you are a crime victim
your child is a crime victim
the family itself has been
smashed from the inside out
from the core of who you were
the sense of safety
is gone
and all that remains
is the awareness of sharp edges
hard objects
unfamiliar territory
fear
narrow ledges next to deep waters
where predators reside
everything has changed
simply because a truth has been revealed
no one is ever really safe.
no one
save Jesus
I would like to lie and tell people I am and have always been an immaculate, no competent housekeeper. I can’t. I am a mess. We live in a big, sprawling old house with lots of old wood and lovely fixtures. It, like me, is a mess.
It, unlike me, is getting a makeover.
We have spent the last few weeks painting like mad. I do not need tattoos, I have a permanent patina of paint splatter. I miss writing and going to the pool, but the house has never looked this lovely. It’s walls have been transformed from early childhood scrawl to a warm cream color. Old carpet has been pulled up and is gradually being replaced with the miracle of click flooring. Our back room is a riot of sawdust. I cringe at the cleaning jobs ahead. But I like the transformation.
The day we cleared out the old master bedroom it was a war zone of random objects, now it is clean, painted and airy. We call it the beautiful room.
Last night I drove at dusk to the recycling bins. Not usually a romantic journey. But last night the sky was awash with splendor. I looked up at the picture that Titian would have envied and I wanted to exclaim aloud, how can you not see Him? His skies are so purposefully beautiful.
I would have been very happy to pay someone to paint my house. I am very grateful for those who have helped us with the work, especially the kids. But ultimately I have to acknowledge that God has called me to this–a lot of time to meditate on what it means for a baby to be born to a carpenter and even though he could have been an emperor, a scientist or a king, he spent his days building ordinary things with his hands, each strike of the iron nail into the wide beam a reminder of His real job, the cost of love.
The beautiful room.
By the time M was two she had a fully realized world of people she had created. They were and are vibrant characters. This past year she wrote a story peopled by punctuation marks. Also quite interesting.
I say this because she is a beautiful survivor. She was being abused by Charles when she created her first kingdom. These people we still love.
But she is haunted as well knowing that Charles continued to abuse her little sister for a long time after she asked him to stop abusing her. She assumed he would not abuse her little sister. She was seven.
I am haunted by the abuse as well. There is a wall in my life that signifies S’s solitary hurt. One night this week I wrote on it, first a memorial, then a Bible verse, then a picture of a cross. Then I got an idea. I realized that my children’s vividness overcomes evil. Jesus brings new life. So I painted a chalkboard over my grief wall.
First we wrote each other love notes. Then M drew Mr. and Mrs. Whiskers. They are English cousins of Harvey and we love their accents.
When she tells me about the Whiskers, I just hug her really tight. It is grace to see an ordinary resurrection of something as pedestrian as a wall.
Grace.
Here are some markers–I struggled with a sadness so strong when I was young that I frequently wished for death. God would tell me, hold on, it will get better. Your storms almost killed me. How many times did you tell me you did not love me?
When I was 17 I saw that dad was not the bad guy.
When I was 22 I realized that I would have to weather your storms to make wise decisions
When I was 30 I faced my monsterization-just like grandma and grandpa.
When I was 30 I heard you hurt me viciously and intentionally.
When I was 34 I faced your mental illness.
When I was close to 40 I talked to you about it. That did not go well.
For over 15 years I have weathered your vision of me–a monster.
I know you love your dogs more than me
You sided with a pedophile rapist over your grandchildren, his victims.
I do not believe this letter will reach you.
But it is the last way to say
I love you, get help
You need help.
There is a camp that we go to every summer. The kids love it. Years ago it taught me about heaven–
Beautiful place/people kind, generous, helpful/full of joy/few there are afraid to be childlike/exuberant
Good dancing/food/music
This year we brought home a bug which is now besetting my 4 yr old
When he threw up at 2 am he apologized
My poor darling.
I told him that was why I am here. No problem. I love him. I got it.
Jesus said in his Father’s house there are many mansions
Which is not an odd thing for a Carpenter God to say, but a very odd thing for a homeless non-materialist. Like many things He says it illuminates when a person walks behind Him.
He means shelters
Hangouts
Splendor
He means God giving us His own
Beautiful Heart
So….the atheists I know have gods. They tend to be egoism and stimulants, pride, and vanity along with other garden variety idols. I find these side roads into idolatry particularly sad when dealing with atheistic myopia.
I wonder, do they really not see how important it is for the world to revolve around them? When you are an atheist this is particularly sad because your life (by your faith’s disposition) has no more significance than a bit of plastic jetsam swirling around in the Pacific. Idolatry of a plastic toothbrush, let’s call it.
By contrast there is Jesus. His words are deep, warm, incisive, ironic, profound, and true, often all at once. His voice resonates over the course of recorded history. He is the antithesis of egoism. There is no, “and then Jesus sat down to a satisfying breakfast of fried eggs” verse in the Bible. There is some interesting stuff about Him NOT eating and casting out demons…oh, and raising the dead. The dead.
His smallest words matter. His weeping, His silence, His unbearable pain. And then there is His advice–keep the eternal, lay up treasure that will not rust or rot. He shows us how this is done
by dying to our egos and ourselves
by purchasing with our money, our time, and our hearts
treasure in Heaven.
treasure in Heaven…
What does God treasure?
Us.
we are His precious treasure
and just in case we did not see it, He makes His mark on the center of the map of human history
with a Cross
I became a foster parent because of stories like Toryn’s. I quit foster parenting when I realized that the state of X was not in the business of rescuing the Toryns of the world.
I am not going to tell you what happened to her. Google her. I want you to read at least three articles about what happened to this precious little girl. Then I want you to think about several things.
What is justice for Toryn?
Where does evil like this come from?
Where does it end?
Can we afford to wince and look away?
Are you sorry you read about her? Was it a downer? Would you rather have watched a juicy episode of Game of Thrones? (Please don’t, by the way..)
Please understand me. It is always easier to expect someone else to take care of the Toryn’s of the world, but it is impossible to believe no one suspected anything was wrong in the life of a child who was beaten to death over the course of at least six months. What we do know is that no one saved her.
Let me repeat that again.
No one saved her.
As a christian I am as appalled by this story as most “normal” people–whatever their creed or belief. But I have some answers for these questions, hard, difficult, stay up and pray and fast answers, but answers nonetheless.
My answers start with Matthew 18 and end with a River and a Tree for the healing of the nations.
And in the middle is a Man dying on the Cross of history, the rictus of pain for a little girl named Toryn and all of us.
Scarred Savior. Scapegoat God.
My brother hurt me in unimaginable ways. He broke my trust in love and in childhood. I know he hurt everybody else in my family in all these ways too. Sometimes I wish that he would have to face God for what he did. I wish that he would be punished for what he did because it is not okay that he did it and he hurt our family.
It is not safe for women to drink in bars
It is not safe to date
It is not safe to send your children on school field trips
It is not safe to assume that your government won’t release sex offenders without any supervison
It is not safe to trust people in your family, at your church, in your home, or in public spaces
It is not safe to let your child out of your sight
Does this seem like a paranoid list? Each “not safe” refers to a real story. These are statements of fact based on real events. Within the past few months two separate crisis counselors have told me that young women now accept date rape as an unavoidable reality. And it is.
Think about what it means for all of us that getting someone drunk and drugged is an ACCEPTED form of rape.
A friend asked me, do you put the kids to bed and at least get five minutes to yourself? No, I say, not really but I like them all…
Hours later I realize how strange that must sound, how incomplete. What I see in my head is thirteen years of eidetic episodes of unlikable events–bullying, tantrums, swearing, violent protracted rages, physical assaults, homicidal imaginary friends, routine larceny, and lies, cursing of the most egregious kind. Some stories so awful I do not want to write about the hurt. And all of this before the years of C’s sexual felonies were dragged to light.
Most sane and normal people would have known better, right? We believed if we did not give up on m and c they would be good, or at least better because of love. Because of Love.
Jesus said, greater love has no man than he lays down his life for his friend.
Somethings are easier than others to lay down, I say beneath the shadow of the Cross.
Those 13 years took things that did not belong to me from the most precious people I know. To say I like my children is an understatement.
They are my heroes.
Carrying Light 