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                                       “My Thorns and His Grace”

Introduction

I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was the summer of 1960 and I was a five years old. My Dad had come home from a day of drinking–not surprising as it was something that happened often. Over time, it had escalated from weekend drinking to more often and more days.

My Dad was a man’s man–the boss. My mother was the “little woman” who did what he asked–period. Like so many in those times, the wife’s “job” was to stay home, cook, clean, take care of the husband, and raise the children. Think of every definition of “male chauvinist” and you will understand my Dad. He would always start a fight with my Mother for any reason. Often my mom would respond in anger which only fueled his irrational behavior.

This particular day is seared in my memory. My dad came home ready to fight. He picked and picked at my mother hoping to get a reaction. For some reason, on that day, my mom totally ignored his rants and refused to engage with him. That was the motivation for what happened next.

He didn’t hit her as he had so many other times. I was expecting that. I was already anticipating my five – year old body jumping on him saying “Stop, leave her alone”. But on this night, nothing went as expected.

My mother calmly put me to bed, while ignoring his rant. I remember hearing her get into the shower. It was then that my Dad entered my room, picked me up in my pajamas, and put me in the car. From the back seat, I cried “Dad, what about Mom?” His response was “Mom isn’t coming with us this time. It’s just you and me”. That was so scary. I knew that this was “Mean Dad”, not “Nice Dad”. Although I wasn’t old enough to equate his personality changes to alcohol, I still knew that sometimes my Dad was nice and then, too often, he became completely different. This man who was taking me away from my mother was the man I feared.

I was afraid of this dad who was taking me away from the safety of my mother. I started to cry and was full of fear and dread. Where were we going and when would I see my mother again?

He drove for what seemed like hours to a terrified little girl. We ended up at a motel. Once he paid the clerk and we entered our room, he made a phone call. He called my mother and told her that he was taking me to his mother’s home in Miami, Florida. He told her that it would be a long, long time before she would see her daughter again.

Over the sound of my own crying, I could hear my mother begging and pleading with him to bring me back to her. She told him to come back home so they could talk and settle things.

My fears were real; I truly thought I was never going to be safe again. I longed to see my mother and feel her arms around me. Even at this young age, I realized that I was a pawn in this situation. My tears would have no effect. I was trapped in a situation I couldn’t control.

I was later told that what seemed like eternity actually lasted only a couple of hours. My dad sobered up and we once again were in his car. Thankfully, this time, we went home. As daylight broke, we pulled into our driveway and I saw my mother running across the lawn to the car. She threw open the back door and picked me up in her arms. Through her tears, she hugged me and reassured me saying “It’s ok, sweetheart, you’re home now and Mommy is here.” After checking me over for any injuries, she crawled into bed with her traumatized daughter and held her until she fell asleep.

I don’t know what happened after I fell asleep. All I know is that the next morning there was no mention of what had happened. No one apologized, no one explained, no one calmed my little 5-year-old heart. It was as if it never happened.

Did they not get it?  Did they not see that their actions were creating a child full of fear and confusion? I know that there are many families who experience the same behavior. Like other children, I assumed that our life was no different than others and that I couldn’t expect more.

This little 5-year-old girl grew up to be full of what I call “thorns”–places full of distrust, betrayal, fear, addictions and assault. These thorns were my constant companions, my normal.

Oh, but then I found grace! Through His love, I have learned to move forward to a life of joy and peace. I find myself actually thankful for the thorns–because they carried me all the way to the love I always longed for. I found love in His grace.

Join me as I recount my journey from a terrified 5-year-old girl to a thankful adult–all because of “My Thorns, and His Grace.” I pray that my journey will resonate with your heart and that, together, we can live life full of joy and peace.

Debbie

Chapter One

I won’t name the place or the people, but during the summer months, and sometimes on weekends, I often went to a place where the people were kind. It was a place where I was happy and where there were fun things to do. It was wonderful to get away from my divided and uncertain home, if only for a little while.

The man there was not like my Dad. He was not “Mean Man” and then “Nice Man”. Best of all, he didn’t even drink alcohol. My fear of men began to subside and my little five-year-old heart began to let go of some of the pain.

Then the unthinkable happened.

At the age of five, I was violated in the worst kind of way a little one can be violated. Unlike others whose abuse was called a “game”, my abuser went straight to demands and fear. I was told repeatedly that if I ever told ANYONE what was happening, my parents would not want me back. Even at the tender age of five, I knew the abuse was wrong–so, so wrong. And yet, once again, I had no voice. The fear returned and I lived in dread of the abuse and expectation of abandonment if I spoke up for myself.

During the next few years, I would often cry and tell my Mother I did not want to go. She asked me “why” many times but I never told her the truth–I believed that she would never want to see me again if she knew what was happening. Often, I made up excuses for why she shouldn’t take me there. Sometimes it worked and she would say “Well, you don’t have to go this time if you don’t want to go.” But, then I would remember that my brother was going there and I knew I couldn’t let him go without me. I had to go and make sure that what was happening to me would never happen to him.

I never knew what to expect. If the man’s wife stayed home, I would be safe. If she left, the inexplicable happened. I don’t want to give words to the assaults that took place. No matter the details, abuse is all the same mentally. It leaves you feeling fearful, sick, and unable to understand why it is happening.

I learned at a very early age to act like everything was ok, and I carried that with me all the way into my adulthood.  By pretending to be ok, by faking it, no one would ever have to know the nightmare that was my life.  But, I knew, and I lived it daily.  Not one day went by that I didn’t wonder if the “mean man” who looked like my Dad would come home drunk and hurt us. May times, we would we run away and sleep in the car to stay safe and then go to school in the morning as if nothing ever happened.

What a way to live!  Dear Lord, it was awful, simply awful!  I had nowhere to turn, no one to talk to. Consequently, I had very few friends in school; I certainly couldn’t tell anyone what was happening and I certainly couldn’t get close to anyone for fear of being hurt by them. Being a child of violence and abuse naturally caused me to distrust almost everyone. My mother was the only one I trusted but the fear of her abandonment kept me silent.

By the age of 10, I was filled with questions. I was often told, “It’s OK, this happens a lot”. I began to question whether that was true or not. If it really happened a lot and wasn’t a big deal, then why would my parents abandon me if they found out? Were the friends I played with, the friends who seemed so happy, experiencing the same abuse? If not, then why me? What had I done to deserve such pain? Above all, I began to ask “How do I stop this?” The only way out seemed to be running away and, at the age of 12, I began to plan my escape.

That plan must have given me some glimmer of courage. On a summer day in 1967, I finally told someone about my abuser. That someone was my grandmother. My Grandmother was a very strong woman, who raised eight children alone after my Grandfather passed at a very early age.  She was as fine a Christian woman as they came and had her children in church each time the doors were open. Her husband, my Grandfather, whom I never met, had been a Baptist preacher and a farmer.  She was determined to carry on as he would have wanted by keeping all of their children in Church and keeping them grounded in love, family and faith. She never remarried and was the rock of her children’s foundation – she and God together.

Why did I choose this summer afternoon to tell my story? I have no idea. Something deep inside moved me to cry out for help. I had reached the point of “Enough”.

My grandmother later told me that she was falling apart inside as I told my story. But I didn’t know that. I only knew that she really listened to me and asked questions in such a way that I felt comfortable in answering. She gave me assurance that it was ok to tell and she let me know that I did a great job. When I finished, she said, “We will sit down with your mom and dad and we will talk this all out. I promise you this–this will never happen to you again as long as you live.”

Those were the sweetest words I think I have ever heard in my whole life.

I missed most of my childhood being molested by one man and being constantly on guard against the “mean Dad” who often came home drunk and made my Mom the target of his anger and rage. As a child, I honestly thought my Dad was evil when he was drinking and I was very afraid of him. How sad that sounds today.

As a child, I could never understand how someone could be so mean one minute and then so nice at other times. It was very upsetting and confusing for a child to take all of this in and experience the “back and forth”. It would be many decades before the truth came out and I could understand why Dad was the way he was and why alcohol fueled his anger and bitterness. But, the damage had been done by then and that damage was deeper than deep for me. It had taken away most of my childhood, my trust of others, and “fun” was a completely foreign thing to me because I had to be so serious as a child and take care of things. It seemed as if I had been born to carry the weight of our family issues. Fear gripped my life and took root in my heart.

But God had other plans for me, and He has better plans for you too. He communicates in different ways with each of us, but we have to learn to listen to Him. For me, God was thoughts in my mind and strong feelings in my heart. Many times I just ignored those “nudges” from God. Other times I would wonder, “Where in the world did that thought come from? I can’t do that!”

Yet, God says we can do all things through Christ Jesus – all things. I can do all things and YOU can do all things. Christ Jesus can do all things, through you, if you only ask and trust.

Many of you reading this may have a similar story to mine. Maybe you feel the way I felt–that there is no way out and that you were just born to be the person you are today. But, let me tell you, you and I were not born to be abused. We were abused because evil walks the face of this earth. The accuser (Satan) came here to steal, kill, and destroy, and he often does a very good job. But, through God’s grace, I have stared down the face of evil more than once. And, through God’s grace, you have that same power.