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Frustrated Kids + Self-Reflection = Change

My kids (the 3 that live with me) have been frustrated with me.

I am guilty of saying, “Your dad loves you the best way that he knows how.”

In saying that, I have undermined their feelings. I have inadvertently been telling them that they have to accept his love…even if it hasn’t felt like love.

It is so ingrained in my head that ALL parents (to the best of their abilities) love their children. Maybe that’s true. But just because they love their children, it doesn’t make reality any different.

Love is not enough. It is time we stop forcing our kids to accept love that hurts or makes them feel bad.

It’s not just me that has fallen into the trap of believing this ridiculousness. Just last week, I listened to a friend excuse her mother’s actions because, “You know mom. She’s just like that.” This friend is just like me, brainwashed into believing that a parent is excused from reality because of love.

Bullshit. What even is this kind of love?

As adults, when we acquiesce to a toxic parent, we are letting them know that their behavior is ok. They never feel the consequences of their actions because as young children, we are taught to overlook and ignore how we feel because of duty or “respect.”

Making older adults feel good was more important than our, or our children’s, pain.

For years, I forced my children to overlook a certain family member’s behavior. My children would come to me hurt and angry, and instead of acknowledging and understanding, I expected them to dismiss their feelings because that person was older.

  • Older = respect.
  • Older = deference.
  • Older = no accountability.

I was wrong. I ignored my children and trained them to be accepting of abuse.

And I have been doing the same when it comes to their father.

It doesn’t matter if their father loves them. He has harmed them. He has put conditions on his love for them. He has abandoned them. He has been cruel to them. He has minimized his wrong, and he has not apologized to them.

By the way, this is not a beat up Code Red post. This is a reality check for myself.

In the training of my children, I have been complicit with abuse. For years, I continued to place my children in harms way. I cannot undo my actions, and for that, I am very, very sad.

I have decided to turn my sadness into advocacy and education.

Here is what I can do:

  • I can apologize.
  • I can model what it is like to learn something new.
  • I can change.
  • I can listen and actually hear.
  • I can come alongside my children and others.
  • I can stand up for mistreatment.
  • I can carry it forward by educating others.

Looking inward to see truth is one of the most difficult, yet rewarding things I can do, both for myself and for my kids.

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Gay for Pay

For the most part, the lives of my kids and I are pretty peaceful these days. Occasionally, something will come up (like Father’s Day), and our discussions will reference our past. Still, as a general rule, we are all moving forward. I have been divorced 18 months now, separated for 28 months…many of the emotions have settled.

But something happened a month ago that bothered me, and then this other thing popped up last weekend. So if you will indulge me, I am going to process it here.

Five weeks ago, Code Red came to visit our youngest child. He had not seen him since February due to COVID-19, and honestly, I felt pretty good about this visit. I continue to hope that Code Red will figure out how to love them the way that they long to be loved. But then my son left his glasses in Code Red’s rental car. Not a big deal, just something that a phone call and a stop-by should fix.

BUT. When Code Red came by early the next morning to deliver the glasses, he had a young man (about the age of our older sons–22-24) in the car with him. That would have automatically be suspicious given Code Red’s preferences. However, it would have been less suspicious had the young man not been lying back in the car seat, attempting to not be seen. My youngest nervously came back into the house, bouncing from foot to foot, telling me how uncomfortable it was.

If any of you are single parents, here is a bit of advice. Just introduce the person with you. I honestly believe that had Code Red introduced the two, a bit of trust could have been established. Our son might not have liked the situation, but it would have made the interaction upfront and honest. But Code Red didn’t do that.

Fast forward to last Sunday. One of my children was checking their Venmo account balance, and when they clicked on the app, they saw this: “Code Red paid _______. Gay for pay.”

Right there for the world to see.

These kinds of things continue to occur and affect my children. I cannot protect them from this happening. Their father does not appear to care what they see or think.

I have divorced him. He is free to live the LGBT life that he must have always wanted. And I am free from him.

The children did not divorce him. Outwardly, they do not want anything to do with him, but I have to wonder if deep down inside, they long for a loving father.

I have to accept that my role is to love my children well and to ask God to lead me in each and every step of this journey.

A Daughter’s Grief

I woke and heard the sound of her tears. It was Tuesday morning and she had received an email from her father. Everyone’s investments were losing money and he told her to leave it be until after the coronavirus pandemic had passed.

Except she could not do that. She relies on that money to pay her rent as she goes to college. And that money was disappearing.

This scenario sounds like a loving father, giving wise advice to his child. Unfortunately, the way it sounds and its reality are two different things.

You see, my daughter continues to be ravished by the grief and rejection of her father. She doesn’t know this for certain, but it appears that he blames her for the loss of his family. And that simply isn’t true.

On Father’s Day, 2017, my sweet girl posted a photo of she and her dad on instagram. Later that day, a friend from the area reached out and sent her screenshots of her father on Grindr, a gay “hook-up” app. In a moment of time, my daughter’s world collapsed. And she didn’t have time to process it. She was leaving the next day to do mission work and then work at a summer camp…without regular access to phones and computers.

Fast forward to the whirlwind of August 2017. The beginning of her senior year of high school. Two weeks later, the destruction of Hurricane Harvey hitting our city. A family of 5, plus their fur-babies moving in with us for 2 months. Her father’s loss of a job. Her life was overwhelming. On the outside she continued to smile and laugh and pretend as if she had never heard that shocking information back in June.

Pretend would be the key word. Behind all of her smiles and laughter, she was investigating and searching for the truth. And she found it…and held onto it for several months.

(Oh, my word. My heart aches as I write this.)

Fast forward to February 4, 2018. Her father had been out of work for just over 3 months. I had been cooking for people to have some cash coming into the home. One of her older brothers had just moved back home. And she had just completed her very last high school musical.

Combined with the weariness of working nonstop for weeks on the musical and a verbal attack from her father, emotionally she collapsed. She could not keep his secret any longer. She decided to curl up into my arms and tell me what she had learned.

While I have vivid memories of that evening, I honestly do not know what she felt after telling me. I can only hope that she felt a small bit of relief, because our nightmare was just beginning. Neither she, nor I, had any idea of the information that would change the course of our lives forever.

Let me go back in time and tell you about her relationship with her dad. Some of her first words were, “I’m Daddy’s Princess.” Early in her life, he openly favored her. He would spend time brushing her hair. He would take her on Daddy-Daughter dates. They had a saying, “Daddy-Daughter Power-DDP.” My friends thought that he had an unnatural fixation on her. I thought it was cute and didn’t listen to them. I have no idea how to decipher all of that now?

After she told me what her friend had shared, I began to question and grieve as more and more knowledge about my husband’s secret life came to life.

And then, one fateful day, a “knowing” shook my core. When I pushed for clarity and received it, the information was far worse that I could have ever imagined. The natural protective nature of a mother for her child kicked in, and I could only think about protecting my daughter. If only I could spare her from learning this…

I couldn’t. I tried. If she learned of this, I did not know if she would survive it. I honestly did not know what this would do to her. I even attempted to save just a tiny part of the relationship with her dad, by encouraging him to speak to her. Unfortunately, his shame was so great that he could not face her.

Regrettably, it was taken out of my hands, and I could not protect her from it. Someone from school found out and told her that her father had had relations with her very best friend. A young man that she trusted more than she trusted her brothers. A young man that had been her friend since she was 11 years old. A young man that had been in our home.

Our family had been destroyed. But now, her whole world was destroyed.

Father’s Day is awful for my children. It is a terrible reminder of abuse and indifference.

Please pray for my children today. Their hearts hurt.

Listen, Learn, and Honor

Since 1994, I have lived in 6 states and have experienced many transitions of my thought patterns. I grew up in a conservative, small community where most people have similar thoughts and opinions. In my family, as long as you worked hard, you were considered “good people”…color was a description and did not seem to matter. Work hard and be good people.

I do not remember not having black people around. (I would use the term people of color, but the reality is that black people were the only people of color I knew.) My rural classroom was a mixture of black and white children, although probably predominantly white. My teachers were both black and white; I do not remember race being an issue. As I think back, Ms. Butler, a black first-grade teacher, seemed like a grandmother waiting to love on every child that walked into her classroom. I do remember that it seemed as if my black elementary teachers held us to a higher standard of excellence. The teaching of the “whole” child (emotional, intellectual, and physical) seemed extremely important and different from what I experienced with my white teachers.

I admit to being an oblivious child. I tended to disappear into a private world of my own. Watching other children and sensing their needs seemed to be what I was most aware of. The big picture of what might have been going on around me never seemed to enter my consciousness. I was too worried about the girl standing on the sidewalk because no one was playing with her, the girl being teased because she was much taller than everyone else, or the kids who were fighting (Yes, I was a tattletale. I hated to think that someone might be hurt.). On my school bus, I loved Tyrone, who could spin a basketball on his fingers. And Fletcher, who bought me candy whenever I could find 15¢ for him to spend. Yes, I saw the color of their skin, but the only thing that mattered to me was that they were kind.

And then, two incidents occurred that forced me to realize that not everyone else saw the world as I did. When I was in 6th grade, my friend called another friend a “half-breed” and “n****r” and beat him up. Later, an older lady saw a young black girl walking into an unlikely place for her to be. The older lady became flustered and asked me, “Why would that ‘n****r’ girl be going in there?” When I answered, “Because she is friends with ____,” she became angry and told me that she needed to make some phone calls, and I needed to go home.

Until then, I didn’t understand that the color of skin was an issue. I only knew that it was different.

Fast forward through the years, and I have had white friends, black friends, Asian friends, etc., but I never understood that their lives were significantly different from my own. I honestly believed that the only differences in our lives were cultural.

Honestly, the opening up of my mind took a lot of personal work. It is a fact that I struggled to listen and hear what I was being told. It threatened my equilibrium and was more than my ridiculously sensitive heart could bear. It took time for the shock to wear off, and the knowledge to sink into my soul. Here is my journey:

Shortly after the issue about Paula Deen came out, I went to Savannah and met with an old friend. While we were walking around town, I referred to Paula Deen’s restaurant. My dear friend (who is black) quietly said, “It is such a shame that she did those things.” While I agreed it was a shame, how my friend spoke made me pause. I wanted to talk about it, but I didn’t even know what kind of question to ask. I knew that this was a friend I trusted through and through, and if she felt something, it was worth pursuing information.

What on earth do I not know? What am I missing or not understanding? Although I did not know what I needed to learn, I knew there was something I desperately needed to hear. (While many things have occurred in recent years, these are the events that forced me to pay attention.)

  • The shooting of Michael Brown occurred, and the riots in Ferguson, MO, took over the news. I began to listen to a Bible study friend because she was from Ferguson. She was level-headed and peaceful, not someone looking to launch an argument.
  • Be the Bridge was introduced through a conference, and I immediately felt a need to become a part of it. I began to read online to hear how to learn what I did not know.
  • At one point, I felt the strong urge to pray for the son of my Bible study friend. I texted to tell her how I felt an urgency to pray. Her response was so heartfelt and profoundly moving that I began to question even more. I continued to NOT get it.
  • Colin Kaepernick’s kneeling came into our world. I won’t lie and say that I understood his reasoning or even cared to understand it. All I knew was that this man was kneeling during the national anthem, and you do not do that. It was clear to me. You stand up. Period. What on earth was happening?
  • The film “13th” released on Netflix. First, I watched it with a small group of people. I was appalled at what I saw, but I believed that if I loved people one by one, I could make a difference by modeling what it was like to accept people, no matter their race. It did not click with me that I should be talking about what I was learning.
  • I watched “13th” a second time with a larger group of people, and quite honestly, I embarrassed myself. I now choose not to view this event as embarrassing; I now see it as my turning point. My thoughts on Colin Kaepernick changed from outrage to understanding.
  • My first Be the Bridge group began, and my life was forever changed. Intimate discussions. Reading books that would have never garnered my attention in the past. Meeting, listening, and processing with women who would forgive me when I said something insensitive. I learned so much. More listening. Less talking.
  • My life fell apart, and I clung to the strength of the black women I had met. Their strength and resilience was something I longed for in myself. I held their stories close to my heart, and I regularly thought that if these women can make it through so much and stand with dignity and worth, so can I.

Fast forward to present-day United States. Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and George Floyd. The effects of these deaths have catapulted Americans into a frenzied state. Some people just want to ignore the “mess” of it all and wait for things to go back to normal. Some people want to attack anything that disrupts their traditional beliefs. Some people want acknowledgement, justice, and reform.

Maybe I’m a religious crazy, but I believe that God has prepared me for this time. He provided me with learning opportunities ahead of this time in history so that I could share what I’ve learned with love. I take the command to “Love your neighbor as yourself” literally.

  • I MUST speak out when there are injustices.
  • I MUST stand strong when people are treated poorly.
  • I MUST listen and learn, because another person’s perspective is just as critical as my own.
  • I MUST challenge those who voice disdain to the ones publicly grieving and calling for change.

This has been my journey. Your journey may look a bit different. One thing is for sure; I encourage you to listen, learn, and honor.

To Date…or Not

The question of dating keeps coming up. Have you started dating yet? What do you think about dating? Why aren’t you dating? Hasn’t it been long enough? Don’t you need to practice so that you will be able to recognize healthy and unhealthy patterns?

First and foremost, dating will begin in my own time. No one gets to decide that but me.

Have I thought about it? Yes. Is there a part of me that desires it? Yes. How do I feel about it? Terrified. Am I about to begin? No.

There are so many emotions tied up into the idea of dating. For someone like me, who has been accustomed to putting all personal desires aside for the “greater good” of the family, the idea of dating is a non-issue. In my mind, I am in school full-time, I’m not financially sound, and I am simply too busy to be distracted by dating. I also have 3 children at home, 2 young adults that are working to find their footing and 1 high schooler that just now seems settled. Do I really want to add another emotional pull on myself?

And then there are all of the insecurities. I wasn’t good enough for one man; how will I be good enough for another? Apparently, I am intimidating. What can I do about that? I am straight up terrified of trusting another man. We can talk, but I don’t know how I will ever trust someone. And here is the BIGGIE: I am overweight; therefore, I shouldn’t put myself out there. Yes. I’m going there. And yes. I am totally using that as an excuse.

In reality my weight is probably the single most important factor that stops me in my tracks from pursuing a future relationship.

Could I lose weight and go for it? Yes. Do I want to? Yes, I’m tired of being overweight. And no, I do not want to draw attention to myself. My weight has been an incredible protector for me these past 4-1/2 years. It has pushed Code Red away from me, saving me from his attention (he thought overweight people were disgusting…plus it gave him the “out” to pursue his true desires).

But it’s also a “thing” for me. It has been for 27 years now. Just a few months after our wedding, I knew that weight was going to be an issue. The first time he said something about it to me, we had been married a couple of months and as I was getting ready to leave, he told me that my dress made my bottom “look huge.” It hurt my feelings, but I decided that he was trying to save me from embarrassment. After having babies, he told me that I looked ok from the side but from the front or back, not so good…I was very wide. Yikes! Who wants to hear that?! Especially after 4 babies and working hard to become fit! And finally, when I allowed my weight to topple to its heaviest, I became a “lazy, fat, slob.” Yes, he really said that. More than once. And yes, I was devastated. It is safe to say that my weight has kept me isolated…and protected.

Here’s the flip side, or the protection part of this whole thing. Before I gained to my heaviest (even when he thought that I didn’t look ok) other people seemed to think I was just fine, maybe even attractive? When we went places, I was left alone…to do what I considered my job…making people feel seen; therefore, making Code Red look good. **As I type this, I wonder if I am exaggerating a bit? Surely, that was not really the way things were, was it?** It certainly felt that way. On every single occasion, I felt abandoned. In most instances I didn’t know anyone; and yet, I was left to mingle, smile, and nod…alone. And I hated it. Once I gained the weight, he stopped asking me to go to these dinners and events. I was left at home and no longer felt as if I had to “perform.”

So maybe there is a bit more to the whole not wanting to date thing…maybe, I don’t want to be taken advantage of again. Maybe I don’t want to have to figure out if I can trust someone or not. Maybe I don’t want to feel unattractive and not good enough. Maybe I feel as if I really am a lazy, fat, slob. Maybe being overweight is the best deterrent on the the planet…and the best excuse to not have to say the word no.

Whatever it is, I’ll figure it out in my own time. Piece by piece, my heart and soul keep healing. This is just another one of those pieces.

And as for dating, I’ll figure that out, too…in my own time.

Trigger Survivor

School began last week with a 2-day introductory class. We didn’t get credit for that class…we were required to attend to prepare us for what was to come.

Y’all. I was NOT prepared for what was heading my way. And I certainly didn’t anticipate my physical reaction to it. You know that feeling that begins as a burning in your stomach that moves up as a heavy thickness inside your chest, and then fills your eyes with tears? That. Is exactly what happened. My brain was telling me that I was sitting in the middle of 300 people, and if I cried, someone was definitely going to see me. Heaven knows I didn’t want anyone to see the reaction I was having. Surely I had more self-control than this?! It used to be that I could hide every single emotion. What has happened to me? (And if I am genuinely honest…why am I not better than this?)

It got worse. The instructor asked us to turn to the person sitting next to us and do partner work. Seriously, y’ all…I thought that I was going to have a full-blown panic attack.

But I didn’t. I stayed and ended up owning it.

I looked at this young, maybe 22-year-old girl, and said, “I want you to know that this topic is triggering me, and I am having a difficult time.” You know what? That pressure inside my chest, that burning in my stomach, and those tears in my eyes all went away. The panic disappeared, and I saw compassion and kindness radiating from this sweet girl who could have been one of my children. I was then able to share a piece of my story and how it related to the discussion topic.

I have now had 4 days of classes. There have been triggers, and panic has threatened to consume me more than that once. I have now shared a fraction of my story 4 times. To me, it feels as if I am lying. All of these parts cannot possibly belong to one person, can they?! And that one person surely can’t be me?

After all, who on earth has facets of their story that can incorporate domestic abuse with infidelity with teenage children with LGBTQ with alcohol abuse with a church with a DACA recipient?!?!

I have yet to tell my complete story. Feeling as if I am an exaggerator is the most challenging part of this. It feels ridiculous and shameful that all of these things can combine in one person’s life. Should I not tell all of it so that it isn’t so outrageous sounding?

No, I believe that I should tell it. It is my truth. It is what has made me the woman I am today. I will not hide and allow shame to consume me.

In class this past week, I gathered enough courage to use the term survivor. Survivor: a person who continues to function or prosper in spite of opposition, hardship, or setbacks. That’s the word. That is the term I want to claim for myself. That is how I identify who I am and where I have been.

Going There…

So I’m going to go there…a place where I never once thought that I would go with this blog. Honestly, I am a bit concerned. My hope is to be a voice that helps people get unstuck from the dark places where shame and guilt thrive.

I hope that you are ready.

The news these days has me internally reeling. It seems as if every single week, there is a new development about someone (primarily men) in power abusing their influence to get sexual wants taken care of. This is a perverse fact of life that many Christians bury their heads in the sand about. We (and I include my “before” self in this group of Christians) don’t want to believe that these things occur.

  • Pastors don’t want to believe that the men they trust pervert the word of God and make exceptions for themselves (heck, sometimes it’s even the pastors).
  • Wives cannot grasp the magnitude of the betrayals within their marriages.
  • Friends don’t want to acknowledge that they don’t really know one other.
  • Wives don’t want to sacrifice lifestyles.
  • Pastors get caught up in the ridiculousness of what’s happening outside of their congregation instead of being available and helping those that long for their care.
  • Men in these powerful roles convince themselves that what they do is not really that bad.

We have to open our mouths, even though it is scary as hell!!!

I’ve mentioned before that my church family asked me to minimize my story. I’ve heard of pastors saying, “_____ wouldn’t do that. I know him.” From first-hand experience, I thought that I knew my ex-husband as well (after all, I met him when I was 13 years old), BUT I WAS WRONG.

However, there were some who knew about my ex-husband’s struggles. Back in the 80s, therapy wasn’t as accepted as it is now. It wasn’t even considered. The man that did awful things, whom I married, is also a victim of ignorance. My ex-husband went to church and was a “good” guy.

But his voice wasn’t heard. And, I believe, his unheard cries led him into a life of addiction and fear. His internal turmoil persisted until he became a person who did horrible, horrible things.

One might argue that he has a weakness of character. He probably does; I am not going to speak to that. Today, at this moment, I want to focus on what was missed, not the choices he made.

CHURCH, I AM TALKING TO YOU. We have to do better. We have to talk about the hard stuff. We have to listen well. We have to believe the women who step forward and share what’s going on behind their doors. Some of this stuff is impossible to make up. We have to become a safe place for those that acknowledge the wars within themselves and try to help them. We cannot minimize the words people share with us.

Maybe, I am the person who gets to be a weird combination of angry and compassionate enough to begin forcing conversations. Maybe, I get to be bold and tell the horrors of my life so that others can find hope. Maybe, I also get to be a hope for those stuck in the trenches of a secret battle, sending them the message that I am fighting to find a safe place for them to seek refuge and turn away from behaviors that harm others.

Or maybe, I am just naively hoping that I can make a difference. I don’t know. I do know that there are many, many casualties from my previous life…my kids, my kids’ friends, young people in the community, our families, me.

I do not want to be a person sitting in the shadows thinking that I am being honorable for not talking about my “stuff.” My kids are at risk. My ex-husband is out there living his life, denying that what he has done (and is possibly continuing to do) has hurt many people. There are women out there that are longing to know that they are not alone. Some of those women can’t make up their minds…are they imagining things or is the life they are living as awful as it feels? There are men out there who need more. More encouragement, more accountability, more safe places, less judgment, and definitely less anger.

This is a brutal war. Some of us want to “suck it up” and brush everything that isn’t nice under a rug…we want to pretend that all people are wonderful and that evil actions are rare. Others of us want to “shout from the rooftops” that the images many people portray aren’t as they seem…we long for accountability and integrity.

I don’t think of myself as a trouble-maker. I see myself as a relatively boring, go-about-my-business-and-ignore-everyone-else’s-opinion woman. But because my life recently revealed a disgusting, hidden soul, I feel an obligation to stand up and begin talking about the hard stuff.

Fellow Christian friends, please listen, hear, and ponder my words.

PRIDE Month and Me

So it’s PRIDE month and in places all over, people within the LGBTQ+ community are fighting to be seen. I want to begin with I see you. I hear you. You are valuable.

You might wonder what on earth Pride Month has to do with me.

This month I have been filled with internal contradictions. I love all of the people. I always have. It is simply who I am and how I live. Funny side story…many years ago, I was told that I loved too deeply and was too compassionate. So the fact that PRIDE month has me struggling disturbs me.

Unfortunately, I have realized that PRIDE month has triggered me back into BIG feelings that hurt my heart. For those of you who do not know, triggers are things that cause a person to flashback to their original trauma (think PTSD). For me, sometimes a word, image or a sound will trigger a physical or emotional response within me that causes significant grief. Immediately, my stomach sinks, a knot forms in my throat, my heart begins to race, and tears begin to pool in my eyes.

You see, last year, I found out that my husband had been having homosexual affairs for the majority of our marriage (23 out of 25 years). The moment I found out, my mind immediately began to process that information something like this: “Ok, so you’re gay or bisexual. You must’ve struggled with that before you married me, but because we are from the Deep South Bible Belt, you married me anyway. I am familiar with that thought pattern. Way back then people actually believed that being married and trying hard enough could possibly “fix” you. Now, many years later, it is much safer emotionally. You are free to go and live your truth. Nice, clean, and ‘Grace and Frankie’-like.(Yes, my brain really does think randomly like that.)

Only that is not my story. My story isn’t nice. My story is bad no matter how you identify.

PRIDE month brings it right in front of me.

But that isn’t the fault of the LGBTQ+ community.

The fact is Code Red had many boundary crossing affairs within our community. Those affairs caused irreparable damage to our children and friends. If I allow my brain to ponder the magnitude of my story, it is more than I can wrap my brain around.

LGBTQ+ or not, I greatly value fidelity.

The reality is my ex-husband is gay.

Seeing the storylines of men and women coming into their reality while betraying their families is excruciating for me. My story wasn’t a long-term love story that my ex-husband had outside of my marriage. My story was a blatant disregard and disrespect of the commitment of marriage. Although I am free of the cruelty of the man I married, when I see open sexuality, it reignites the grief and pain I felt early on.

The triggers have surprised me; they have hit hard and have been a shock to my system. As much as I hate how they have made me feel, I now know that there is another layer of my heart wound that needs attention. I pray that I won’t always be triggered. However, my wounds are deep and it might be a while before my total self is completely mended.

One day I will be whole again. 🙂

Parenting Through Trauma

When my home got turned upside down, my thoughts regarding my kids went something like this, “Please God, let me walk this out well for my children. Please don’t let me fail them now. Please, please, please help me model how to lean on You.”

And then BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! Literally every single week for months, there was a new discovery or a new event that caused significant trauma and grief. I honestly did not know how I was going to make it through all that occurred from last February until August. The blows were constantly coming. And they weren’t just directed at me. They were hitting my kids as well.

My children were exposed to more information than they should have ever even known existed.

In those moments of crisis, rather than try to cover up and do damage control, I decided that we were going to hit it head on and talk about it. I believe STRONGLY that when overwhelmed imaginations are left to come up with their own ideas, things get out of control really fast. And partial truths do nothing but breed distrust.

A pastor friend once told me that preparation is better than protection. It was already too late to protect my babies. It was time to have difficult conversations and to show them that we were going to be there for one another throughout this entire ordeal.

And that is exactly what we have done and continue to do.

There have been no lies and no evasive comments. If I cannot tell them something, I simply say that I cannot tell them what they want to know.

So what does parenting look like during this time? It looks like giving them room to express their emotions. (It took a little while, but everyone finally grasped that expressing emotions did not mean punching holes in walls or destroying our home.) It looks like allowing them to say bad words. It looks like giving them space to process what was happening. It looks like developing an artistic gift. It looks like hanging out in a bedroom until feeling ready to talk. It looks like working a lot. It looks like playing board games. It looks like hanging out on the sofa together. It looks like increasing the animal population inside of our house. It looks like a beautiful, lovable mess.

I don’t always like every aspect it but I have chosen not to interfere with it. I continue to stand beside them as a constant reminder that I am here. I want them to know that I am their mom and that they are safe with me. They can totally lose their sh** and it will all be okay.

I certainly don’t always walk it out graciously. I have hidden in the garage and cried. I have gone to an “anger management” place and taken a baseball bat to a room full of breakables (only to fall apart sobbing, causing the owner to come in and hold me until I was calm again…that was really awkward). I have disappeared and lain in bed for hours at a time. I have fed them boxed mac and cheese, ramen, and a whole lot of fast food. I have said and continue to say way too many bad words.

But we keep going. and going. and going. It might not be pretty, but it is forward…even on our lowest of days.

Parenting through trauma is not about doing it perfectly. It is about being present and letting them see that you know that what they are walking through is really hard and really painful. And that it is OK to have all of these feelings.

And to my beautiful children, no matter what, I love you and I am not going anywhere.

Trust Yourself

Trust yourself. Trust your body.

The body doesn’t lie.

I have attempted to write this next post what seems like a million times! The words always seem as if they are too many, too explicit, or simply too much for others to handle. So I am going to try and come at this topic from a different direction…we’ll see how it all pours out. This is actually where the rebuilding of Amy began.

Our body is a wonderful, remarkable creation that many of us completely ignore. We have feelings or what I call “knowings” that run deep in our souls; however, many times we are either too busy to connect with them or we don’t even realize that we need to connect with them. We simply accept them and move on. And that works well…for a time.

As the practice of mindfulness has become an active topic of discussion, more and more people are beginning to realize the need to acknowledge what feelings are flowing through our bodies and where they tend to linger. When we take the time to acknowledge them, we can then determine if we need to take action or if we need to simply allow the feelings to move out of our system. As we give ourselves permission to do this, those “knowings” aren’t able to find a place to get stuck and grow into something as unpleasant as unresolved anger or pain or possibly even physical disability.

In my case, my body has pinged seemingly without reason various times throughout my marriage. Because I could never determine the reason for those pings, I chose to ignore them…but my body did not. They were kept inside and caused me great anxiety and significant grief. I hate that I had no idea why those feelings were there. The first time I remember feeling them was way back in 1998. There was such a deep feeling of grief that I finally decided that it must be postpartum depression, although I didn’t have any trouble bonding with my babies and the symptoms didn’t match up. It hit only at times when things seemed to get quiet and still, like at naptime or while sitting in church. I considered it depression but it didn’t really feel like depression; it felt like deep, deep grief.

With the knowledge that I have now, I know that there was a reason for that grief. Throughout the years, time and time again, my physical body told me something was wrong; but because I couldn’t explain it, I chose not to trust my instinct. In my core, underneath my conscious self, my body knew that something was wrong…my head just had no idea. It is so incredibly amazing how the body knows things!!

As much as I cannot stand to admit this, as time went on, the inner conflict of the truth vs. what I promoted as the truth caused me to feel as if a panic attack was always near the surface. I often felt as if I was only one step away from crazy. I guess you could say that I was in denial or that I believed the old saying, “fake it ’til you make it.” I thought that my perspective was wrong and if I just tried hard enough, I would begin to see the good in my marriage.

Proverbs 3:5-8 says, “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make straight your paths. Be not wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord, and turn away from evil. It will be healing to your flesh and refreshment to your bones.”

After being in survival mode this past year, I saw this passage of Scripture become real life. I didn’t have time or energy to “lean on my own understanding” (or other people’s understanding for that matter). What I learned is that when it was time to make a decision, I needed to look toward God to lead me away from the ugliness that was in my home. My intellectual self seemed to completely disappear. My walk became very simple. I looked up, I acknowledged the instincts of my heart, and I began to trust God with every.single.step. There was no time for doubt or debating with Him.

Here are my thoughts on this part of my story: I have spent more than a 2 decades being angry at God and wrestling with Him about my situation. When all of it finally blew up, my heart had already come to a place of acceptance. I knew that God had me in His hands. I knew that my responsibility in life was to trust Him to lead me in walking away.

I began to trust that my heart’s instinct would line up with God’s Word. I didn’t have the energy to go searching for answers…I had to trust that the Scriptures I had studied over the years would carry me through. Without consciously being aware of my actions, I kept expecting God to show up when I needed Him and He did. And since trouble seems to keep following me, He continues to show up and provide.

Have I walked all of this out with beauty and grace? Ummm, no. I have totally lost my sh** on more than one occasion. And the “f” word has become my favorite thing to say. (Truthfully, I find it the most accurate way to express my frustrations…go ahead and shake your head at me. This just is what it is.)

When your instincts and Scripture begin to line up, you know without a doubt that it is God showing you what to do.

Thank goodness!