More Than Survivors

"With Christ, you are not a survivor.  You are an overcomer and have the victory." -Pastor Sharon Cornelius

I often have heard that when you struggle and came through it, then you are a survivor.  You beat whatever it was in life that was trying to beat you.  However, after I heard my pastor say this, I looked up the definition of "survivor."  It describes someone who continues to function (or prosper) in spite of opposition, setbacks or hardships. 

I survived a stroke before I was born.  I have been able to figure out how to accomplish tasks so that I can do the things I aim.  I function.  If that wasn't enough, life threw more curveballs smothered in spit; words tied to my identity that I yearned to acclaim, but were never enough.  I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered where my worth was.  It seems to be a constant cycle.  Get hit with something, and then try to find out the truth about yourself.  Own it...At least for a while.  Then you're back to square one.  Again. 

Honestly, can't I be done with it already?

The problem with seeing myself merely as a survivor is that I am just functioning in the midst of the lies that the devil weighs on me.  I am reminded how I "should" see myself, rather than fully know how God, my Creator Daddy, actually sees me.  You can tell me I'm beautiful all you like, but there is that thought that remembers how as a little girl, someone told me that to be fat equals ugliness.  Sheesh.  No wonder I didn't eat cheese in high school, and would grab whatever flab I had in disgust.  I knew I had good things in me, but I was unfortunately also very well aware of the abilities and talents of others, so I often shied away from using my own to bless others, and for God's glory.  Always yearning to be wanted for who she was, I aimed to be the perfect daughter, friend, teacher.  And if I faltered in some manner, then I believed I deserved to reprimand myself. 

Yeah, I survived.  I functioned. 

I wasn't just meant to function.  To see myself in that piece of reflective glass, breathe in some sigh of strength to just get through the day.  Life is hard sometimes.  Hellish at some points.  But this mentality of functioning leaves me in a state of inward restlessness while hiding underneath a rock, because I don't know if I can truly trust myself to be who Christ meant for me to be in front of everyone.  

"Yet in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.  For I am persuaded that neither death nor life, nor angels nor principalities nor powers, nor things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other created thing, shall be able to separate us from the love of God which is is in Christ Jesus our Lord."  - Romans 8:37-39

 Christ had died, resurrected, and redeemed everything sin I committed and overcame all the lies of the enemy.  I am not who people said I was.  I am not who the devil tries to convince me who I am.  Though things may get me down, and life may press me in all sorts of different directions where I feel like I am lost, I AM NOT CRUSHED (2 Corinthians 4:8).  I am a conqueror.  To conquer means "to win, to vanquish (to defeat completely)."  As a conqueror in Christ, it is a dead and done deal.  I can cry out, "NO MORE!!!" and that be the end of it.  Period.  

I am a new creation, therefore I do not have to have the things that held me back continue to chain me down.  This is easier said than done, sometimes, though.  I still have to remind myself who I am and who I am because of and in Jesus.  But I am remembering more often.  More often is good.  I am learning to not believe that the girl I once was is the woman I always will have to be.  I am continuing to press on, and be who God made me to be.  When the devil comes to "chat it up", I do not fight these lies on my own.  Jesus already gained the victory,  and therefore, I have already won it in Him.

Dear Mother, My Apologies

Proverbs 31: 25-31

Dear Mother,

You were the one who was

To carry me in my weakness, and lift me beyond my dreams. 

When the day became night, you were

To be my hope in the stars.

You were supposed to

Cry courage when I coward in fear,

Speak ability when I felt handicapped.

Tell me of my beauty;

Defy the lies that I found in the reflective glass.

Truth is,

For all the hurts that pained;

For all the wounds that dashed in the midst

Of who I am, I had blamed you.

I claimed that the comfort of my being

Was the calling of your existence. 

You were supposed to be my shield

Protector and greatest cheerleader.

And if you fell, then you failed

Me. 

Your love was the pedestal

On which I stood my identity.

I hung onto your every word

As it defined my worth…

They became my gods as I looked

To you to know who I am.

I held you by the neck.

I bound you with chains.

For every arrow that struck my heart

I attributed the fault to be yours.

Oh, how jaded my sight!

How skewed was the tune I heard!

Dear Mother, my apologies.

I forgot that you are human.

For years all I could see was how you ruined me.

How your words and actions cursed me.

But how would you have known

Hades would twist your intentions?

That snake.

However, I see you clearly now.

I did not understand until

I became a mother myself.

Your eyes were tired from dreams dormant;

Your body weakened from running to seek my own.

Your concerns summoned out of the fear of death

Hanging over your child’s head.

You held me at your breast

Not to strangle, but to save me.

You fought with all your might

So that my soul could thrive.

You cherished beyond condition;

Affectionate upon the introduction to my face. 

For wasn’t it I who had caused you ache

As I broke from the amniotic sac?

Wasn’t it you who called me a joy

With my first scream of breath?

You loved me at first sight.

Hours of labor continue to tick

As you carried my hand in yours

To become who I am meant to be.

Your mouth full with wisdom

Declares life for future generations.

You are fierce and gentle simultaneously.

Your arms strong; carry the tears of children

And comfort them with the cradle of your hand.

Never content with my want;

You met my needs.

When nightmares attempted to make their beds,

You sang lullabies full of faith from heaven. 

Your eyes captured the creative sight

Of God; seeing beyond expectations

Drawing dreams into realities.

Blessed are you

Among women.  You behold a beauty;

A grace my age can only hope for.

Dear Mother,

Words cannot express the gratitude

So late to be mentioned, but bursting in my heart.

For the love you gave, I give back.

And for that, I am not apologetic. 

Hugs and kisses,

Your love and daughter,

Laura Emily

Bear Your Scars

Don’t ask questions

For to receive an answer means

A depletion of ignorance.

And isn’t not knowing sweet to the mind?

But our bliss = your hell.

The desire for our eyes to divert

Your embarrassment only intensifies

Your frustration; metabolizes into loneliness.

A shame untold of anger only allowed

To lash out against its own flesh.

Loathing lines lay across your limbs

Like sticks stacked by a child.

A deep red remnant of pain

Reveals hidden suffering.

Unspoken out of fear of damnation,

You are haunted by the thought

That “empathy” birthed only in the damage

Cleaved into skin;

Your heart’s laceration will repel others

Wanting to know you, wanting to love you.

With three nails, I called out for you

By name - I saw your face. 

The dormant splendor in your soul

Survives, pulsating through your veins, escalating.

May I resuscitate your hope?

What time cannot heal, I want to mend.

Deny the power of nightmares that wake you,

Restore your sleep to its former,

Innocent, glory.

Will you let Me bear your scars?

It breaks My heart to see your spirit

Grovel on the ground, wallow from venomous lies.

With lashes that mark thirty-nine

I have never let you go;

My blood flows, washing your wounds,

Carrying your stripes and tears.

I wish you could see what I see:

You are more precious than the greatest karat,

My dear.  An exciting wonder even the Holiest of Holies

Impatient to invite.

Climb into My arms; rest in My comfort.

The shadow of your past

Can’t haunt you anymore.

I have loved you since the blueprint of your being

Crossed My mind. Admittedly, I was smitten.

I had borne your scars as I exhaled

New life into you: My wonderful, perfect creation.

My body was wrenched, that you might recognize

Your ceaseless beauty. 

My kingly position disowned momentarily

That you may repudiate your wretchedness.

I paid the ultimate cost,

Uprooted the blame you adopted, that you can

Inherit My bottomless, overflowing, blessing:

You are My beloved, in whom I always delight.

(Romans chapter 8; 1 John 3:1)

I wrote this  poem a year ago, after I encountered a student on more than one occasion while subbing.  She was in high school, blonde hair painted a light blue at the tips, and underneath her sleeves, lines revealed that she's had a past of cutting.  I could see more lines peeking through her holey jeans.  I wonder what kind of hell she's been through, to do harm to herself.  I wrote this poem, as a means of what I wish I could say to her, if I had the chance.  I wished so much that I could tell her God loves her, adores her; that she no longer has to hurt, because through Jesus, she can be healed.  

One year later, I'm rereading this poem, something I wrote for someone whom I no longer remember their name, and realizing that I need the words for myself. Poetry is funny like that - written for one purpose, and later is translated into another purpose for another person.  I just didn't figure on that "other person" being me.  The author needing her own words to beg for help.  Who would've thunk?  Actually, I thought I was over this whole self-condemnation thing back when I finished college.  But with new chapters in life come new challenges, and depending on how the day ends, one either feels like a success or a failure. 

There has been a pain inside me growing, condemning my identity as a person.  Some scars can be plainly viewed.  Like my former student, they peer through fabric with the movement of a limb.  However, many scars have to be understood to be seen.  And the scars that I have hidden are such.  I used to look in the mirror and lash out against my own reflection.  For what I saw physically; what I saw emotionally; spiritually.  I would despise what I saw.  I would curse myself, forgetting what beauty I had within me, because the faults and imperfections I believed I had seemed to be a greater determinant of who I am as an individual.  When I looked in that mirror, I found some reason where I was lacking, compared to my friends and family, and wondered why on earth was I the way I am.  There were moments I decided to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders and try to solve all of its problems...and find myself utterly lacking.  And therefore, utterly a failure.  

Noun; not just a verb.  Identity; not just an action.  

Never mind the playful heart; the life-filled laughter; the never-ending song.  Never mind the sun-kissed hair and freckles that splatter against my cheeks.  Never mind the memory captured through film, or the ability to communicate through pen, nor the difference I have been able to make with kids.  Never mind that I am God's child and fashioned in His image...

A year ago, I wrote this poem as a prayer for a teenager to realize who she truly is, and who she is meant to be.  I wrote it initially, to be a message for what Christ's redemption does for the wounds to peoples' hearts.  And yet, I am in need of this prayer.  I thought I beaten this self-hatred.  Which is why its presence now is so concerning to my soul.   Why is it coming back?  Of course, I KNOW who I am in Christ, and how I am a daughter of God.  So, why is it still being thrown in my face? Nonetheless, there have been secret wounds I did not uttered, because I feared not only the condemnation I brought upon myself, but anxious if others would share the same sentiment.  The result was a rotting spirit, and a forgotten value. 

I have since removed the plank from my own eyes, and revealed to my family the hurt I have dealt with.  And there is healing in knowing that they have stood beside me, prayed with me, and are not willing to let me fall down through cracks laced with lies from Satan.  Am I perfect?  No.  But I am remembering who I truly am, laying behind me the things have held me back, and am marching toward what is ahead (Philippians 3:12-14) .  No longer do I have to bear my scars.  Through Christ, they will fade. 

Remind Me Who I Am

I know that I am supposed to be a light.

But I feel the floods of chaos

Sweep me in its drowning destruction.

Bone against bone,

Flesh oppose flesh.

There is a war and I have been charged

The enemy.

Words composed of stones flail

Towards me; they pierce

And I find my heart amongst the casualties.

Ripped and jaded; warped and hated –

My mind weakened

My reflection blurred to something

Unidentifiable.  Your love forgotten,

I feel a fire raging inside of me.

Lividity given way at the sound

Of every poisonous word.

My soul has cowered

In their shadow.  Fear captures

My confidence, crippling it.

Rescue me once again.

Realign my vision to see entirely, for I was

Not intended to succumb to the defeated lies of hell.

I hear the crying of my children dying,

But if I try to save them, surely I will lose myself. 

Breathe into this dust coagulated as the form

Of the One who carries the heavens. 

Not of my strength do I draw,

But the leaven of salvation

Which is the hope of glory for all.