It snowed that night in August. I remember walking outside the tent where we were having summer camp meetings. I looked up at the cold dark sky and watched the snowflakes sparkle with light from the moon, or maybe it was from the streetlights. This was the night that separated my world into two halves. Before and after...
I grew up surrounded by strong Christians. My parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends all attended the little white church at the end of a little road in a little town on the east coast. I am forever grateful for my heritage. I believe it was this strong, faith-filled foundation that kept me. I remember, as a little girl of maybe four or five, walking down the dirt road to the corner store with my 25 cents and having a conversation with God. I told Him I was afraid of growing up to be a bad person. I wanted so very much to please Him and never disappoint Him. I prayed many times for God to help me be a good girl. Pretty heavy stuff for a five-year-old!
I remember the Sunday night I officially gave my heart to Jesus. I had been to church and Sunday School earlier that day and I heard about the importance of making a firm decision to be a follower of Christ. I was pondering this as I crawled into bed that night. Sitting there in the dark, wearing a pink flannel nightgown covered with teddy bears, I asked Jesus to come into my heart. Then I sang the song, "Come Into My Heart, Lord Jesus". I was seven. I got teased a lot by my friends and classmates for being so "good". In elementary school it was for not saying bad words, in junior high it was for not skipping school, in high school it was for not drinking, smoking or sleeping around. You guessed it! I didn't have many friends! From a very young age, I knew that my name meant 'pure one' and I would think of the verse from Matthew 5:8, "Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God." I wanted to keep my heart pure. I wanted to see God.
Now, you might be thinking, this kid is not for real! A child this perfect? Oh, I was far from perfect! Just ask my parents! I experienced all the normal growing pains, freaking out over pimples, fighting with my little brother, fighting with my best friends, puppy love, the 80's mullet, always needing to be right, always needing to be the best at everything, and did I mention fighting with my little brother? (He's my pastor now!)
As I finished up high school, I had one dream: to marry a pastor, be the perfect little pastor's wife and have two or three perfect little pastor's kids. That was it. I wanted nothing more out of life. And I was ready for it. I could teach Sunday School, sing, play guitar, speak in front of a crowd, pray up a storm, cook, bake, clean, sew, hem pants and iron shirts. Move over Martha Stewart because here I am! Unfortunately, I expected everyone else in my world to be just like me and live up to the expectations that I set for myself. I was dumbfounded when a friend admitted she didn't know how to boil potatoes. I was shocked, yes even horrified, if some of them made wrong choices and reaped the consequences in plain view of the rest of the world. There was no grace for imperfection. There was no compassion for brokenness. Mistakes were stupid. I was perfectly set up for disappointment.
Then came the night it snowed in August. After the last service of the week, one of the keynote speakers took me aside. He had watched me all week as I sang and as I prayed with people at the altar. He had tears in his eyes as he looked at me. He then uttered the words that split my world in two. "Cathy, when you leave this place there will be a lot of tears. A lot. But after that, God is going to give you joy." That night I could not possibly fathom the journey I would travel, the deserts I would cross or the events that would cause me to be numbered with the rest of broken humanity.
My story from this point forward is far too long to put into a blog post. It involves seventeen years of stories and lessons learned. Stories that involve an abusive marriage, loss, injustice, depression, praying for death, and true to the words uttered by that preacher many years ago, a lot of tears. I would often say that if God collects my tears in a bottle, then there is an ocean in Heaven with my name on it. Unlike many stories I've heard at conferences or read in books of survival and healing that come complete with a happy ending, my story is not yet complete. Yes, I am a survivor; yes, my heart has been healed; yes, I am no longer broken; yes, I have shared my story with others and encouraged them with the story of God's restoration; yes, I am walking in faith [trying] to smile at the future. But I am still waiting for the promise.
Someday, you will be browsing through the shelves at your local bookstore and you will notice a book. There will be a young girl on the front cover. She will be dancing in the puddles with a smile on her face. The sun will be shining through the falling rain. Mourning into Dancing.
I grew up surrounded by strong Christians. My parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and friends all attended the little white church at the end of a little road in a little town on the east coast. I am forever grateful for my heritage. I believe it was this strong, faith-filled foundation that kept me. I remember, as a little girl of maybe four or five, walking down the dirt road to the corner store with my 25 cents and having a conversation with God. I told Him I was afraid of growing up to be a bad person. I wanted so very much to please Him and never disappoint Him. I prayed many times for God to help me be a good girl. Pretty heavy stuff for a five-year-old!
I remember the Sunday night I officially gave my heart to Jesus. I had been to church and Sunday School earlier that day and I heard about the importance of making a firm decision to be a follower of Christ. I was pondering this as I crawled into bed that night. Sitting there in the dark, wearing a pink flannel nightgown covered with teddy bears, I asked Jesus to come into my heart. Then I sang the song, "Come Into My Heart, Lord Jesus". I was seven. I got teased a lot by my friends and classmates for being so "good". In elementary school it was for not saying bad words, in junior high it was for not skipping school, in high school it was for not drinking, smoking or sleeping around. You guessed it! I didn't have many friends! From a very young age, I knew that my name meant 'pure one' and I would think of the verse from Matthew 5:8, "Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God." I wanted to keep my heart pure. I wanted to see God.
Now, you might be thinking, this kid is not for real! A child this perfect? Oh, I was far from perfect! Just ask my parents! I experienced all the normal growing pains, freaking out over pimples, fighting with my little brother, fighting with my best friends, puppy love, the 80's mullet, always needing to be right, always needing to be the best at everything, and did I mention fighting with my little brother? (He's my pastor now!)
As I finished up high school, I had one dream: to marry a pastor, be the perfect little pastor's wife and have two or three perfect little pastor's kids. That was it. I wanted nothing more out of life. And I was ready for it. I could teach Sunday School, sing, play guitar, speak in front of a crowd, pray up a storm, cook, bake, clean, sew, hem pants and iron shirts. Move over Martha Stewart because here I am! Unfortunately, I expected everyone else in my world to be just like me and live up to the expectations that I set for myself. I was dumbfounded when a friend admitted she didn't know how to boil potatoes. I was shocked, yes even horrified, if some of them made wrong choices and reaped the consequences in plain view of the rest of the world. There was no grace for imperfection. There was no compassion for brokenness. Mistakes were stupid. I was perfectly set up for disappointment.
Then came the night it snowed in August. After the last service of the week, one of the keynote speakers took me aside. He had watched me all week as I sang and as I prayed with people at the altar. He had tears in his eyes as he looked at me. He then uttered the words that split my world in two. "Cathy, when you leave this place there will be a lot of tears. A lot. But after that, God is going to give you joy." That night I could not possibly fathom the journey I would travel, the deserts I would cross or the events that would cause me to be numbered with the rest of broken humanity.
My story from this point forward is far too long to put into a blog post. It involves seventeen years of stories and lessons learned. Stories that involve an abusive marriage, loss, injustice, depression, praying for death, and true to the words uttered by that preacher many years ago, a lot of tears. I would often say that if God collects my tears in a bottle, then there is an ocean in Heaven with my name on it. Unlike many stories I've heard at conferences or read in books of survival and healing that come complete with a happy ending, my story is not yet complete. Yes, I am a survivor; yes, my heart has been healed; yes, I am no longer broken; yes, I have shared my story with others and encouraged them with the story of God's restoration; yes, I am walking in faith [trying] to smile at the future. But I am still waiting for the promise.
Someday, you will be browsing through the shelves at your local bookstore and you will notice a book. There will be a young girl on the front cover. She will be dancing in the puddles with a smile on her face. The sun will be shining through the falling rain. Mourning into Dancing.
No comments:
Post a Comment