I don’t not blog because my life is boring and I have nothing to say. I don’t blog because something is always up and I have so much to say that the thought of sorting it all out and putting it down seems like more effort than I have the energy for. Or, I’d never be able to shut up. I know. I ended a sentence with a preposition. Get over it, Katie.
But, so much…
Like my son getting in trouble at school because he growled at the teacher. And threw himself on the ground. And ran away. From P.E. class. What is this kid I have? From P.E. class?!
Like my husband going out of town for a conference and being gone a week. I’m blaming that for my son’s behavior. Who cares if that’s why? It works for me.
Like crying in the nail salon because Dr. Phil was on TV showing video of a girl being beaten by her parents. And it all came flooding back. The weekend we were moving into our new house.
Which we lived in before it was officially ours because, after living out of boxes for the entire summer, there was a technical difficulty with the builder’s bank, or something. It’s mine now, and seems insignificant, but I’m telling you, in the middle of it, I was growing ulcers on my ulcers.
Turns out, I never really admitted that I was abused as a child. Not without trying to excuse the behavior of my biological donors (read birth parents). It never occurred to me that I didn’t deserve it. Which I don’t understand. Because I knew there was crazy. All over it.
That’s what I get for doing a women’s Bible Study every other Tuesday night. Deeper Still with Priscilla Shirer, Beth Moore, and Kay Arthur, yo. Opened up all these things. What was I thinking? Jesus always comes in and cleans house if you leave the front door open. Or leave a key under your welcome mat.
And then, when He turns you inside out, and you go back for more, well, that’s your own fault. Raise your hand if you know that I’ve tended to avoid “women’s” things like the plague. It’s more fun to put up a fortified picket fence, with bullet proofing and infrared security cameras. And by fun I mean safe. Which is a lie. Because it’s scary in here. In my head.
And I melt down when things could possibly go wrong. And what if’s are everywhere.
So my mama did what any good mother should do. She gave it to me straight. “You hold on too tight.” And I do. This is what wouldn’t get through my thick skull. I gots me some captivity. And it’s called fear.
Growing up, everything was avoided like the plague. Because once an article was written about something and somebody got hurt. So no learning to swim. If you go near water, you might drown. No going to school. You might learn something. No being friends with people. They might know something about Jesus you don’t. Don’t wear pants. Someone might know you have legs. Don’t go to the doctor. God might realize you don’t have the ‘faith’ to be healed. On and on the list goes. We could be here all night. Don’t tell your kids about sex. Ever. They might have it someday.
No really. The encyclopedia acquainted me with the notion when I was 15. At school. Because all the reference books at home were censored with a Sharpie. I wanted to take that 5 minutes back, I tell you.
So I fear everything. Except zombie movies. Which are strangely liberating.
And this fear keeps me from knowing God. And opening His Word.
I had to purchase a new Bible in a new translation. NLT instead of anything remotely sounding KJV-ish. Because every time I opened the Bible, I’d hear Judy’s voice telling of judgment and failure. The day I read a verse in Proverbs saying the Lord “delights” in something, I nearly had a stroke. I’ve heard God is good. I’ve even seen Him be good in my life. But I’ve never thought of something causing Him to glow with gladness.
Did I mention I thought that my daughter had drunk Hydrogen Peroxide the other day? While her daddy was out of town? And every mom I knew was in a movie, had no cell service, etc? And that my pediatrician’s receptionist couldn’t care less. I had to Google Poison Control’s number myself. And that guy barely cared either. Molly said it tasted like chocolate milk. Which tells me she didn’t even taste it. The bottle is brown. But there is no chocolate milk in there.
I should brace for the next thing. It’s what the track in my head is saying. But I’m not even close to being there. The truth makes me free, free indeed.
Our women’s retreat was on suffering. And the Lord, our Fortress. Psalm 31. The fear in me says, “O, crap! This is to prepare you for a really bad thing that’s about to happen. Brace yourself. Batten down the hatches. Storm’s a-comin’!”
It might. Sometimes, the shit does indeed hit the fan. And we’re covered in poo. Which stinks. Pun intended. (insert Jesus Juke about being washed in the water of the Word)
But I feel like I’m holding the keys. You know, on the big iron ring. Like in Pirates of the Caribbean. Or Regina’s key ring in Once Upon a Time.
That Jesus has started to set me free. and, pain be damned, I’m going for it. I don’t like this place I’ve been my whole existence. It hurts.
Like child birth. Without an epidural. Which I’m starting to look into.
The crunchy has taken over.
Run for your lives, people.