I was at my office recently, cleaning out old files and organizing my desk, when I came across a legal pad with what I thought was a poem on the front. The first line read, “She woke me tonight.” My first thought was that it was about my daughter, but then I noticed the date: October 20, 2008. My daughter wasn’t born until 2010. I kept reading. “That little girl who was me, two decades ago. She wanted to cry, and she wanted me to let her cry.” Ahh, seven-year-old me. While I don’t recall this specific night, I can remember the emotions I felt when children from my past came crying. It was usually the result of some sadness in my life, or disappointment that things had not turned out well for me. It was like a feeling of grief that hovered over me like a weighted blanket, suffocating any hope that I had managed to hold on to that my life was going to turn around. The next page was dated December 10, 2009, and it was filled with more sadness, self-pity, loneliness, and sorrow. Writing has always been a release for me, a way for me to get out what I am not brave enough to give a voice to. I ripped the pages off, one by one, revealing a letter I wrote to my husband – but never gave him. I knew that talking would end up in a fight, and rarely had any positive affect, so I wrote the things I wished I could tell him. I rarely gave him my letters, but somehow it was therapeutic for me to write them.
The letter was dated January 8, 2010. I was pregnant with my daughter and my son was ten months old. I had been married just under two years to a man that I had known for half of my life. We were both bound by addiction, shackled by chains that we had no idea we were carrying. I was weighed down with as much shame from my childhood as he was from his. We were just two broken people who loved each other, but had no idea how to love ourselves. We were hopeless back then, and as I read the letter, my eyes began to burn. Phrases jumped out at me: “…and I have to face the sorrow that lies within my soul…”; “…and if we survive will we ever truly recover?” The entire letter was riddled with uncertainty, deep sorrow, hopelessness. I had spent most of my life just surviving, never finding the time to assess my situation and plot a course change. My life was full of reaction, which pushed me further into darkness, causing inaction.
If you’re used to fighting for survival, the thought of mellowing out seems not only impossible but devastating. If the fight were taken out of me, who would I be?”
Lily Burana: Grace for Amateurs
Standing in my office, I let the letter slip out my hands. I have never forgotten the hurts of my past, or the lurking feeling that I was meant for more. But I had totally forgotten the depths of darkness that resonated inside of me. I had forgotten the hopelessness, the uncertainty. Honestly, back then I wasn’t sure my kids were going to be raised in a home with both of their parents. I wasn’t sure we could make it. Not because my husband was a terrible guy, or I was an awful wife, but because when you don’t love yourself you can’t understand why anyone else would love you, and you certainly cannot receive their love. And when you don’t feel like your spouse loves you, you turn to self-sabotage as a defense tactic. You push people away, you test them to see how much they will tolerate, and then you blame them for your sorrow. The result of this cycle is always chaos. And hopelessness.
I have been making small steps toward God as long as I can remember. I always wanted what He had for my life, but I never felt worthy of it. So much happened in my early life, so much trauma, that shame attached itself to me the way static sticks to my favorite dress. You can shake it, spray it, hang it, even rewash it, and the static just won’t go away. Like static, my shame was invisible. I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it with every step I took, even while I was standing still. Shame was in every corner, under every rug, on every shelf. Sometimes shame was even piled upon shame. It put on a pretty hat, tied a shiny scarf around it’s neck, and disguised itself as pride. It held me back in my marriage, my career, motherhood, but mostly, my relationship with God. Shame was the strong internal voice that rebuked every compliment, reminded me of every failure, and kept me from hoping for anything better. Shame bore fear, and fear kept me bound.
Shame hates it when we reach out and tell our story.
Brene` Brown: The Gifts of Imperfection
Standing in my office, holding that legal pad in my hand, I began to sob. And then I slipped both hands in the air and gave God praise for the work He has done in my life; for the work He has done in my husband’s life. I thanked Him for releasing me from shame, from fear, from the inability to love myself, and for the joy He has placed in my life. It took me looking through the lens of my past to see just how far God has brought me. As I drove home that night, I remembered the nights I kneeled in front of my old, worn out leather couch and asked God to change me, to change my husband. Every night, the same prayer, “God, help me to be the wife he needs to become the man you intend for him to be. Change me, Lord, my very nature. And God, help my husband to rise up and become the spiritual leader in our home. Help us to be the parents to our children that they need us to be, so that they can become the individuals you intend for them to be.” Those prayers were the first time I had allowed myself to hope for something better. And God answered and continues to answer those prayers. The next day, when my pastor preached about building memorials so that we don’t forget where God has brought us from, I was ready to receive it. I went home and retrieved the letter from the garbage can. That letter is a memorial, it is a reminder of the places God has brought me from, a reminder to kneel down in front of the new couch God has blessed me with, and pray those old prayers. Sure, we’ve come a mighty long way, but God isn’t finished yet. I still get in the way, allow shame or pride or fear to sit longer than I should. I could pray that old prayer every day until I breathe my last breath, and it would be a genuine, relevant prayer. Oh, but let me add to that as I grow. God, help me to be the saint my pastor needs me to be, so that he can do the work you have for him to do. Help me, Lord to be humble and allow you to work through me so that others might know You.
If you’ve had a relationship with God any length of time, you might have noticed that He has a way of lining things up. Sometimes, things need to happen in a certain order to achieve the maximum effect. I would have received that message from my pastor that night, but in the absence of the letter I discovered the night before, it would not have spoken so clearly to me. God’s timing is perfect. And I am going to hold on to that letter as a memorial, so that when my grown children ask me how their father and I have made it all these years, I can tell them that we gave our brokenness to Jesus.
Uncommonly Common Mom 