...to grant those who mourn in Zion, giving them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the mantle of praise instead of a spirit of fainting. So they will be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that He may be glorified. Isaiah 61:3Over the years, I have shared my story countless times. Sometimes calling it a testimony, sometimes just having coffee w/ a friend and sharing about my childhood. Each time it takes on a new flavor as I select which details to exclude, tailoring it for my audience. Here, I hope to include them all. I want my story not to glorify the sin and poor choices in my life, not to glorify the suffering, the broken, the ugly, not to glorify anything I have done; rather, I want my story to glorify the One who has redeemed me and all things hard, ugly, broken. I’m reminded that God is more concerned about who I am becoming than with who I was or what I am doing or what I have done.
Like many Hoosiers, I grew up in a small town and was a farm
girl. Our family is very tight-knit, and
I’m a bit of a black sheep for moving one hundred miles away (considering that my
siblings are within a ten-mile radius of my parents, you can understand
why). Our church family seemed to
overflow into all areas of life: my teachers, coaches, family friends all
constituted our church family and ultimately our small-town community. I felt very safe, loved, and supported as a
child. My earliest memories are full of
family vacations, gatherings at my grandparents’ pond, and lots and lots of
love and laughter.
Other than normal childhood selfishness and mischievousness,
the first time I recall darkness entering my life was at the age of nine. Our large extended family spent lots of time
together, always a favorite childhood memory.
But this time would be different.
This time darkness would creep in and take hold of innocence and begin
to leave a bleakness that would mark two decades of struggle. This time a relative would expose me to
pornography and sexual abuse that would follow over the course of the next
couple of years. This time would create
in an innocent child confusion, curiosity, and above all, shame.
This blackness would end up where most of my blackness ended
up: shoved, stuffed deep into a corner of my heart and mind, never to be
spoken, never to be shared, but allowed to fester and poison a soul. With it deeply stuffed away, I was able to
profess my faith that summer and be baptized and then go about life as a “good
Christian girl” over the next decade. I
was an All-American hometown sweetheart, participating in every club
imaginable, competing in sports year-round, and serving others out of the “goodness”
of my heart. I even visited residents at
nursing homes and led a Bible study for girls five years my junior because I
was simply that “good.” All the while, that blackness still poisoning
me with desires and shame.
Desires that I sometimes acted on by accessing pornography
on my own or acting out in dating relationships. Followed always by deep, deep shame. Followed always by repentance and sorrow and
a resolve to do better.
And so college came and went much the same. A good Christian girl at a good Christian
school working at a good Christian camp in the summers: a life devoted to
ministry and rule-following and good works.
And then I graduated. And much of the same.
The long ago stuffed-blackness reared its head, carnal desires waged war,
and shame condemned me. The vicious,
never-ending cycle was leading me down a path of destruction. I hated who I was, and most of all I feared
missing what the Lord had for me because of this darkness.
About this time, I had that same conversation with a friend
in my small group at church. How above
all, I feared missing God’s plans for my life.
And we both walked away from the conversation knowing something
spiritual had just linked our hearts, and within three months we were engaged,
married six months later. And that
man. That man has helped me to unstuff
the blackness. To forgive a relative who wronged me. To ask God to free me from this prison of
self-condemnation and hurt and shame. To
find freedom in Christ. Because though I
had professed my belief at the age of nine, I had not lived freely according to
the life I had been given. I had still
lived chained to my hurt, to my desires, to my shame. And with the help of a godly man, I realized
the power given to me in Christ to be freed from those things.
So a few years into marriage that wonderful man and I found
out we were going to have a baby. We
were ecstatic as this fit into our plan and timeline. But I soon had some spotting and we were
concerned about the well-being of the baby.
An ultrasound revealed he was fine, but after my 16-week appointment, “fine”
was no longer part of my vocabulary.
Replaced by “fear,” all I could do was fear what might be wrong with
him. We were told that based on the
results of a prenatal test, I was at an increased risk for having a child with
Down syndrome. This seemed highly
unlikely as I was only twenty-six and this was our first pregnancy. (Besides, didn’t only women advanced in
maternal age have children with Down syndrome?)
But in-depth ultrasounds increased my risk even more so that we were
left with a one in seven chance. I cried
a lot. And at times I thought a
miscarriage would be a blessing. So much
fear of the unknown. So much fear. Still, I convinced myself it was unlikely.
Then birth happened five weeks too soon, the baby came
breach, and no one was ready to diagnose Down syndrome upon his appearance at
birth. Still we wondered. A prolonged stay at the hospital with some
need of oxygen and lamps before heading home where we first started to note
some facial characteristics of Down syndrome.
Eleven days old, and at his first doctor’s appointment a new blackness
came crashing in to my elated new-mother’s heart. My perfect baby had Down syndrome.
And days turned into weeks turned into months of mourning.
Grieving the child I thought I’d had…daddy’s little football star, a big strong
man. Suddenly all I could see was
everything my child was not. I couldn’t
see that he would bring us joy unspeakable.
That we would love him so much our hearts risked bursting. That there would be no words for the way he
touches us so deeply, daily. All I could
see was lack. Lack of all the dreams I
had dreamed. Yet through it, I didn’t
question God, or whether God was good, or even why. I simply wondered, “how.” How was I supposed to do this? How would I raise a child with special
needs? How would he be treated in
life? How would he get through
school? How would he be received beyond
school, in the working world? How long
would he be given life on earth? How
long would he want to live with us? How would
this affect subsequent pregnancies? How
would this affect future siblings? How
long before he would walk and talk and feed himself? And on and on.
Who are you, O man, who answers back to God? The thing molded will not say to the molder, "Why did you make me like this," will it? Or does not the potter have the right over the clay to make from the same lump one vessel for honorable use and another for common use? What if God, although willing to demonstrate His wrath and to make His power known, endured with much patience vessels of wrath prepared for destruction? And He did so to make known the riches of His glory upon vessels of mercy, which he prepared beforehand for glory, even us, whom He also called . . . Romans 9:-20-24
And while the blackness sought to bring me back into that
place of confusion and shame, God was so good and refused to let me go
there. He pulled me close and was kind
in my time of hurt. Friends and family
were supportive, and slowly doors opened to new friendships with mommas in the
same position, mommas who could relate and love me in the broken.
And slowly, the broken turned into the beautiful, the lack
turned into plenty, the curse turned into the gift.
But I’m stubborn. A
bit of a mule. And I learn slowly. Very slowly.
And instead of recognizing God’s hand and guidance in my life, I’m
determined to make my own course, so what began as a hobby and tinkering with
some yarn for friends turned into a full-blown business. In the midst of having three babies in three
years I decided that running an at-home business through an Etsy shop was a
GREAT use of my time, energy and mental resources. (Did I mention I’m stubborn?) Little did I realize that a gift of
creativity would soon become the next area of blackness in my life, consuming
my pride and energy, and turning me into a grouchy, irritable, tired
person. No free time to play with kids,
meet with friends, or minister. I was
simply getting by and looking for the next free minute to crochet. But in January 2013, our pastor started a
sermon series on Acts, and when he read Acts 1:8, the Word took hold of
me.
"but you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you shall be my witnesses in all Judea and Samaria, and even the remotest part of the earth."
I cannot recall a single word of that sermon that day, but
THE Word worked mightily in my heart that moment and told me that my life was
supposed be different. Different than
those around me. That those around me
would know no different and certainly not know Him as a result of interacting
with me. That I needed to pursue
relationships with the women in my neighborhood. My business was an idol that had to be
crushed. So I closed up shop two weeks
later, and that began a period of spiritual growth that leads me to now.
These two years have been marked with highs and lows, feast
and famine. But there is always a
constant. See, God is never the one who
moves. MY heart is prone to wander. In moments of famine, I have but to whisper, “Jesus.” And that is sometimes all the prayer I can
muster. But always, always my savior is
near, always he is kind, always he is patient.
Friends, my prayer would be that we all learn
that. That no matter what blackness,
brokenness, ugly we've experienced or are experiencing in our lives that we can
trust our savior is near. And he is
always good.
