I Am, Because They Were Part 3 - In Reflection, My Responsibility to Move Forward

Now comes the point of my own story.  Much of my blogs discuss my past, understanding how I came to Christ, and the things I have struggled with or am growing within.  For a little synopsis:  When I was little, I had a normal upbringing.  Dad had quit drinking when I was six years old, and Mom was doting and loving, at that time.  Jesus had already been introduced by then, and at the age of 10, I accepted Christ as my personal Savior.  Three years later, being that I was surrounded by Christian influences (from home, school and church), I started asking questions of whether or not, Jesus was real.  When I returned to a public school, saw and heard things that schoolmates were doing, I realized that it was going down a path my father warned, so I decided to devote myself to Christ, and turn the other direction.

     The crux of my testimony, ironically, has occurred after I said the “Sinner’s Prayer.”  As has been discussed in other blog entries, something switched in high school, where the dynamics of the relationship with my mother changed drastically.  Corrected every day for every little thing left me feeling wanting.  No matter what I tried, I wasn’t good enough.  Not a good enough daughter or sister.  I hated any form of weakness known.  I felt like a hypocrite, because I wanted to go after God, but dredded coming home.  The self-loathing carried into other areas of my life, as in how well I did in school, how I believed myself to be beautiful and my worth as a woman.  It has only been recently (within the last five years), that I have learned to walk away from the self-hatred, and move on from what I initially believed, and into believing what God has spoken.

     My testimony is not typical.  I do not have the before Christ side vs. after.  In fact, my life before Christ was pretty normal, and the fight started after I made the decision to accept Jesus.  Nearly 30 years old, I have realized that in listening to my father’s testimony, I avoided much of the pain that he incurred from his own life’s decisions. I am the way I am, because he took time to share his story with me.

     On the other hand, admittedly, I also have endured many of the same struggles my mother fought, though it manifested differently.  The self-doubt, self-hatred and the constant attempting to earn my worth in the eyes of those around me is a consistent temptation that pervades my mind.  There was a moment I had tried to talk to my mother about my mental battles; I recognized that she and I were similar.  However, she made a joke that mocked my hurt.  Reflecting, I presume that she was just trying to tell me to get over it, and not let it bother me...I didn’t take it that way.  I learned to silence my hurts, rather than risk further injury.  I am more like my mother than I sometimes care to wish.

     But what can I do?  I am the way I am, because she did not overcome her own battles.

     But at some point...my being is not just what I was or where I came from; rather, it is where I decide I want to be and go.  As for me, I want to glorify God and serve Him, whole-heartedly.  I could continue on as was, as is, or I can make a decision to change where things need to be changed.  To grow where I must grow.  To cut off toxic beliefs that I might renew my mind.  Yes, I am because my parents were.  However, I am because God is.

     God is a father, ever mindful and caring about my every need.  God is a creator, having a hand in making things into being, and putting His stamp of worth on their existence.  God is my Savior, paving the path for which my righteousness can be justified.  God is my comforter, empathetic and present in the midst of my pain.  God is truth: what He says will come to pass.  God is Lord: He is sovereign and holds everything in His hands.  Everything is subject to His authority.

      The question is - to which will I gravitate?  I can define myself by my past, or what God has spoken.  As I draw this trilogy to a close, this is the last point I want to make.  The role of parents is vital in introducing and discipling children to have a relationship with Jesus.  However, whether you had a rough story or a “mediocre” testimony, the final decision ultimately lies with the individual.  We cannot continue to blame our parents for the struggles we have endured.  We stay stuck.  At some point, one must analyze their present situation, identify the causes, evaluate the lies believed, learn the truth that corrects the toxic ideology, and renew the mind to something healthy.  In this case, one’s decision to follow Christ.

     In the community I live in, I have seen teenagers make the statement that they want to go after Jesus.  However, because of outside influences - family or friend - they sooner or later fall to the way-side.  God is presently teaching me about growth and grace, however, I think there is a component where one has to find the responsibility of their life is in their own hands, and not just what was done to you.  I am not saying the road will be easy.  Nevertheless, if one can note the dysfunction, I believe that is the first step in changing things for the future, more importantly, the decision to follow Christ.  Yes, there are generational curses.  There are generational blessings, as well.  

     Our stories are only analog; they are not the thing which defines us.  God defines us.  The sooner we realize this, the sooner we can stand firm and walk out our faith with a steadiness that won’t be shaken to the ground.  This doesn’t mean that battles won’t ensue.  Temptations and trials will surely come.  However, we have a choice in how we will respond.  Whether we grew up with healthy parents or not will determine the natural coping mechanisms.  Whether or not our parents told their stories can determine the battles we face.  Nonetheless, the responsibility to decide whether or not to follow Jesus, is ultimately up to us.  

     If this is read by any parents, some of you may be discouraged that you had a rough past and wonder how you could be an example of godliness.  Some of you may have a wonderful story.  Truth is, both have their place.  One shows Christ’s redemption at work; the other shows that it is possible to walk with Christ steadfastly.  When you tell your testimony, be sure to be 100% honest.  Refrain from trying to sugar coat, out of fear that you may shock or scare your child.  (Trust me, they probably have encountered things on TV quite synonymous with your story.)  Refrain from trying to beef up your story to prove God’s redemptive work.  (After all, if we see sin - no matter what form it took - as it really is, then God’s redemptive work is just as viable.)  Take time to share your story, please.  You never know what may influence your child to run after God.  Furthermore, if they deal with the same problems that you have, they will feel more free to ask you for help, if your issues are not hidden.

     Some of you may believe that you missed your chance.  Your child is grown and completely rebellious.  They are out of the house by now, and trying to talk with them on matters of faith is limited.  Yes, it is true.  There was an opportunity missed.  However, God knows how to make things right.  And His Holy Spirit reaches further than what any hand or mouth can go.  When circumstance or hope seems lost, remember that prayer is not outdone by time.  Keep praying for your child.  If there is a moment where you can share, do so.  Let His work in you be so blatant, that the evidence will spur on an audience.  Be the example of God’s love to them until Love brings them home. 

     The truth is, we all have a story.  The question we must ask ourselves is will we let God’s glory be revealed?  Listen to the stories of our parents and elders.  Find out how you came to be.  When you connect the cause to the effect, you have arrived at a fork.  A decision - now you must decide how you will go on forward.  Will Jesus be your aim?  In reflecting on the past, it is your responsibility to continue onward, and in the manner you walk.

I Am, Because They Were Part 2 - Fighting the Same Demons

Fighting the Same Demons (Mom)

 There is not much to say about my mother.  She is quiet; often likes to keep to herself.  When around family, one will see her finding a spot in a corner - her efforts to not be noticed or bothered.  Unlike my father, she never pulled me aside to talk about her past.  What little I know came primarily from moments of frustration and exasperation. It might be safe to say, some of the following might be speculation.   I hope that as I write Part 2 of this trilogy, I am careful to portray my mother in an honest light; nevertheless, still honoring her.  My relationship with her has been marred, confusing, and a source of many scars.  And yet, it’s only been in the last 10 years that I realized the pains and frustrations I have incurred are only an extension of her own.  In the present time, my mother and I have a healthy relationship, but I still hold onto my reservations.  Not that I don’t trust her, but I have realized that the pain she portrays as “bridge under water” is merely pain left unspoken.  And pain left undiscussed grows gout in the soul.

     There is something about my mom.  She is caring, creative, hospitable, protective, can be silly in that fun sort of way.  But...there is something about the way that she makes sure she takes care of things, never let any one of us do chores, never let her help cook, the anger she felt even over the smallest of matters, that I have found it’s as if she is trying to prove something.  She wouldn’t tell you.  No questions should be asked, because to do so would mean that you have not forgiven the past.  However, I can’t help but feel like she doesn’t feel like a good enough person.  

     She was the second born in 1956.  After minutes when her sister came, she arrived crying in the world.  It was a normal upbring, I suppose.  The father went to work while the mother stayed home.  It was a strict Lutheran home.  The faith was evident primarily in the mother (my Oma), as she read her Bible and prayed; hymns were a staple.  Mom did mention, however, that Opa had a periodic temper.  Oma at one point had a nervous breakdown (though, I don’t remember the cause).  Normal middle-class, nonetheless.

     My mother and sister were forced to dress identical, though they never were.  That tradition fazed away as the girls moved into high school.  With new freedoms came excitement, but it also came with comparisons.  My mother struggled with her weight most of her life (in fact, my Oma put her in a corset when she was a kid); my aunt was skinny.  My mother, quiet and reserved and had few friends; my aunt was popular (and the shared yearbooks were primarily addressed to my aunt).  My mother was an average student; my aunt was quite academic. In the eyes of society, my aunt, though not my mother, fit the status quo.

     My mother managed to run away from her upbringing.  She never accepted Christ as a youngster, and though she never dated in high school, she was married to her first husband by the age of 21. By this time, she lost some weight - and was the build that I presently have - and was happy, it seemed.  She met the guy from high school, but she admitted one time, that she married him to get away from home.  He was a perfectionist, however.  He liked everything to be new.  After 13 years of marriage, they divorced.  She has never seen him since.  She joked at one time, “If I burned the toast, we would’ve divorced earlier.” I wonder how much she was joking, and how much she was telling the truth.  Either way, I wonder if she doubted her value as a wife.

     Not long after, my parents met at a party.  Thereby, I was soon introduced into the picture.  My mother came from a religious family, but no grace was given.  Whereby, my father was shown support, my mother was cussed out by her own father on the phone. He sure knew how to put the “shun” in conviction. Thankfully, Oma and Opa came to visit when I was born.  With the sight of their first and only granddaughter, they were won over.  Seeing that my dad stayed by my mother’s side, they were eventually able to forgive and love my father as well.   All that aside, I wonder if she was ashamed as a daughter.

     All three of my mother’s pregnancies were life-threatening.  I suffered a stroke before I was born; Sandy had been miscarried; Danny had to have an emergency C-section or he would have died.  None of these things were able to be prevented by my mother’s will.  Looking back, she was very much an overprotective mother.  Guarded, she made sure something was 100% safe, before venturing further.  Her poor heart.  I often pushed ahead anyway...because, as much as she cared for me, I translated it as fear.  And I didn’t want to live in fear. I wonder if that fear was rooted in a shame that she could not protect the ones she loved most, right when they were in the care of her own.

     The family dynamics were a thing to be beckoned for, as I became a teenager.  We fought on a daily basis.  Big things, little things...it didn’t matter.  Mom and I were at each other’s throats.  It got so bad that my mother would say aloud, “It’s my fault.  I’m a bad mother.”  Less frequent, but still occurred, the disagreements my parents had...her reply was, “Nevermind!”  Often, she recloosed to a silent demeanor.  End of story.

     What do these scenes from my mother’s life have to do with me chasing the same demons?  What I have found is that my mother, in her effort to protect me, tried to make sure that I wouldn’t worry.  It is a common go-to.  When we don’t want fear in our children, we take it upon ourselves - don’t tell the entire story - sing a lullaby until the monsters leave.  And yet, looking back on my own story...I can’t help but see parallels.  The congruence of fearing that I am never enough.  The self-loathing for my body, based on demands on society.  The shame in failing.  The fear that if I don’t control, something will go terribly wrong.

     My mother wasn’t depressed.  But she was emotionally distant.  Perhaps that was her way of saving the pain of anxiety that her mother fought all her life.  When angry, she gave the silent treatment.  When upset, she’d shut up.  Even in her enjoyment, she wasn’t present.  Not to dog on movie lovers, but when you watch TV and never communicate with your family, it communicates that you have no interest in that person.  I spent a few years believing my mother didn’t love me...and yet, the truth is, she did.  She didn’t know how to show it in the way that I needed it.

     All she knew was to protect, guard.  Her thought process was, “If it happened in the past, let’s not drudge it back up.  There is no need to bring it back up.”  Which sounds good at first.  But here’s the problem I’m seeing.  When we don’t talk about our past, the past has a knack for leaking into our future anyway.  When we are silent about the skeletons in our closet, the devil has an open door to attack our children.  It may be through a generational curse (i.e. anxiety and the need to control things, from Oma to my mother to me).  It may take a different form, but it still shows its face. Another aspect is the hidden dialogue in the tone in conversations.  My mother doesn’t speak about her pain, but if I said something that reminded her of it, there was a tone of bitterness.  And to this day, if I remind her of  those buttons, there would still be bitterness.

     I am more like my mother than I realize.  Whereas, I heard my father’s story and was clearly able to see what not following Jesus would lead to, my mother’s hidden story opened the door for the devil to wreak havoc in my life.  Though a Christian, I struggled so hard to believe that God’s Word was true for me.  My mother has been in the same boat.  She accepted Christ after Sandy died, but over the course of 24 years, I have worried that my mother fails to receive all that God has for her.  There is still that sense that she needs to do everything to make sure it is done correctly.  Be quiet or else the hurts won’t heal.  But what hurts have remained open, because she doesn’t discuss them?  (For example, Sandy was miscarrying when the doctor made the suggestion that they should take the baby out at that moment...Sandy had not died yet.  Essentially, it was an abortion.  But Mom  never speaks, nor has she ever spoken, of Sandy.)  

     Now, what am I to take away from this?  One,  I cannot look at my mother with eyes full of disdain.  She is trying to protect her heart; but I know that only God can heal her. Compassion urges a desire that she would open up. Secondly, I must see our similarities, bring them to God, identify which things are healthy and unhealthy.  When I have done that, I can grow as a person.  Knowing our family history isn’t meant to be full of shame, though painful and shameful things have happened.  When we pair reflection with responsibility, the result is restoration for our future.

I Am, Because They Were Part 1 - Wasted Years Prove Saving

During this summer and early fall, I was seeing my community and church, and many things frustrated me.  The biggest thing was how there is a verbal claim to go after God, but there seems to be no long-term follow through.  To be in ministry, but have a disdain for those whom you are ministering is not a healthy thing.  And yet, I was constantly fighting a frustration...perhaps a hatred.  Mainly directed at parents. In short, I was angry at the parents who attend church, but lived a hypocritical life.  I was angry at parents who claimed to be Christians, but obviously, God was not first on their mind.  I was angry at parents who were going after God, but were failing to bring their kids along.  (That last one was my biggest concern.)  

     If I had a chance, I would have some choice words with them.  In the process, God had to tell me that I may be right in that parents at our church are not going after God, but the heart I was harboring was not correct.  I would need a change of heart, before I could speak with them, if ever, I was given the chance.  It wasn’t until I told my testimony, as connected with my father’s testimony, that I got the idea of what I should say, if I could share with parents my breaking heart (and yet, not full of hatred).  

     This blog-post is in three parts.  I am going to discuss extremely important things; things that may be hard to swallow, but need to be said.  Nevertheless, silence keeps things hidden and speaking allows for people to be healed and made whole.  This three-part blog is not just poking at my parents, lastly.  The last component is the truth that no matter what our parents did or didn’t do, we all are still ultimately responsible for ourselves and our decisions to go after God. Wasted Years Prove Saving (Dad)

     He grew up in a Christian family.  His parents were morally upright, and involved in their community.  Making an effort to give to the needy, live humbly, and use their musical talents to lead in worship, this boy knew all about Jesus.  But he was a boy that lived in a small town, and had brothers who also knew how to cross the line.  He caught one smoking, so to shut him up, his brother gave him his first cigarette at the age of six.  That was the start. Around the same age, he was exposed to porn (by whom, or how, I do not know.)  By the age of 12, this boy started drinking as well.

     This boy was considered a model student.  Growing up into the middle and high school, he kept his grades up.  He was involved in many activities - band and several athletics.  Lettering in both.  He even sang in the church choir.  He had a nice girlfriend, and they were doing things the right way.  But he still drank and smoked on the weekends.  After graduation, he slept with his girlfriend, and years later, admitted that he immediately lost all respect for her, because he got the “trophy” of her virginity.  Needless to say, they did not stay together.  

     This adolescent, who was becoming a man - though knowing all about Jesus - decided to live for himself.  And weekend habits became daily habits.  He drank for social reasons, but any monetary funds found themselves as the supplier for his new addiction.  DUIs followed; spending nights in jail accompanied, and yet he was consumed to want alcohol.  

     During his 20s, he became involved with a wild-spirited red-head.  She liked to party, and party hard.  This man even started doing cocaine.  An effort to stay awake, so he could continue drinking at all hours.  God’s mercy alone can account for the fact that he never died from this lethal combo.  He eventually was engaged to her.  However, in his own reflection, was only with her, because she wanted to stay in the relationship.  Eventually, they too, split up.  

     Though relationships changed, one thing didn’t change for this man, and it was that alcohol and tobacco were his constant companions.  But they had a bite of betrayal.  This man would become somebody he didn’t like.  In his own words, an “a-hole”.  Though he prayed the sinner’s prayer at the age of 24 years old, he still held onto his drops of liquor.  

      He would call his older brother - a practical evangelist - irate and angry, saying that Jesus wasn’t real.  And at ungodly times of day...or shall we say, at night.  Sometimes at midnight going onto 4:00am, he would raid his brother’s ears with hateful words.  Every penny of his paycheck would go to support his “friend”.  And yet, this friend would let him down.  Drinking enough to cause hangovers, but enough cleverness found a solution to have one more beer to take the edge off before returning to work.  It was a never-ending cycle.  Inwardly, he knew he was out of control.  He tried Alcohol Anonymous, and following through the 12 step programs, but nothing was ever permanent.  Then he met her.  

     Of course, it was at a party of a mutual friend that he said his first hello...And long story short, they had their fun, and decided to go home together.  Whether you would call it dating or shacking up - within a couple months, they found themselves pregnant.  Perhaps, the combination of his upbringing, seeing his sibling react to their own premarital child (getting married), or a Holy Nudge, the man decided to stay by her side, and eventually married a year after the child was born.  With God’s mercy, they are married to this day.

     But the early years of their marriage were rocky.  The continued drinking habits almost forced the couple to split three years into their marriage.  The man’s brother wondered if Jesus would come into the picture, and how so.  Three more years would wait before any change came.

     It was June of 1996, and the man heard that there was a Promise Keepers event in Denver, CO.  Interested, he called his brother to go with him.  The brother, knowing exactly what it was, did not hesitate to go and see him.  The conference was a Christian meeting of men encouraging them to become healthy husbands and fathers.  On the last night, the speaker asked the crowd that if they did not know Jesus to come forward.  The man asked his brother if he should go up.  His brother, remembering that when the man was 24, had prayed the sinner’s prayer, asked a wise question: “Has Jesus ever been your Lord more than He is now?”  The man replied that He had not been.  With that, the two went forward.  The man surrendered his life to Jesus, quit smoking and drinking cold turkey.  He is a doting father and husband to this day.

     He has been 23 years sober, and this man is my dad.  Growing up, we were two peas in a pod, and I never questioned how much he loved me.  He was always cheering me on, and even my biggest coach.  Admittedly, he was not a perfect father, but since I was six years old, he showed a genuine heart of change and longing to go after Jesus whole-heartedly.  He has a practical wisdom that has the right word at the right time.  He is able to discern when something isn’t right, and will plainly say so.  I have always appreciated how he never jokes about divorce, which shows his faithfulness (especially in a family where we’ve had so many divorces).
    If you talked with my father, he would tell you that he wasted 30 years of his life.  He took time to vividly detail his faults and sins, when I asked.  Though there was regret, there was no shame in revealing the skeletons in his closet.  Though his past could not be changed, the truth is that his wasted years became the means of salvation for myself and my younger brother.   When I attended a public high school and saw all the things that my classmates were involved in, I knew that I didn’t want to go the same direction, because my father had already revealed to me the hell that would await.   Neither of us have gotten into drugs, drank in high school, or lost our virginity.  One time, my dad asked, “How did I get so lucky?”  My reply: “Dad, we found Jesus to be the most important thing in our lives!”  Moreover, for me, it was the testimony of my dad that deterred me to desire what became his waste.  And his waste became the path of my redemption.