My Story- Part 2

Mine is a story of reconciliation and restoration through Him, God… of finding myself and a relationship with Him through my broken pieces. So, this story, more than anything, is a spiritual journey. How the Lord rescued me from my own self-inflicted bondage, restored me through his loving kindness, and has now reconciled me to his bride, the church. If you were a church kid in the 80s or 90s, maybe yours is a similar one.

Growing up, I just wanted to be happy (hence my dissolve into tears when I displeased someone or someone else was displeased in general). And, above all else, I wanted life to be fair. I wanted to be like everyone else, and to me, this would have somehow been fair? I don’t really know where my head was on that one, but I felt that things I longed for (things being mostly in an intangible sense, but occasionally “stuff”), maybe a perceived normalcy I saw in the lives of others around me, were out of my reach. I was emotional and felt different. I remember at one point getting the lead in the school play. I was beyond ecstatic. Girls like me just didn’t get the lead. But by the end of the week what little ego I felt was completely deflated as I learned that friends were talking about me “bragging.” In an instant I went from feeling just a little more normal to once again out of place and misunderstood.

In truth, my life wasn’t like everyone else’s. I was living in a parsonage on the back of a fifteen acre church campus. What is a parsonage you might ask? It is a pastor’s home next to the church. Separation of church and clergy? No sir, you’ve got to eat, breathe and sleep right where you shepherded all those folks who either loved you or hated you. We didn’t have cable so I watched TV shows from the 70s on TBS and our social life was 100% church related. These weren’t bad things, and I don’t even think I minded them, it was just one more mark on my “weird kid” badge of honor.

Middle school is pretty much the bain of everyone’s existence. Am I right? I could not seem to fit in. I could not seem to buy the right clothes, or say the right thing, or be the right weight. It just was not in the cards. Perhaps it was just a feeling of inadequacy that had nothing to do with reality. I had friends, actually most of them were lovely people. I went to a small private school, and I think that because I was no one’s best friend I felt a little less worthwhile. More unnoticed than most. Thinking back, this part was possibly true, but it doesn’t mean that I didn’t have good people who trust loved me, I did. But I felt misunderstood and…lonely. Again, this was not anything I talked about, it just was. And I am sure on some level I did talk to God about it, but my prayers about these issues were probably something along the lines of “Have a boy notice me” or “Please let me not get picked last again in P.E.” You know…I focused on the really important stuff.

So, as I grew I continued to do the perfunctory Christian things. I attended church, I participated in church events and programs, I even enthusiastically participated in church plays and dramas- but I did not connect those activities with the deep love that the God of the universe has for me. There was a disconnect. I am sad to admit, but it’s almost that the words “Jesus died on a cross for me” or “God so loved the world” were just words, because I lacked basic understanding of what that really meant. Instead of focusing on me being a sinner that is saved by the GRACE of this amazing God I would focus on all the ways that my being a sinner meant I didn’t measure up. I didn’t understand that God being in my life meant that I did. I lacked peace because I lacked relationship with the God that made me. I lacked connection because I felt that something was wrong with me or defective, holding me back from being real with anyone.

It wasn’t until life came crashing down that I began to get real. And at that point, some of the things about me became so real and so sad, sometimes I wish I could forget. More on this later, but it just goes to prove the value of what God did when he sent his son for us. Doing things alone (meaning without His help), and especially trying to get through pain, no matter how “real” you get, won’t ever bring you true healing and true discovery of who He made you to be.

I did not live through any serious trauma, but I was emotional and wanting of attention, so one night in 8th grade, amongst the height of some sort of preteen angst or hormonal surge, I took several Tylenols. Maybe nine or ten? I wanted to get sick, but not die. I wanted my pain to be noticed. But I did say I wanted to die, so you know, my parents would understand how horrible I thought this whole school and life business really was. So, I told them, and I don’t really know what happened after that. They didn’t seem too concerned, baffled maybe? They did call poison control… who said I would be fine, to try to make me vomit what I could, and so I did, and I was fine. I went to a counselor. I almost forgot that part. She was nice. I think I saw her maybe two or three times. Her conclusion? My dad was controlling. I almost forgot her. But, I don’t think my parents liked her very much. So, I didn’t go back and honestly I didn’t ask to. I was thirteen years old.

A little before I turned 14 I was told that we were going to move to another Atlanta suburb. I was crushed. My life that I had known so well was shifting, changing. Change is never fun, especially if you are an already too emotional teenager. I believe my exact words were that I was going to one day to return to that house and buy it and my children would grow up there, with the creek and the woods and church and all that I held dear. I didn’t. C’est la vie.

I wish I could say there was some great life lesson that I learned here. But, my life was still being lived as a child. I was sheltered, I was privileged in ways that I didn’t know, but I also continued to recognize an undercurrent, a certain pain to my parent’s situation. Today I would call it uncertainty, my dad still struggled and I saw that. I was even the recipient of his harsh words, anger and frustration, on more than one occasion. But there was also pain that was apparent. It wasn’t said, it wasn’t spoken about, but maybe I had the intuition to see the ripples of the effects of sin in my parent’s relationship. I am now certain my mom was questioning God while my dad lead a life of shame. My sisters and I were just there for the life that continued to be lived, on the surface seemingly good, great even, but with a lot of pain to come…