Because I don't want to forget

*Disclaimer*  This post is long.  Really long.  Starting to turn into mental diarrhea kind of long.  Feel free to click the little red x if your eyes go buggy, or you realize you don't have 5 hours. 




Most of the time, my blog is filled with the insanity, fun, and chaos that is my life.  With our girls, nothing is ever dull.  If I can brighten someone's day and make them laugh, then I am content. 


But, for me, this blog also serves a deeper, more personal purpose.  It serves as a journal, a reminder of sorts.  I am not much of one for keeping a pen and paper journal.  Never have been.  But, I don't want my girls to look back on my life and wonder who I was, wonder what my walk with God was like.  I want them to know what I was like before I met my Savior, and who He is creating in me.  And I don't trust my memory to be able to recall all the stories of my journey with God.  This is why I blog, to create reminders for myself of all that God has brought me through, and where He is taking me.


This has been one of those weeks.  I know I have been quiet lately.  Honestly, I have been so overwhelmed, I just couldn't write.  Emotions and thoughts have created a jumbled mess in my head, and sorting them into a cohesive sentence just seemed impossible.  Jerome even asked me if I was going to blog about what was going on, because he knows writing is my therapy.  I had to tell him that I couldn't.  The words just wouldn't form.  And I couldn't simply post funny thoughts of my girls - that would be denying and hiding what was going on in me.  It was easier to just be silent.


My life, much like yours, I'm sure, has had its fair share of pain.  Memories from my childhood and adolescence are mostly painful.  Even as I am trying to type this, my fight-or-flight is kicking in and trying to get me to check my FB, my email, look at the news - anything but this.  I have been working on this post for three days.  I keep trying to run, only to come back and know I need to write it.


Early on, I learned to be a perfectionist.  If you didn't cause trouble, and were good, then the bad stuff didn't happen to you, and no one would see you.  I learned to tell people what they wanted to hear, rather than the truth, because sometimes they didn't believe the truth.  I learned to always be busy, always doing something.  If you kept yourself busy you didn't have time to hear your heart crying in loneliness and pain.  I learned that no one cared about your struggles, no one cared about your pain.  Someone always has it worse than you, so stop your whining before you get something to whine about.


In middle and high school, I learned that being smart was a curse.  Being pretty was worse.  Being both was horrible.  I learned that men were not to be trusted, and that women were spiteful and mean.  That left me with no one.


And, if I may be completely honest, it didn't get much better after I met Jesus.  I just carried all of my dysfunctions into this relationship too.  I didn't want to be one of those "needy" Christians, the ones who suck the life out of everyone.  And so I pretended like my past did not matter.  That it didn't hurt.  I said that Jesus healed me, but in reality I had simply shoved the pain deep in the recesses of my heart and mind so I wouldn't feel it, wouldn't have to deal with it.  I didn't want to let Jesus deal with it either. 


I could not stand before my Savior without a sense of overwhelming guilt and shame that made me want to run and hide.  And so I did.  I read my Bible because I was supposed to, but it wasn't a love letter to me.  It was a list of every way in which I was a failure.  I went to church, but scurried around in a frenzy to do things to please Him.  Because, maybe, if I did enough, someday He would forgive me.  Today was never the day to seek healing.  Tomorrow.  Someday.  But never today.


I have been blessed to be a part of a bible study/book club with a wonderful group of girlfriends.  Each month, we meet and discuss our book, but mostly our lives.  Last Monday, we were discussing Forgotten God by Francis Chan, about the Holy Spirit's ministry and movement in our lives.  It is an incredible book, by the way.  One I hope to reread every few months, just to keep reminding myself. 


I love and hate going to this book club.  I love it because of the precious friends I have, and getting to spend time with them is so wonderful for me.  I hated it because I had to work so hard at hiding the pain and numbness that was my constant companion. If these women saw and knew the deep pain, hurt, and shame, they would turn and run.  Or at least that is what I thought. 


I don't remember saying a single word during the entire discussion time.  Not a word.  I was listening, and "hmm"ing the other ladies' thoughts, but did not share.  All of a sudden, my dear friend asked each of us to share a moment where the Holy Spirit had led us in ministry.  And something inside of me broke.


I couldnt' lie.  I had to look my friends in the eye and tell them that I had no idea.  That I wasn't sure my "ministry" choices had ever been led by the Spirit.  That I was the terrified daughter, scurrying around to keep busy and make Daddy happy so He wouldn't yell at me.  That the only relationship I had ever truly craved would never be mine.


And then God moved.


My friends began to pray for me, over me, with me.  For the first time I can remember, I could see the love in my Daddy's eyes.  They prayed words of wisdom, encouragement, and love over me.  I realized I had blamed myself and refused to forgive myself for things that were never my fault.  I wept that night.  I don't remember when I had ever cried that hard. 


This past week has been exhausting.  It is much easier to let myself slip back into the numbness rather than feel the pain and deal with it.  A lot of memories, pain, and situations from my past have been brought to mind.  I have the choice to shove them back down and be numb or allow Daddy to remove the arrow.  Honestly, it hurts to seek healing.  It means letting the wound get cleaned out.  It means there are scars, and scabs.  But I can't go the rest of my life wounded and crippled and numb.  Not anymore.


I want to feel.  I want to truly live.  I want to know God's touch, His presence, have words from His Love Letter jump off the page and into my heart.  I want to be free.