Heart of the Matter, Part 2

(If you have not read Heart of the Matter, Part 1, please take a moment to do so. What you see here is the conclusion to that post. Thank you to all my readers who patiently waited for the second half of my story. You're awesome!)

I mistakenly thought that once I left my parents' home my pain would dissipate; I would have my own life, on my own terms. It would be the "happily ever after" they didn't give me. But in order to do this my marriage had to be perfect. So when I said my wedding vows I held a bag of resentment in one hand, and a bag of unrealistic expectations in another. Without knowing it I was setting us up for failure. So just to be safe, I kept Dan at a distance, not realizing it was self-fulfilling prophecy.

And God, where was He? Well, most of the time I was running from Him. Or at least keeping Him at a distance. I knew something inside me was very wrong but I didn't want to face it. After all, running a marathon isn't too bad if you think there might be a prize at the finish line.

My daughter was born and my heart softened toward my parents. I began to see them differently, especially when I realized the immense responsibility of being a parent. I realized that responsibility again when my son was born. Yet I still held to my crazy standards. But then, out of nowhere, my ideals of perfection were completely destroyed, once and for all.

BAM! I developed severe postpartum depression. Imagine me running at full speed, only to topple over myself onto pock-marked pavement. Emotionally, I saw my own flesh torn to shreds. The blood that poured was my own. It terrified me. Yet I tried to run again.

BAM! I was diagnosed with a chronic pain disease. The road beneath me ended at the edge of a cliff. I couldn't run anymore. I hurt all over from wounds and exhaustion, the potential fall from the ledge made every movement throb with anxiety.

THIS. WAS NOT. What I wanted!! Not only was I fighting my own demons emotionally and spiritually, but my physically ability to manage life was decaying. Perfection was no longer an option and I didn't have a plan B. It all came crashing around me, devastating and isolating.

Dan couldn't talk me down from the ledge. I wouldn't let him.

The kids were too little to help, let alone understand.

My sister lived far away.

"God, where are you?" In my brokenness I wailed out to Him. I prayed He would listen because I needed help and was finally in a place to ask for it. I resigned myself to accepting whatever He chose to give.

Always faithful, God was just waiting for me to ask. He sent the perfect person to minister to me on His behalf. He sent my mom.

For 3 months she set her life aside. Every Monday she drove 200 miles from her front door to mine. She stayed Monday through Friday. She cleaned my house. She took me to doctor’s appointments. She took care of my children. She folded laundry, cleaned up toddler messes, and tried to encourage Dan. As I watched her come and go to my house, week after week, the hand of God rested heavily on me. My mother, the same woman I rejected, was the glue that held my household together. The irony rocked me. Gently, God forced me to face the fact that I had seriously misjudged something.

My dad, who had worked nearly 15 hours a day while I grew up, was more of a stranger to me than a dad. However, when I fell apart, he started called me nearly every day, just to say he loved me. At first I acted cordially but blew him off. Yet the phone calls continued to come. I realized how much I loved him, too. I looked forward to hearing from him every day. Again, the irony and the hand of God rested heavily.

The concept of forgiving my parents had never really occurred to me before then. But it seemed so clear that working harder to overcome my past only fixed my focus on what was behind me, making it my god.

One summer evening, 3 years ago, I sat with a friend and recounted to her my desire to forgive my parents. Tears streaked my face because the task seemed bigger than me. It took me an hour of pacing the floor before I hit my knees. The words fell out of my mouth in rapid succession. Like a floodgate, healing washed over my soul.

The enormity of letting go of my superiority complex is beyond what I can describe. But in the middle of my prayer a bolt of conviction shot through me, silencing me before the Lord. In those moments I came face to face with the real heart of the matter: My sin - the sin of me not forgiving my folks - was what needed the repentance. Never mind what my parents may have done against me, that was over. What I had done to God was put myself above Him, wearing my religiosity like a whore's banner as I mocked His grace. Yes, it was that serious.

God was gracious enough to sharpen my focus and gently lead me as I laid myself bare before Him. Second only to the moment I first accepted Him, this was the most powerful moment of my life. The bloodied wounds I'd been wearing were the same wounds that in those moments He bandaged and healed. You see, my wounds were unnecessary; I traded them for Christ's. He freed me from all the self-destruction, the pursuit of perfection, and the bondage of my past. His forgiveness can do that. It changed me in ways only God and I can fully know.

Within weeks I faced my parents again. To each one I confessed my sin against them, saying something along the lines of, "I have been holding things against you for a long time. I hurt our relationship and I'm sorry I did that. Will you please forgive me?" For each one, I could see weight released from their faces. God built a bridge that day between them and me. And 3 years later I have a relationship with them that isn't perfect but it's enjoyable and genuine. I love them.

Did I finally get the perfection I longed for? No, no I didn't. Are my parents suddenly transformed into passionate Believers? No, but there's always hope, which is more than we ever had before. I wish I could tell you I don't run from God any more, but sometimes I do. Remember that chronic pain issue I deal with? I think He's given it to me as a way of keeping me from depending on myself. I can truly say that I'd rather have pain every day and depend on God than to be completely healthy and try to be my own salvation.

If you read this and are tempted to think I'm some body's hero, I'd beg you to reconsider. I'm an everyday person trying to sort out what it means to give God my heart instead of my lip service.
Some of you have contacted me because you identified with part 1 of my story. My most sincere desire is that you'd identify with seeking God's forgiveness and extending His grace whenever possible. Others have contacted me with concern over the raw nature of my story. In all honesty, it is no problem for me to tell you about my mistakes, but only if I tell you what God did with them. This story is not about me as much as it is about what God did when I stopped running. That is what makes it worth sharing.

From personal experience I know forgiveness in Christ is a wealth that can't be overspent. But I dare you to try. Today.

(Special thanks to my friend, The Linguist, who talked me down off a completely different ledge Tuesday afternoon.)

Interlude

I have spent a good part of today trying to sort out the details of my story that began yesterday in The Heart of the Matter. In working on a conclusion to that post I've really struggled. The first part of my story is about me. The second part, which you have not read, is about God. In sorting through my story, I find myself stunned again by how often I think I've got it all figured out. Mistakes that I was certain were in the past have crept back into my life. The last thing I want to do is post a conclusion to a story that is disingenuous. That is to say, God pulled me up short today and I'm dealing with some conviction. Ergo, The Heart of the Matter, Part 2, is on the way, but not until God and I make our peace again.

In the meantime, without giving away the pieces of the puzzle, I'd like you to take something in. Because of where I've come from, this is my favorite song. Whenever I hear it the faces of people who have come in and out of my life flood my mind. For some of those people, due to circumstances that had nothing to do with me, their stories ended abruptly, painfully and with casualties.

Like a calloused hand that becomes oblivious to a splinter, infection can spread all the same, threatening the loss of the limb. Unforgiveness, though not a little thing, callouses our hearts the same way. To me it's far better to forgive a wrong, maybe even before it happens, so that life isn't choked away any sooner than need be. The singer, Don Henley, eludes to this idea when he says, "This song took 42 years to write, but only 4 minutes to sing." I love that.

This is my song. It's part of my story.

Thanks for understanding.

Heart of the Matter, Part 1

(The following story is something I have wanted to share with SFL readers since the launch of this site. To me, it is the most important thing you could ever know about me. It will be divided into parts over the next day or so. This is part one of my story.)

I haven't always been the pillar of decorum and maturity you know me to be. Once, when I was 6, the little girl down the street told me the other moms in the neighborhood didn't like my mom. In my mind I imagined grabbing her by her perfect ponytails and feeding her a mouth full of crabgrass. But I refrained. Instead, I clocked her square in the jaw. My eyes stung with hot tears as I jumped on my Huffy Sweet Thunder, riding the winds of hurt and furry all the way home. I couldn't let my mom go down that way - not by some uppity, skinny kids in a monogrammed sweater. To this day, not that it would matter now, I have never told my mom the real reason why I clobbered Little Miss Ralph Lauren and her pigtails of perfection. But to be sure, she never said a bad word about my mom after that.

You see, I didn't need a little girl down the street to tell me one of my parents wasn't perfect. I already knew that for myself. Even at 6, the whisper-shouting between them after I went to bed kept me from sleep more nights than I cared to acknowledge. Though not technically divorced, as a kid, I didn't need legal jargon to define what was happening. Kids know that divorce isn't always a matter of paperwork, it's a matter of the heart. And my heart was broken, over and over, in so many ways, until it didn't really look like a heart at all anymore. I was the angry little girl whose chest ached from stifiling so many disappointments.

So there we were, perfect house, pretty family. The facade was enchanting. But like all fairy tales, it faded, yet the words "happily ever after" never came. You know that feeling when a room is full of people yet you're still all alone? I lived like that every day growing up. Fear and isolation were my companions. Even into my teen years I kept waiting for a knight in shining armor to rescue me from dank cave that I called my home. Maybe the screaming kept him away. No matter. He never came.

There are too many details to share, but believe me, my demons were real. (Please let me clarify that I was never physically abused. But the emotional abuse was staggering.) Though I came to know Christ at 12, I didn't see how He could do anything but keep me alive through my suffering. Know that I'm not belittling what God can do in any painful situation. I've seen some real miracles in broken families. All I'm saying is this wasn't my experience.

As I'm sure you can imagine I packed a big ol' bag of resentment and took it with me when I left my parent's home. Not only did I hold onto the pain caused by my circumstance, I had nearly every offense - and there were many - categorized, alphabetized, and locked and loaded. My hate gun was full and I was ready to land blast my parents. I relished fantasies of getting back at them. What I hadn't considered was that my gun might backfire.

I was proud of the fact that I had come through such adverse circumstances and was so fantastic in spite of it. My parents weren't Believers, but I was, and it gave me leverage. People loved hearing my testimony - how God raised me up from the ashes to save me and make me better than them. The unspoken truth was that I loved to tell people what I had come from; it shown a floodlight on the sinful, bad, bad people who were lucky enough to be my parents. I became a glutton, feasting on the praise given to me by people who literally embraced me, saying, "God will pay them back for what they did to you." I lapped it up like a starving animal. Ironically, the pain only intensified, and the hunger nearly ate me alive.

Now granted, my life up to this point (about my early 20s) was nasty. But the filth of it became my badge of honor. The more I shared my story the more rigorously I catalogued every new hurt, gesture, or sideways look my parents sent my way. So, while I was out being everybody's super Christian rock star, the more distance and judgement I placed between them and me. It took on a life of its own. Soon, I couldn't separate the sensationalism from the reality of this one fact: no matter what mess they'd made, these were my parents, they were going to hell and I was reveling in it. "Damn it. They deserve it." And somehow that perverted thinking became my gospel.

Though found by Christ, I remained more lost than ever.

(This post continues in a short Interlude followed by Heart of the Matter, Part 2.)

Time

My daughter prays every night that God will protect her from bad dreams. I'm quick to remind her that should she have a bad dream, her dad and I are here for her and maybe God might use a bad dream to teach her how to trust Him. I tell her these things hoping she will outgrow her fear. What I purposely have not told her is that sometimes nightmares can be real. Sometimes nightmares have to be lived out during the day. No matter how much we might wish them away, or try to ignore them, at some point there could be a nightmare that is darker than any dream. I wish this were a foreign concept for me, but it's not. Unfortunately I am living it right now. You see, my dad is sick.

I can't dress it up or make it sound nice. It is a paralyzing fact of life right now. Because my parents live in another state it can be too easy for me to purposely forget the facts. I think that's called denial, which is one of the stages of grief.

To be truthful I have always had somewhat of a fractured relationship with my dad. Yet since my daughter was born seven years ago I had seen the fractures begin to heal. Tension gave way to the common ground of shared laughter over his new role as Grandpa. But not too long ago I heard God whisper that I was being haphazard about getting to know my dad. I brushed God off, telling Him to leave me alone. Stubborn and brazen, I knew full well there were walls built around my heart, but out of self-preservation, I refused to tear them down.

During that time it was easy for me to live as though there would always be "later" to fix deeper issues. I used words like "busy" to excuse lack of motivation to tend the relationship. I built an altar out of making sure I wasn't too uncomfortable. Then crisis hit. BAM! I saw all my missed moments fly right past me. The tailwind nearly snapped my neck. Everything I put off concerning my relationship with my dad - conversations about his childhood, dating my mom, you know, the puzzle pieces to his story - crumbled around me. The walls I built couldn't protect me at all.

Suddenly my time was spent wondering how he'd make it to the next day. Casual conversations with my mom and sister were replaced with daily summaries of symptoms. Forget about questions between my dad and I that are unanswered, move that to the back of the line. Life has taken on a new urgency. Anything that resembles what used to be "normal" has faded. It's quite possible my questions may never be answered.

I handle the circumstances as best I can. God is with me, which is no small thing, considering that I told Him to leave me alone. It is a walking testament to the faithfulness of Christ in spite of me trying to squeeze Him out. His love baffles me at every turn.

Unfortunately, there are times when grief washes over me and it just plain hurts. It's my dad - what daughter would want to see her parent suffer? The bottom line is that I wish I would have listened to God in the first place. Isn't that always the way? Hopefully next time I won't wait for the screaming circumstances to drown out His whisper. I've lost too many minutes already.

Next week I am going with my parents to hear my dad's full diagnosis. The hurdle has been knowing that once I hear what his doctor has to say I can't hide any more. The statement "My dad is sick" will be changed to "My dad has ________." And though he isn't confined to a label or a diagnosis, there's the reality of uncharted waters ahead. My heart swells at the thought. But at least I will be there, with them. No matter what happens, I can pick up from here and move forward for the duration. And that is exactly what I plan to do.

I don't know where you are in your life. You may read my story and move on. Or maybe you're tinkering with wasting your time, ignoring your family, or being resistant to God. Take it from someone who has walked a similar path: Nightmares can happen to anyone. Anything less than fully investing yourself into those around you is a waste of time. Don't wait until someone you love is in trouble - sick or even walking a prodigal's path - before you get to know them. I mean really know them. Let God show you the way. Trust me, regret tastes nasty. Spit it out while you still can.

Why Stacy From Louisville

Well hello! Chances are you've wandered you way over here from my favorite site, Stuff Christians Like. Especially since I did a guest post for Jon Acuff, the site's author, this little blog has taken off. (I highly suggest you check out that post. It's about my observations on Bible College love affairs, which is frightening and crazy rolled into one.)

Many of you have asked me about starting a blog and I have been putting it off. Or, to tell the truth, I've been hiding. It's easy to post comments and talk smack with Jon. Maintaining my own blog that is fresh and original is much harder. Being sarcastic comes naturally to me, but being cool does not.

I'm creative with just enough literacy to make me dangerous. A few days ago, when e-mailing Jon he said the following:

"You are cooler than me, which would be a compliment if I weren't such a dork."

To which I responded:

"No, I am a dork, but a cool dork. Which basically means I have good hair and an annoying personality. My advice to you? Get some hair product, use it, and see if things don't start looking up."

I started commenting on Stuff Christians Like in March (under the guise of "anonymous" no less) and everything just kind of snowballed from there. I kept posting because it released the sarcastic beast inside me. I didn't know what to pick for a user name so since I live in Louisville, KY, Stacy From Louisville was born. I kept leaving comments on that site and Jon contacted me, saying I was famous. He said people loved my stories and he was sure I'd get lots of traffic. So, here I am. And here you are - one way or the other, we found each other. (Reunited and it feels so good...)

Though I post as "Stacy from Louisville" I want you to know that I'm really just Stacy. What I mean is that though I may be ridiculous at times I'm just a normal Believer, wife, and mom. My life has had some pretty rocky pitfalls and I'll share them with you. Then, of course, there are marriage snags, my battle with pride, parenting and the search for God's heart that sometimes leaves me baffled. But all of that is okay. Because there's the other side...

I'm a Bible college grad - I could mock that all day. And will. There's my 4 year run as a sex ed. teacher. Oh yes, I have walked many a school campuses only to hear, screamed from across the lawn, "Hey! Sex Lady!" Then there are my thoughts on church culture, my love for creativity... And life. Plus, I live in Kentucky. Need I say more?

I'm glad you came to visit. Maybe you'll come back. But if you don't I'll still be posting comments on SCL. I'm crazy like that.

I'll always be open to your questions and ideas for blog entries. Help me get the creative ball rolling. Really, it's nice to meet you.