A close friend posted this quote this morning, and I stumbled across it while inhaling my morning coffee. Usually quotes don't tend to move me, but this one hit deep. I know the truth of this statement, and this fact is what makes me able to look at my past and some of the things that have hurt me the most and know that through it all, God was and is good. This story is long, but it is my testimony, and one of the biggest truths in my life that points me to the fact that God is real.
I do want to mention that I know the arguments against what I just stated. I know the events in my past weren't good. However, I also know that I cannot use the pain in my life as a quantifier of the goodness of God. If you know God--if you know what the Bible teaches--then you know that God does not want OR cause the pain in our lives. He does allow it. But free will--the thing everyone claims they so desperately want--comes with consequences, and He will stand in the way of neither, but walk with us through both.
I did not always see it that way, however. I have a hard time writing anything (publicly) about my past with my family, because I know that they can read what I write, and they can be hurt by it. I also don't want to tell too much of their story. I can only share what I feel is mine to share.
My mother was my mountain growing up. I was obsessed with her; she was at the forefront of every thought, every action, every emotion. My earliest memories up to my early teenage years were wrapped in dense layers, and when you peeled them back, she was at the core of them all.
She didn't choose me.
She did choose other things. Other people. Other vices.
And I watched it all, and wanted her to choose me so badly that I ignored her faults and blamed God for feeling abandoned, as well as my grandparents, who were physically abusive until kindergarten (when a cop threatened my grandmother against further abuse), and verbally abusive until I moved out. My grandmother, steeped in bitterness from her own horrible past, regularly swore at me and called me names. She ripped out my hair, smashed my head into walls, tried to shove me down two flights of stairs, and once tried to drown me, but was stopped by one of my aunts. My grandfather, who quoted bible verses constantly, would wrap his hands around my throat or hit me with his belt when I'd talk back. I thought my mother was my only chance at a savior, and I desperately waited for her to take me away from it all.
I thought the only way to get noticed was to act out, both in school and at home. I was suspended and expelled from multiple schools, and my grandmother kept trying to find me new schools that might work better for me. I went to 6 different grade schools. The problem wasn't any of the schools: it was me. I sat in class and daydreamed about my mom; daydreams that ran from typical--her coming and rescuing me and we'd run away together--to more disturbing--she'd attempt to visit me, or take me away, but she'd be killed in front of me. I'd daydream about being adopted by famous or rich families, and then feel guilt that I was betraying my mom.
Because of this, my emotions were all over the place constantly. I could stare at the teacher, but not hear a word that came out of their mouth because I was dying inside. I cried in class regularly, but kept it hidden. I overshared with classmates about my family's past and reveled in the attention, despite the fact that most of the responses came from shock, disgust and/or pity. One teacher told my entire 5th grade class that my home life could be a soap opera titled "As The Stomach Churns."
In time, I started acting in ways that I believed tied me to my mother. She did poorly in school, so I stopped caring about grades. She only cared about her boyfriend(s), so I was obsessed with finding one for myself. (Luckily, I was a giant nerd, so my attempts were wildly unsuccessful until junior high!)
I remember crying myself to sleep every night, and, rubbing my own arm, I'd pretend an angel was sitting on my bed soothing me to sleep, telling me she would be my mother. Instead of helping me, this just made me feel more sorry for myself, and at the age of nine, I couldn't take it anymore and I attempted suicide for the first time. Terrified of the pain of cutting my wrists, I chose suffocation instead--it seemed extremely easy considering all of the warnings on plastic bags.
It wasn't.
I passed out and woke up an undetermined amount of time later, sweating profusely but still very much alive. Disappointed, I hid my suicide note underneath my mattress and determined I'd try some other time. It wasn't until a couple of years later that my grandmother found the suicide note, showed it to my caseworker, and I was placed in a children's hospital psych ward in Chicago for several weeks. I LOVED it there--I had a best friend, a personal chef, and a favorite nurse--a young african american man who jokingly called me "grandma" because I had so much grey hair, and would poke fun at me to distract me from the multiple shots I received daily.
When I was discharged, I was finally given the option of choosing where I wanted to live: with my mom or with my aunt. My mom had come to visit me while in the hospital, and told me that she was moving far away--to New Hampshire with her new boyfriend. While I still desperately wanted to be with her, I knew--deep down--that I couldn't go with her. I was terrified of moving far from my family and everyone I knew, and I didn't like her boyfriend. I made one of the hardest choices of my life, and chose my aunt instead. My mother left, and didn't come back until I was in my late twenties. The pain of her abandonment was the catalyst that dissolved my obsession with her, as I finally realized that the loving, wonderful person I idolized as a child wasn't actually a reality. I've still not come to terms with our relationship, or the lack of a desire to have one on my behalf mixed with guilt that I should want one, but that's something I think I'll always be working through.
Now that is a LOT of backstory--I know! But that was my mountain, and I thought I was on that mountain alone.
Until college. I went to Word of Life Bible College in Florida, and part of the college experience there is working as a counselor during the summer camp. I loved it so much! I loved the kids, I loved doing the activities with them, and I loved Florida in general--it was gorgeous! But one week, we had a group of preteens, and there was one who just completely got under my skin. She was sullen, obnoxious, and rebelled constantly. She refused to participate in any of the activities, and would randomly disappear, making one of the counselors have to leave an activity to find her repeatedly.
One of the times she disappeared, I was the only one who noticed, and I determined that I was going to find her and put her in her place. Storming off, I finally found her sleeping in her top bunk, and I shook her awake and, while she groggily stared at me, I launched into a tirade about how her actions weren't going to be accepted. Once finished, I demanded to know why she was acting out, and she told me.
I can't even write about it now without getting shaky and teary eyed.
She was a younger me: EXACTLY. Her mother had gone through the same exact thing my mother had, causing her mother to turn to the same vices as mine had, and she was left with her grandparents who were physically and verbally abusive. She had tried to commit suicide numerous times, but had been unsuccessful and had been hospitalized at one point. I can't emphasize this enough when I say that I'm telling the truth--her story was literally the same as mine, down to the smallest detail. I FELT GOD THERE in that moment, more than I ever had in my entire life. He was a palpable presence, and I shook as I told her about my past, which suddenly meant so much more to me. I told her that her mother's choices didn't have to dictate her life, and that her actions and her grandparents abuse was not approved by God; that He despised their choices and what had happened to her, and that He wanted something better for her. These things did not happen because of God, but because of free will--her mother and grandparents chose their own actions. I told her she could choose a different path, and God would be there with her every step of the way. AND SHE CHOSE IT! We prayed, she accepted God--!!--and she changed before my eyes. She was laughing, running around, and acting like a typical child--and it was incredible!
We kept in contact for multiple years after, sending letters and keeping each other updated on our lives. We lost contact eventually, but she was on a clearly better path and I have hope that she is still on that path today.
I can't think of a really great way to end this, or add anything that is more profound than that story itself. I'm not even sure why I don't share it more often, because it's one of the most amazing stories in my life and I feel so humbled and blessed when I think about the fact that God chose me in such an obvious way. It doesn't matter that there was so much pain leading up to it, or that it was only one person (so far). That is enough for me. I do forget sometimes, and I do mourn my past occasionally, but I am so glad that that pain was not the end of my story.
That's all for now.
(Man, this unloading is cathartic!)
