THIS THING CALLED LOVE

I am noticing people of late, those that are in love.

The way love works for them, the give and take of it.

I find that I am learning it isn’t what I was taught.

It is a give and not take.

Yes, there is the getting, but it comes in giving, not demanding or grabbing with expectation.

It is more of a glowing.

I like what I am seeing and learning.

I notice the gentle leaning in to experience the others space.

Full attention given to the other, because they want to truly hear what is said,k share in the excitement and enthusiasm of the words.

There is a body language here of communicating and concern, of care and true devotion.

Smiles shared, tears caught, linking happening.

I like what I am finding.

Yes, I cry about it, I drip drops of, “What would it be like if that were mine?”

But they are cleansing tears, emptying kind.

Ones that wash out the memories so I am empty of past for God to fill with present.

Perhaps someday I will find this, someone to hold as precious to me. Who will see me as such too.

I have my Lord to love me like this, I am so in love with Him. I know He understands my desiring a person as well, while also knowing He is my enough.

I never really had love as it was meant to be. Mine was using and discarding, taking with no return. But that was then and is no more.

I chose to see now, to marvel at the love that surrounds me. To embrace friendship, family ebb and flow, to give love as it was designed.

Love finds its way around, it is a circle of life…

I am in that circle now…

here to stay.

 

 

HE WANTS TO TAKE YOU IN HIS ARMS

NAMING AS IS

I remember when I doubted myself, when I thought there is no way the abuse happened to me. Perhaps I remember wrong or the feelings are causing me to over react. It couldn’t have been all that bad, I am still here after all.  I would say to my first counselor, “Why do you believe me?” 

Looking back I realize now how much I was living my past. My reactions to things that others took as normal were always so on edge or set me to panicking. I had triggers everywhere it seemed. One doesn’t get that way without reason.

So, i would face those triggers once i recognized them, head on. I would slowly build my ability to do things i couldn’t by pushing myself. Wear a scarf around my next totally loose til eventually I could tie it, finally have it close to my neck. Wear it for it’s purpose without thinking and feeling and remembering the abuse.

Long road this is, still fighting the battle is some areas. Healing is that way, a process, one that may never be done this side of eternity. Such is the molding and healing of our Lord, all good, all to His glory, all in His perfect timing.

The last few days I have been finding myself on a new path of healing. My mind being opened to perceiving things differently, with more of a focus on the truth of my past.

I often feel, yes, I lived it. I don’t doubt that anymore but I think I am unaware at times what I lived. The true depth of it, the truth of my existence, the substance of it.

You see, some one has made a few comments that have given me pause. Mentioned how I how much I have suffered, used the word brutal to describe my childhood.

When they said this it got me to thinking, wondering what does that word actually mean, especially in relation to me. I didn’t like what I found.

bru·tal

ˈbro͞odl/

adjective

1. savagely violent.

   “a brutal murder”

   synonyms:

   savage, cruel, vicious, ferocious, brutish, barbaric, barbarous, wicked,murderous, bloodthirsty, cold-blooded, callous, heartless, ruthless,merciless, sadistic; heinous, monstrous, abominable, atrocious “a brutal attack”

I looked at each of these words and thought, “Does this fit, Lord?” He to prompt me to say this out loud, “My childhood was savage, my childhood was cruel and vicious, etc.”

I said them, all the way through, crying. Gentle tears of accepting the truth that it was. I asked Papa why I needed to admit this to myself? Why can’t I just say it was hard and uncomfortable?

He answered me, as He always does.

It’s simple really, not the process, but the reason. How can I say I have given all my pain and suffering to my Lord if I don’t claim it to yield it.? I can’t. Just as the path to Calvary is seen in all it’s pain and suffering that we truly understand so must my abuse be for me.

So I have been sitting with the emotions these words awake. Sitting with god and yielding them to Him. In the process I am finding my gratitude to Him is swelling as well. His powerful touch of healing on me and in my life even greater than I fathomed.

My childhood was brutal,

Yet, so was my Lord’s crucifixtion..

and…

look at How God uses that!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YEARS EVE ALONE

 

 

2016 found us last evening.

I spent mine home, alone.

Away from partying and celebrating, no other person around.

No televised broadcasts of dropping this or that, no cheering or reveling.

I quietly saw it pass and loved doing so.

Reveled in the contentment I experienced in being by meself.

This is a bit of a miracle for me, a sure sign of healing.

Holidays always are a challenge, in one form or another. Some to be triggers to abuse gone by or remind me of how alone I was. Oft I would find jealousy knocking much as Scrooge did watching Tiny Tim’s family through the window.

New Years Eve saw me not even giving this a thought beyond to be thankful to my Lord that He has healed me so much that it is natural to live in thankfulness, to see the beauty of what is now as it literally obliverates then from my heart.

I enjoyed a quiet night home, doing things i find relaxing and bringing in the New Year just the right way for me.

New Years Eve alone, a precious, cherished memory.

 

New Years Eve alone, that I experience contentment with self, celebrate the joy of life in Christ and come to understand that I do belong, I am loved and I am someone too.

Happy New Years to me and to all of you.    

 

THE VALLEY OF THE LULL

 lull

2:  to cause to relax vigilance <were lulled into a false sense of security>

*http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/lull

I had a flashback in my sleep last night. Yes, they can happen that way. Ones dreamscape to become the abuse relived in the mind. Sometimes when life takes curves and turns into new territory my emotions and memories race alongside in an effort to heal by catching up. Hence, a flash back this time.

I am growing and as with all of us, growth means change. To explore these new area s of maturity, ones that I would have experienced as a child and teen, even some as an adult, if abuse hadn’t been present oft-times means a cleansing is needed. The old wrong must be flushed from my system that the new can take root and grow healthy and right.

Wrong to stop feeling right as God intended truth gains ground.

A hard process, a long one, but such a precious one in the transformation God is working, in my heart, mind and body.

So it was even with this recent flashback, for it was different than usual in that I didn’t wake to find no control. I wasn’t desiring to flee or hid, it didn’t scare me or overwhelm me. No, it was more of a struggle to move forward. I sat beneath the heating vent just to feel something present, full blast at that. I called a friend to know I told someone, that I could do that, leaving a message when she was unavailable.

Then,  I went about getting ready for work.

Yet, I did so, in a lull. My mind foggy, thoughts drifting, processing drained.

I found myself in this valley of lull for quite some time, hours. Every action a conscious effort, I felt so drained.

My friend called me then, once she was free. What she said pierced this stupor I was floundering in. “Remember to pray, bind up Satan and all His stickiness,” as she oft-times puts it. I don’t recall her actual words, but my spirit knew from past battles.

My heart heard, “Fight the lull!”

The clouds cleared a bit then, when I hung up, and holding my head in my hands I breathed, “Papa, help me, please.”

A groggy prayer at best, but God always hears, understands our plea even when we don’t know what to ask for.

He spent the next few hours nudging me to cling to Him, hold tight that He could lead me into the light, a glorious light full of the warmth and rays of the Imacculant Heart of Christ. I feel the touch of it even now as I revisit, my Lord so close.

“Lull” a false calm in the storm

Satan tried to trip me up with this today. He failed. He always shall fail.

For no matter how blindly I may stumble, my Abba holds me tight, loves me tight and leads me on.

His voice to my abused and battered, child and woman, I was, all the lullaby needed to heal.

“This is what the Lord says— he who made a way through the sea, a path through the mighty waters, “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”

Isaiah 43:16, 18-19 NIV

MORE THAN JUST PRAYING

Male hands crossed for prayer in dark

This is an article I came across that is so full of truth for healing. How oft I went to my church in the wee hours of the morning to pray, throw myself upon the altar, before my Lord. Oft to simply weep in the beginning, for I could do no more. There were no words for the horrors awakening within my memory. No sense to the flashbacks hounding me, nothing I felt I could do to help myself.

That was the key, I had to realize, that I couldn’t help myself. I needed my Savior, I needed to do more that plead with Him to take it away, to make me all alright.

My morning ritual to become more than my pleading as I faced the dark and pain of the abuse memories draped in prayer, reading the Word and journaling. Sharing with my pastor and friend, ones who I new I was safe with.

Almost every morning for three years found me here. And the road didn’t end there, the healing is still a work in progress. Still requires me to stay active, be involved in my progress. Stay true to me.

Such is all of life, really. Eating and sleeping, working and friendship, the day to day doings of existence.

Life is not passive, so why do we oft thank healing is?Because it is an uphill journey. But, remember once you reach the top the view is amazing.

I know, for I stand atop my Mountain of God’s healing even now.

Won’t you join me?

http://www.iamsecond.com/2015/12/why-you-need-to-do-more-than-just-pray-about-your-problems/

 

“I AM ME”

This is an article from Committedtofreedom.org I rarely repost something from someone, but this so slammed into me when I read it, I simply had to share! So much me is in it. Simply read and be impacted. God bless.

The Still Photograph Part of our Short Story series during the holidays. We all need a break, and this month, we’ll be sending you short stories instead of articles. We hope they will inspire, encourage, and strengthen you. Let us know what you think.

Mrs. Periwinkle had cornered yet another member of the Community Ladies Guild to show off her daughter’s latest school pictures. “Isn’t she adorable? Isn’t this just about the most precious picture you’ve ever seen?” She never gave anyone time to respond to those questions, she simply moved on to another person, then another, loudly declaring the perfection of the photograph. Her daughter, Penelope, was a kindergartener when that particular picture was taken. Mrs. Periwinkle loved it so much that she had it enlarged, then had several dozen copies of the photo developed. She glued some onto cardboard boxes, which she positioned throughout the house. One was set on the kitchen table at Penelope’s place. One on her pillow where she usually slept. One on the couch, one on the porch swing, and one in the passenger seat of the family car. She also glued a flat wooden stir stick on the back of one so that she could carry it with her where ever she went. It was a kind of photograph puppet.  In social settings – such as parties or meetings – she included the picture puppet in conversations and soon, people spoke to the puppet, just like Mrs. Periwinkle did. She even made one of the pictures into a mask and commanded that the little girl wear it at all times. Eventually, Penelope stopped speaking and became as silent as the still photos that surrounded her. As children will do, the girl grew and changed, but the only “Penelope” her mother and friends saw was the kindergarten schoolgirl in the pictures mounted on boxes, a wooden stick, and a mask. Years came and went. The kindergarten photographs had become cracked, faded, and frayed. Nevertheless, Mrs. Periwinkle ignored the signs that time had passed or that changes were taking place. One morning, Penelope – who was now a young woman – looked at her mask’s reflection in the bathroom mirror. For quite some time, she had noticed a growing irritation where the mask rubbed against her skin, but she ignored it. But this particular morning, the irritation had become very painful – unbearably painful, in fact. She squirmed her forehead, tightened her eyes and lips, scrunched her nose, and massaged her scalp, hoping to silence the inflammation, but nothing helped. She became more animated in attempt to find some relief and without thinking, without hearing her mother’s instructions to keep the mask on, she ripped it off on an impulse. She howled with relief, as her face was flooded with air and light. For the first time in over a decade, Penelope wore no mask. No longer was she frozen in a time and space that was no more. She splashed her face with water and then dared to look in the mirror. What she saw took her breath away, because she saw – herself. Changed. No longer a static being, she was vital and free from that still photo that masked years of growing and becoming. She ran into the kitchen and ripped the still photo from the box, then to her pillow and the couch, the porch swing and the passenger side of her mother’s car. She tore them all to pieces then put them in the trash can. Somewhere in the yard, she could hear her mother chatting away with someone. Her voice grew louder as she came closer to the house. Closer. Closer. Penelope opened the front door for her mother, who was – at that moment – having a lively conversation with the picture puppet. Mrs. Periwinkle gasped, shocked to see a strange young woman standing in her foyer. “What are you doing in my house? Who ARE you?” she demanded. Penelope grabbed the picture puppet from her mother’s hand and tore it to pieces, letting them fall to the floor. She then leaned in close to her mother until their faces almost touched. “I. Am. Me.”