured we would be there for quite a while waiting for a table. I was shocked when Gayla said that our table was ready. I tried to protest but was ushered around a staircase to a rather large table. I couldn’t believe my eyes. There were nearly thirty people seated around a table waiting for me to arrive. I was speechless. Shocking I know. I was given a slight push and told to go hug everyone at the table. I wasn’t sure what was going on at that time and began to hug people. I was handed various sized envelopes and several gift bags. I finally made it to an empty chair and had to sit and try to process what was going on. It took several minutes for the fact that they had all come together as a surprise for me to sink in. I know I cried repeatedly as I opened and read cards with heartfelt wishes of sympathy and words of encouragement.

 The next morning, tears threatened to begin to fall from my eyes from the moment I woke up. I vowed to remain strong through the service. I played with gusto. It was a true worship experience for me. I could feel the love in the room from the people that mattered the most to me. I could feel the condemnation from the people that didn’t understand or didn’t feel the way that they made it seem they did at the service. There was a different feeling about this service. It wasn’t the same as Mom’s. It was more joyful. I was sad, but this time it was different. I wasn’t as angry as before. I was more at peace. This new normal way of life didn’t seem to take as much getting used to as the one before. Maybe it was because I had been here before. I am not sure what made it different but I was glad that it was.

It wasn’t that long ago that I realized that I had been keeping a spot in my heart that belonged to God for my daddy. I had to let go and learn to allow God to fill those voids. They run deep. It has not been easy to give up that control and allow the healing to begin. In fact I am fairly certain that these wounds are being opened once again to allow the nasty infected parts to be cleansed with an antiseptic that can only be found in the loving arms of Papa God, my Abba Father.  I am beginning to find the significance in these song lyrics. They bring me to tears every time I hear them.

Healing is in Your Hands

No mountain, no valley, no gain or loss we know

Could keep us from your love

No sickness, no secret, no chain is strong enough

To keep us from your love

How high?  How wide?

No matter where I am, healing is in Your hands

Healing is coming. I can feel the balm of peace beginning to take the place of the pain and the sorrow. It doesn’t mean that I don’t still feel sad. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss both of my parents. There are days that I would give anything to have them back for even just a minute. It’s hard when I can’t remember what their voices sound like. It’s hard when I can’t remember what a hug feels like from them. It makes me long for the day when I will see them in Heaven and get to experience it for real once again. It also shouldn’t surprise me in the slightest that God has chosen to bless me with spiritual parents that love me like I am one of their own. My “new” parents are amazing. I will have to post about them soon. They play an important part in my new journey. I look forward to sharing it with them. For now though, I believe I have bared enough of my soul for one posting.

Until next time,

Melody

Healing Begins Here

     Secrets aren’t secrets from God. I know… not the most shocking revelation I have ever come up with, but at this juncture in life, it is one that I am currently dealing with. We can pretend all we want that we are keeping something hidden from Him, but the truth of the matter is that nothing is hidden from God. We can hide things from ourselves and push them down, but eventually things hidden in the dark will be brought into the light. They are brought out into the light not as a means to shame, embarrass, or humiliate but to be dealt with so as to bring about healing, peace, restorations, release, and most of all rest.

     For nearly three years, I’ve kept things hidden, pushed down, and refused to deal with them. There was no “perfect” time to deal with them. I had just started teaching full time and to be quite honest was failing miserably at it. My classroom reflected the vast amount of chaos that I continued to push down. What a shocking revelation. I hadn’t thought about it like that until I started writing. I guess it’s true that their spirits reacted in direct correlation to mine. Really makes me wonder who else this affected. I do believe I have gotten a bit ahead of myself.

     My first year as a fifth grade teacher did not go how I had planned or imagined it would. My students were out of control, I had a hard time teaching, and my test scores weren’t exactly where I wanted or needed them to be. In the middle of all this, my mother passed away unexpectedly. Well I say unexpectedly … she’d never been quite the same health wise after it took so long for her to heal after having quadruple bypass surgery.  She came home from a doctor’s appointment on a Thursday with an advance directive and news that she had probably six weeks or less to live. She didn’t live but six more days. Her health declined more rapidly than I’d expected. We made plans for Thanksgiving and Christmas, vowing to make the most of these last few weeks we had together. However on Wednesday, November 11^th, Mom passed away. Almost instantly I was forced to deal with things that I had no earthly idea how to handle. I had no clue how to deal with the grief. I walked back into the church after getting the dreaded phone call. One of my friends, Lynn, escorted me to a quieter place than a fellowship hall full of curious children. I made several phone calls, talked to a chaplain, and then I simply sat. I had no idea which way to go, what I needed to do, or who to talk to about all of this. I was taken into Bro. Neal’s office to talk about what needed to be done. He wrote down a list of things for me to do and after a time of prayer, I left to go to my house to prepare. I had to be off for three consecutive days. Thursday and Friday for bereavement and Monday for a workshop. I made some plans for my classes and my wonderful co-workers helped out with the rest. I headed for my Aunt Carole’s house to take care of the panning. She had a list for me as well: funeral home, florist, church, pastor, numerous family gatherings… It was the never ending list. I held up well at the funeral home, signing the necessary paperwork and even in writing the obituary. Family gatherings weren’t too bad. I can deal with the occasional suffocating heavily perfumed hugs. It was when we met with the pastor to talk about the service that I lost it all. I’m talking no communication abilities. All I did was cry. The service was nice. Things went smoothly. I cried out my contacts… and left them on the front pew of the church. It seems almost as soon as the service was finished, I turned off my emotions and went back to my daily life. I didn’t have time for grieving. I had responsibilities. It was important for everyone to see me as okay. Tears were the surest sign of weakness and I couldn’t show signs of weakness. I was miserable. My mom, the one who understood, encouraged, and listened to me was gone. I felt lonely and lost. I would be lying if I said that I don’t still feel that way sometimes. Holiday gatherings weren’t nearly as much fun. There was something missing.  It was work to be happy. I didn’t want to be happy because in some ways it felt like I wasn’t supposed to be. My new normal wasn’t easy. It was a daily challenge. Some days it was more than I could handle to get up. I wanted to be angry. I didn’t understand why. It didn’t make sense. Of course there were people all around offering platitudes of condolence. “She’s better off.” “She’s in a better place.” Those words, while often heartfelt and sincere really made me angry. It seems like those are the sayings that are preprogrammed into us. They are nice words, but often they are said with a vague sense of insincerity. I often wished people would have just not said anything and instead offered a hug, their presence, or a listening ear. As much as you want o, you don’t know how I am feeling. You may have had a similar experience, but you have no idea what emotions I am going through at this time. That was probably the most frustrating part. I couldn’t seem to find anyone that would just listen. I didn’t want to be interrupted or asked questions. I just wanted to talk. I had things that needed to be said about how I felt and what I was dealing with. Since there was no one who would just listen, I did what I am best at; I pushed it all down, slapped on that happy face, and went on with life.

     I suppose now is as good of a time as any to insert that in the middle of all of this, I was dealing with some other intense issues. While working as a cashier at a gas station, I was taken from there one night by a man. This man was one that I thought I was just being friendly to like all of the other customers in the store. He grossly misinterpreted friendliness for attraction and began to make innuendos. It all came to a head one night when he came into the gas station and pulled me out from underneath the table that I was cleaning and said that I shouldn’t put myself in such positions that would turn a man on.  I told him to leave the premises, and thankfully my dad came in right about then and made sure he left. The man did tell my dad that it was all my fault that I was dressed so provocatively and if he had better control on his daughter things like this wouldn’t happen. He left and my dad reassured me that everything would be alright. It wasn’t until I was leaving for the night that things took a drastic turn. I didn’t realize that this man had come back to the station and parked out of my line of sight on the side of the building, close to where my own car was parked, I dropped my keys, and when I bent over to get them, the man grabbed me in a bear hug and put me into his car. He used the middle seat belt to tie my hands together so I couldn’t get myself out of the car. He drove down a dark and basically untraveled road to some kind a gas well. There were many trees that blocked the view from the road. He pulled the car up into the grove of trees, turned the lights out, and began to rub my face with his hands. I tried to scream but no sound would come out of my mouth. He got out of the car, walked around to my side, untied my hands and pulled me out of the car. He had to force me to walk where he wanted. I wasn’t going willingly. He threw me down onto a huge pile of pine needles that looked like they had just been raked up. He roughly climbed on top of me and pinned my legs down with his. He held my arms up above my head. I will not go into the details of this. It wasn’t pretty. When he was finished, he calmly stood up and told me that it was entirely my fault. I was told that no one would believe me because I had asked for him to do this to me. It was my fault that a married man committed adultery and that God wouldn’t love or want me anymore because I had come between a married man and his wife. He walked quietly to his car and left. I was laying there on that bed of pine needles with no idea of what to do or where to turn. I found the clothes that he had removed, out them back on, and walked back to the gas station to get my car and head home. I had to get home and wash the dirty disgusting feeling off of me. I couldn’t get back there fast enough. My friends from Wendy’s were outside. They asked what was wrong, and I calmly replied nothing. I climbed in the car and hurried home. Everyone was asleep. I showered and examined the wounds. Bruises, cuts, scratches, and tear stains covered my face and arms. I got up before everyone else that next morning and covered up the evidence with long sleeve shirts and some make up. I had classes to attend, assignments to complete, and graduation plans to make. No one really noticed, or if they did, they didn’t say anything about it. That was just fine with me. I didn’t want to remember or relive that night. It goes back to the experience of pain. No one likes it, and they certainly don’t want to relive it more than once. `It was all okay until this man showed up at church. I panicked. It had been three years since I had thought about or dealt with this incident. One of the pastors knew that I was scared and told me to either go tell my father what was going on or he would tell him during the announcement time at the front of the church. Fear is a great motivator.  I knew I had to be the one to tell my father what had happened three years before and it wasn’t going to go well. I ran over to where he was sitting and whispered in his ear a very brief version of what had happened. I started to cry, but had to go take my seat because church was starting and it wouldn’t have been long before the praise team would start to play. As we walked up on stage to play that day, I watched my father walk out of the sanctuary with his fists balled up ready to hit someone or something. I am not sure what he said to his friend that went out with him. This wasn’t something that was discussed at any length at any other time. During the invitation that morning, Daddy and I went down to pray. The prayer never happened. Daddy was shocked two times back to back by the defibrillator in his chest and was unconscious on the floor at the front of the church. I was scared. There was a voice saying distinctly that this was entirely my fault and if I had just kept my mouth shut none of this would have ever happened. Lies from the enemy, but at the time an effective tool to keep me quiet. I would again be lying if I said I wasn’t hurting just writing this. I have been blessed with an incredible imagination that brings printed words into a startling and beautiful reality. As I am writing this, pictures of the happenings of that night flash through my mind. I am reminded of the way the pine needles smelled and how sticky and humid the air was that night. It's almost like I am there reliving the events again in person and not just through my memories. In fact the truth of the matter is that the pain from the bruises and cuts feels just as real as it did then. Screams echo in my mind. Unpleasant is the word that comes to mind.  Through counseling, some of the pain has been dealt with. Not all of it I am sure. I believe that there are more hurts to be dealt with as time goes on. This healing is a process that takes time. It isn’t instantaneous. I just have to be patient while these wounds that I thought were healed are opened up, cleaned out, and healed the right way this time.

     It is rather interesting to me that these two events have become so intertwined. They were years apart from each other. I suppose that is how things go in the end. One thing affects another and another and so on.

     How much of my life has been affected because of my refusal to face up to the reality of the things that have happened in my life? How much would have been different if I had dealt with things in their appointed time and not put them off? Would I still have a teaching job with Longview ISD? Would I be married? Would I have children of my own? Would I be happier? Would I have the same friends? Would I be the same person? I don’t know the answer to these questions. I know that the reality of my situation is that I can no longer function the way that I have been. It is not profitable. I am missing out on some big things. I am in a unique position at this time in my life. I am not tied down and have the freedom to go and do incredibly wonderful things. Wonderful things with an eternal impact. I have said in previous posts that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that God has big things in store for me and that I am supposed to be a missionary. I am not sure how all of that is going to play out in the grand scheme of things. I know that it isn’t up to me to decide or determine how or when it happens. I do believe that until I deal with the things that I have pushed down and out of my current reality, things can’t and won’t happen. 

Part two coming soon!

Melody