Dear Crush

Dear Crush,

     You have been on my mind daily, for about a week.  Sure, my attraction to you has been longer, but usually, I still go on with life and, periodically, you come to mind.  When you do, I pray for you.  However, my thoughts toward you are once again moving toward that sense of longing.  Something that which should not be woken.  I know. I know. I KNOW! I should wait until God’s plan.  But life’s journey coupled with the heart’s desires can tempt God-given gifts to be open before it’s time.

     Sometimes, it is easy to wait.  I do like being single.  I like the idea that I can have all authority on my time, and be able to decide what to do and when.  I am able to serve and help when needs arise.  Personally, having a family sounds nice, but frankly, at this moment, as much as I love kids, I do like being able to send them home (that probably makes me sound a little selfish).     

     Nonetheless, I also feel a certain anxiety when alone.  It’s an ironic dichotomy.  When I’m alone, I wish I had someone to share life’s moments and dreams.  Yet, when I have visited the family I have, I wish I could find some alone time.  I’m never settled.  It’s as if I am looking for the next thing.  My independent spirit cries out, “I can do this on my own!”  But there is a quiet whisper that confesses, “I don’t want to.”  

     I think the religious tone portrays that I must first and foremost look for a common purpose when desiring for a romantic relationship.  It’s important.  If I am wanting to do mission work, but the man I’m interested in would rather hide himself away, it would not work.  (Hudson Taylor found that out with his first love interest.  Didn’t work out.)  However, there has to be more than just a similarity in goals and passions.  What if in changing seasons, purposes change?  Truth is, there is something in you, as a person, and as a son of God, that makes me take a second glance.  And though, there is a present purpose to our journeys of singleness, it is tempting to yearn for what could be.  

     We once said that we should wait on the question of getting to know one another, on account of things that you had to work through.  In the meantime, God has revealed to me that I myself have toxic tendencies.  Habits that formed in a manner to protect my heart from hurt.  If we were to begin anything, I would be apt to sink us.  But that doesn’t stop the temptations of wishing things could be sped along.  Whenever your name crosses my mind, I hope you are doing well, growing and healing.  I pray for areas that you confided in me concerning your struggles.  

     Then I wonder if you still think about me, aside from the times that I message you.  If you still think you aren’t worthy of me; if you are tempted to find someone else.  I hope I don’t make you feel like you couldn’t compare.  So many conflicting thoughts.  But I know it’s my own insecurities that stir up an anxiousness in my heart.  Honestly, there is a deep desire in my soul, and the gravest of temptations include seeking you for what only Jesus could ultimately do.

     I want to be wanted; to be an object of affection.  I don’t want to have to be the first to say something.  I don’t want to push to receive.  I want to be a joy to someone.  But I am only human.  I have my shortcomings and failings.  There are things in me that if I begged you to carry, it would be too much for you.  This is not a question of your strength; this is a reality that what I fight is something from that which only Jesus can deliver me.  

     Even in my personal relationship with Daddy God, I am finding that it is easier to study His Word to “become a better Christian” than to desire just being with Him.  My prayer time consists more of intercession than adoration.  I am a fighter before a lover.  I am driven by having a sense of purpose; a goal.  But God desires for relationship.  He desires for a level of intimacy that humans only can conjure up in imaginations.  The very things I am wanting, God is trying to tell me that I am the object of His affection; I cause Him delight and smiles. More than what any man could know my soul, God is the only able to see the unknown, and carry sufficiently.  I don’t doubt any future capability to love me, but if the longings inside me spur me to expect you to carry things that only the Cross was created to bear, I will break you, and I will wound me.  I will instill deeper roots of lies that I have believed my whole life.  Ones in which He wants to remove.

     Please don’t take this as a “no”.  As you once said, “at least, not now”.    I am finding that I want to be your biggest cheerleader, but I have to watch what I say, when I say, and how often.  You are still healing, and I cannot accidentally manipulate our friendship in such a way that you begin to solely co-depend on me instead of wholly depend on God.  Furthermore,  I have to not beg for your words as you would become an idol for which the throne should only be sat by Him who made each of us.  

     I, SO, wish for the ability to share deep thoughts, insights, and dreams.  I want to be able to fight alongside, share news of His salvation and persevere for the betterment of our neighbors.  I also long to be the cause of someone’s smile.  But most of all, I want God’s best.  And the greatest hurt is knowing that at this time, I may not be the best for you. We both need to take time to let God heal and grow us.  We must become attached to Him before we can begin taking steps toward a closer friendship. 

     I ask one thing.  Please wait. At least, for now.  

Sincerely

My Christmas Miracle

  Ten years ago, I was sitting with friends for lunch, and while we prayed, one person had a picture of my family sitting together as a family.  I had told them about my personal heartache, feeling like my family was anything but.  Emotionally distant and a broken relationship with my mother had scarred my heart.  Fast forward 10 years, and there has been some progress.  However, as of last Thanksgiving, old wounds were reopened.

     So...three weeks after was Christmas vacation.  I know what God said through Elijah’s story in 1 Kings 19:44-47.  “Go again.” Yet, I still was hesitant.  I was hopeful, still. I wanted better memories.  I wanted to enjoy my family, despite the present circumstance.  With faith, I ventured back to Missoula.

     All in all, I actually had a great time with my family.  After the tumultuous conversation with my father in November, I think he became more proactive to make sure TV wasn’t the center of the family.  He pulled out old family photos.  We found a lot of images of my grandmother (who passed away in 1998) in different hairstyles and fashions.  Grandpa led a boycott back in the ‘70s, over products whose advertisements were sensual.  Lastly, found out my aunt was a poet.  There was a saved paper, which is enlightening to something she had gone through.

     Dad brought out board games one night, too. Three rounds of Yatzee.  Danny had won all of them, but wanted to quit early.  With that statement, Dad said, “Aww...but I’m having fun.”  When Dad and I went to Spokane to visit my grandfather and cousin, we played some pool with my cousin.  Had fun at that time, too.

     Mom was still pretty introverted.  Stayed to herself and watched TV.  But I am learning to love her where she is at.  There was a moment where she let in on some of her frustrations.  Things I had guessed, but she never admitted vocally.  She is still a woman who still needs some healing. 

     So, do I keep going?  Yes.  This is my family, and though the journey has been emotionally painful, healing is eminent, because God is at work.  And He continues to be working.

A Thanksgiving Full of Hurt

     I was excited to visit.  I have learned to love my parents where they are, and to be content.  But I didn’t remain so, last weekend.  God, You know what happened.  Daily, I cried.  Witnessing the complaining my mother did about my father was just the start.  The final stab was the old wound of watching TV.  Something that is a form of entertainment; it acts as the center of my family’s life.  I am hurt because though we are relatives, there is more relating with the plot lines on screen.  I have found my parents (and even my little brother) guilty of becoming more emotionally invested with fictional characters than with those sitting right next to them.  I am trying to be forgiving, and move on.  I am trying to heal and not continue to look back.

     When I explained my hurt, admittedly, I cussed.  But I didn’t blow up, or turn into Hulk.  That’s something to be thankful for.  That being said, I look at my family and I don’t want to be like this.  I don’t want my marriage to be full of complaining about my spouse.  I don’t want to be unaware of my kids because I focus my attention on lesser things.

     It is hard to forgive when I hold an expectation for a wrong to be righted.  And the wrong I have suffered is the feeling of neglect and rejection for something fake.  I no longer believe my parents don’t love me.  I know that they do.  But, I still am looked over.  Daddy, it hurts.  Families are supposed to spend time together, right?  Talk with one another, right?  Then why doesn’t my family.  We get so caught up in our entertainment that we fail to find enjoyment in the person of those we love.  

     God forbid that Mom misses her “Days”, but thank You, Jesus that she can catch episodes on the phone.  

     Mom wants to gift me with a Rocu.  I told Dad to make sure she doesn’t.  I have enough to watch on Youtube and Facebook.  I don’t need anymore distractions.  I hate that screen.  I hate it more, because when I am home alone and yearn for interaction with people, I myself, am drawn to that same screen.  Why not read, go for a walk?  Usually I do.  But being winter, and winds threaten a blizzard, it’s safer to stay home, and I feel caged.  

     Alone.  Unable to move much, and lacking intimacy.

     Because that is what I am yearning for...Intimacy.  Purpose.  A sense of being wanted.  And every time I visit “home” (which is no longer, since I moved to the Rez), I hope that things will be different.  My expectations lends to a painful fall, as I realize the same habits that I lived with my whole life - the same dysfunction that was my normal for growing up - continue to persist.  

     There are things I am thankful for this Thanksgiving.  The visit wasn’t all negative.  Meeting with a Missoula youth pastor allows my soul to breathe with all that I deal with in ministry.  Talking with someone who can see the positives of Natives helps break my fear that all whites may be racist.  However, even the blessings have been overshadowed by the hurt.

     I have been rejected once again.  My mother has no clue.  She told me that she already missed me when I was getting to go home.  (My actual home.)  How can she miss me when she hardly spent any time with me?  Sure, we watched TV together.  But what could be said in the moments where we learned more about one another’s thoughts, hopes, dreams...at the soul level?  Nevermind.  We don’t get to that level.  

     I do have a stronger relationship with my dad.  We can talk.  But Daddy, I have thoughts, hopes, concerns, ideas that are too much to bear or understand.  Even on my way to Missoula, “I am too much,” whispered into my mind.  I’m sorry.  I don’t mean to be too much.  Why wasn’t I more simpler?  Why am I so serious?  It makes me wonder if this is the reason why I have so few friends.
    Sure, I have many acquaintances.  But friends - knowing me beyond the mask I might wear on any given day - I can honestly say that I have one or two.  Am I too much for people?  Is there something odd or unusual about myself?  Why am I hardly invited?  Is there something wrong with me?  Do I drain people more than I pour out (opposed to how I personally feel (in that I feel like I pour out on others more so))?  God, I want to be carried, but I fear that no one can.  I realize that no one is You, but there are so few people that I trust to want me.  The full me.  

     So, I hold back.  Unbeknownst to myself, I have built walls, though I want to tear down bricks.  I decide to not give too much of myself, because I don’t want to have to need people, but I also put hard boundaries in which people cannot use me...or at least, I make sure to define the relationship for what it is, rather than what I wish it was.  I’ll share Christ, be Your light, be a friend.  But I won’t call them my friend.  

     There are chains tied around my heart, and they are heavy.  Their name is rejection. I thought I was over this, but I am not.  I want to be, but I don’t know how.  I know that forgiveness is key, but I need Your help.  This pain tempts me to keep my distance from this day forward.  Why willingly put myself through ongoing hurts when I know that it crushes my spirit?  It’s amazing how traveling to that city, the old fears and insecurities come to shroud my mind.  But as Elijah did in 1 Kings 19 (verses 41-44), he told his servant to “Go again,” when looking for the fulfillment of the promised Word.  Seven times that servant traveled before he saw a cloud.  And even that cloud was the size of a hand.  But that grey was enough to stir enough hope that You are indeed faithful.  You tell me to go again.  I will.  My emotions are still bare, but I want to walk in forgiveness, and right now, that looks like continuing to say “hello”.  But if nothing changes, can I be content?  At this point, I still feel the arrows. 

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.

I Wanted You, First (Didn't You Know)

I was there, first.

My voice uttered breath

Into creation,

Giving birth to all that exists,

And I saw that it was good.

But dusk came…

Temptation’s tastes tantalized;

The coyote’s howl

Convinced you to

Run away from Me.

But, didn’t you know

That I cried out for you, first?

You wandered and became

Lost.

Running to every life’s shops

Selling their sins

Aiming to satisfy the hole

Inside, one in which I placed 

Your call.

What happened to you?

I can barely recognize you.

Groveling after every 

Word of affirmation,

But when your friends…

Your family…

Fell,

They failed you too.

But, didn’t you know

That I created you, first?

Popularity isn’t 

As attractive when you 

Must trade your identity

For a lie.

But, didn’t you know

That I named you, first?

Wounded, the butterfly’s touch

Warms as you see her face;

Feel his embrace…

Caressing identified as love -

Masking mistakes

With a look of heroism -

Masquerading in your lust.

But, didn’t you know 

That I wanted you, first? 

Anything to dull the mind:

Take a sip of gin,

Pop some pills -

Get high to not feel low-

Convince yourself to take

A little sleep for long…

Escape the pain within.

But, didn’t you know

That I wanted to heal you, first?

Hide the psychotic battle

Ensuing behind closed doors.

Advertise what “goodness” you have,

Deny what imperfections that lie.

Yet, in your cover, you stumble

Carrying burdens even Hercules couldn’t bear.

But, didn’t you know

I made you righteous, first?

Haunted by past shame,

The mirror portrays a stranger

Who admits they wandered far from home.

Strangled and bound, fearful of falling again,

You isolate, believing

I would be pleased

With your absence.

But didn’t you know 

That is further from the truth?

My wrists were cut

So that you may be restored.

I bled to death

So that you might live.

I became bruised and broken

So that you may become whole.

I bore the weight of the world’s sin,

So you wouldn’t have to.

I made Myself distant 

From Heaven’s holiness

So you could come near.

Do not believe that you could

Somehow pay the penance deserved.

Didn’t you know

I loved you, first?

Though I saw your sin,

Didn’t you know

 I died for you, first?

Oh My child,

What has happened to you?

And now, you do not know Me.

But...I am here.

I was here first.

Omniscient, outside of time

I saw your beginning;

The plan I predestined for you,

The path you would falter,

The redemption I would pave for you…

I was here.

I saw your frustrations and confusions.

I wiped your tears and carried you

In my arms.  I never forsook your name.

Stop in this moment, and be still.

Will you come to Me?

Worship Me.

I am all you need.

I was here first…

And I will be the last

To still have my hand out 

For you.

Because, I wanted you, first.