Wednesday, February 8, 2012

Sugar Sandwiches


Sad thing... how little we really know the people around us. How we assume who they are by what we see. Judge them before they even open their mouth. Put them on trial before we even discover their own private history. We don't know their pain. Their suffering. Their childhood. The failed relationships. The loneliness or isolation. We know nothing about what sorrows they have known. And yet in a single glance, they are seen, weighed and declared unfit with our own reckless discrimination.

If I am overweight, I'm never given a chance. Some people only see "obese." They take one second to see me and immediately sum me up on the scales inside their head, and I am simply a lump of fat unable to utter a single syllable in my defense. And already I'm on the chopping block. They look at me and say "she's lazy."

I think it's unfair to not even get to know me, leaving my history unread like a dusty book on a shelf that nobody ever believes is interesting enough to pick up and read. The old saying about not judging a book by its cover... yeah… maybe that's me.

I've faced a lot of fear in my life… fear of people. People can be cruel, even when you're a kid. Especially when you are poor. Even more when you are kind of awkward… or if you have to move to another place and face a whole new school and you come to a bigger city from a small town with a funny name. And then sprinkle some shame in there like your dad being in prison, and your mom has to work all the time and you are so broke your mom doesn't even have lunch money so you're eating weird things like a cold corn dog in your lunch box or a boiled egg and a cherry tomato or maybe another jelly sandwich 'cause the peanut butter is gone…Or maybe you eat nothing but the heels of the bread because the jelly and peanut butter are both gone… Or maybe you don't even have bread, so you just go in there and wish you had a lunch while everyone stares at you and asks questions… It was easier when the school campuses were open at lunchtime... at least I could pretend to go home and eat. Nothing quite so embarrassing as having to explain why you aren't eating.

Not to mention the clothes... sneakers bought a size or two too big, that way I could wear them even longer. I think my least favorite ones were that horrid green kind of avocado color… whatever it was called.   I must have worn those shoes a long time. It seemed like forever… funny now when I look back. Tragic, and yet a funny twist… the ugly shoes matched my wretched coat (ugly green with big gold buttons; big and fuzzy like a teddy bear). I must have looked like a small furry monster child. Green shoes and horrible big, green, fuzzy coat.

I recall the pain and shame I felt sitting at the baby-sitter's house being taunted and made fun of relentlessly by a brat of a kid and his older sister. She was two grades older than me. The both of them set to dancing around as I sat in the chair in the middle of their living room. They were singing a made up song about my ugly coat and him hitting me repeatedly on the head with my own flimsy notebook while I ducked and tried to cover my head with my hands, tears streaming down my face, which was red with shame.

I felt so helpless. There I was, supposedly being cared for in their house, and while I was being tormented, their mother was not even aware how evil her kids were. Pure evil. They lived for nothing if not to torment and hurt anyone smaller or more helpless than themselves, like wild dogs preying on the young, the wounded, the hurting or anyone different from themselves. I cried and that only seemed to encourage them even more

I don't recall much else after I snapped. I was so angry. My sister just sat there and let them do it. I somehow knew she was helpless and that she could not stop them, but I was angry for that… her not protecting me… I was left to the wolves. There was nobody to offer me protection.

I exploded. I stood up and yelled at them, 
"I HATE YOU!!!!"

I don't know if I even took my notebook, but I opened the door and took off running. I ran and ran… up and out of that awful place leaving the demons behind me. As I ran, I screamed I never wanted to see them again, and cried just and ran and ran. I ran all the way to my little poor home down the street. It was empty… hardly even furniture in our cold little place… not much to eat. Still crying, I made myself a piece of bread with sugar sprinkled in it, locked up the front door and went out the back. I went up the road and down to the storm drain gutter behind a neighbor's house. I crouched down there, wiping my eyes with my furry green coat sleeve, feeling very alone...


I never wanted to go back again. I was cold, hurting and angry… crying and trying to eat that stupid sugar sandwich that stuck in my throat and wouldn't go down past the lump there.
I felt so betrayed. So humiliated. So wronged. An eight year old child out of place in the world, moved to a new city, strange and unkind. Out of my little home town with the funny name, away from everything familiar. No friends. No family that could help me. Alone in the world.


Daddy was in jail. I could not grasp what he had done back then... I must have blocked it out after being told, or else I did not understand what I had heard. It's kind of common for children to ask "what?" when they don't understand what they've heard. And then after they’re told again in a louder voice, they will simply say "Oh" even though they do not really understand. I think it may have been like that for me. At any rate, there were no rescuers. No one to stand up for me, and I felt it down deep. I knew then I was an outcast. An outsider. A continual victim. And then and there, I took it to heart.

Maybe the only thing that brought me comfort that day had been the little sugar sandwich. Maybe that is what sparked my relationship with food in an unhealthy way. After that, food became what felt good, or what made me feel a little better... It was associated with happiness, and even comfort.
Every birthday party meant ice cream and cake and all kinds of goodies. Every Christmas meant fudge, divinity, pies, cakes and candy. Every camp-out meant hot dogs, hamburgers, barbecue and marshmallows. Every Sunday meant some kind of snack in class. Every weekend meant cooking out. Every Thanksgiving meant turkey and dressing. Every Halloween meant plenty of candy. Every county fair meant candied apples and cotton candy. Every holiday at school meant cupcakes, punch, coke parties, pizza parties or candy.
And love for me came in candy coated goodness, plates full of happiness and joy, wrapped up in tin-foil inside a pie plate, or wafting through in the air around me as pots and pan simmered on the stove and something delicious baked in the oven… close my eyes and breathe in the smells of heaven on earth. Family get-togethers with warm pumpkin bread and cakes and pies lined up in rows… everyone happy and talking and eating… A smile on the faces of everyone. Maybe the only time I felt liked was when we were all eating. For eating and happiness went hand in hand… Love and acceptance and feeling good ...all of that was tied forever with food.

My sister came and found me at last on that terrible, awful day. I wasn't really all that good at running or hiding anyhow... probably my stupid green shoes and coat that gave me away...anyway, I was made to come back to where the two demon children were then forced to apologize. It seems the angry father giant had awakened and he had punished the two with a pretty good spanking (which was really the only reason they were saying sorry). I heard their words and saw the tears in their eyes, but knew the tears were only anger at their dad. They secretly hated me because I had caused it, and I knew they would try to hurt me again if ever I slipped up enough to give them the chance (and I never did again).


I knew I should probably feel bad for them for getting the spanking from the angry big man, but I felt only hurt and alone even though they got spanked... At least they had a dad there to spank them. Mine was locked away and I was stuck wearing ugly shoes and matching coat and at least they could wear something better, so I had no pity.


Selfish of me... but at 8 years old, maybe grace and forgiveness was not so easily understood, or… maybe it was only then that I would really begin to  understand what it might cost... When you are so young and vulnerable and helpless, and you are taken advantage of... perhaps only then, when it cuts so deep and affects your life afterward, molding and shaping you into who and what you are and will forever remember, maybe, that is when you can know best… how horribly hard it is to forgive.
I had done no wrong to cause it. I was innocent. The only crime that day was wearing ugly clothes through no fault of my own. I was poor. I wore what had been handed down to me...And then I was wronged Discriminated against. Made fun of. I was made an outcast for sport.


Forgiveness?


I knew right and wrong then, and I knew I had been wronged... It hurt and I could not defend myself, well… not without being beat up by those brats… Ask me to forgive them then and there?...and then what? Would they have continued with the hitting and dancing? Would they have slapped me and kicked me? Would they have pulled me off the chair? Pulled my hair out and choked me? Would their whole family have joined in and killed me? I was so afraid... these thoughts filled my head.


So I stood there, as they cried alligator tears, and listened to the apology. "Sorry!" one blurted out among her angry crying. Looking down, I just said in a very small voice, "It's ok." The other one was made to be polite even more. "I'm VERY sorry." he lied. "That's ok," I whispered, still looking down. And they were then forced to their rooms.

But even though I said it… it was not ok.

I don't know what happened afterward very clearly. I can remember their mother having to explain to my mom I can remember my sister being really mad at me. I think she was embarrassed at the whole situation... Maybe she was mad because I made her look stupid. I don't know. I know sometime after that (I'm not sure how long) we were given a key and told to go straight home and that my sister was in charge and I needed to mind her. We became latch-key kids.


I was never so happy Free from the demons. No more useless baby-sitters.  No more of anyone laughing at my strange attire No more waiting for mom in a stranger’s house ...even when she had to work late. But home in my familiar living room with mom's sewing machine, the old wooden rocking chair and that black couch. Home, with my stupid sugar sandwiches, and a newfound obsession with food that would follow me for a long, long time.


Thinking about it now... I think the demons' mom was cooking dinner. She was probably having to scramble to make it happen… No way to watch wild children and do household chores too... And the giant angry man, her husband, turned out to be an alcoholic...who was very angry and looking for an excuse to punish his kids. Maybe they needed the extra money watching us, or maybe she thought her kids could use some friends (or targets for practice) and maybe her hands were full with the abusive husband, and ill-fated kids. Maybe she was just trying to be nice to my mom who had no husband and had to work all the time.
I wonder about them a lot now...


Years later, one of her sons would die in an accident. Their family suffered a tragic loss. I found out about it and immediately I was taken back in thought to that scared eight year old me cringing in the chair, hiding my head inside that coat with my knees drawn up to my chest, wishing it would all end... and I pitied them... but still felt the shame and anger inside.


Later, I found out they had bought a little diner where my grandfather used to take me when he would visit us. Sadly, I determined never to go there, it's image tarnished somehow by the events of so long ago. Even now when I drive past, too many thoughts swirl through my head. Can't bring myself to even drive past now, so I avoid it and go blocks out of the way to keep it from my view. Out of sight and out of mind.
I've come to terms with my feelings now… Somewhat... I do forgive them now for all that happened... I was hurt... but maybe they were hurting too at the time and afraid to allow anyone else to be happy when they were so miserable themselves. They had to act tough to mask the fact their father was a drunk and abusive to them… that their mother could not protect them and ending up putting her kids into that situation. I do not blame anyone...


Fear makes us do strange things, reckless and wild... appearing tough as nails to keep anyone from seeing the real you, small and afraid, eight years old, and wishing to be normal… whatever that may be.
Maybe all we really want is acceptance.


To be loved no matter how ugly our coat and shoes are. To be a part of a family where everyone is friend and no one is foe, flaws are overlooked, fears are overcome together… where peace reigns at last and there is no need to eat a sugar sandwich to feel good.


Sadly, we only find short glimpses of that ideal place while we are here in this world made of dust which is laid in the lap of our enemy. We struggle to fit in when fitting in does not fit us here, for we are not home yet. We search for Eden and find it unobtainable. We eat everything unknowingly searching for the fruit from the Tree of Life... never realizing it is not to be found in this place. And we struggle to drink the living water for it requires death of our hidden selves, change, the unfamiliar…so we run away, crying and saying I hate you,  with a sugar sandwich in our pocket and a lump in our throat, hurting like little children, which we all are inside.
We are wishing to be found and taken home to that place where we are held in the embrace of love and acceptance and peace of those who love us unconditionally... forever...


...and nobody has to eat a sugar sandwich to find it.



Letter from God to me

Can I ask you what you are so afraid of?
Financial ruin?
Bankruptcy?
Being left alone, abandoned and ashamed?
Are you worried about security?
Can I ask you, in My hands, are you not in the most secure place... anywhere?
Then why are you worrying?
Let Me deal with it.
Let Me work My ways and rest knowing I will do you no harm.
Everything I do is for your own good.
Do you remember the stories of yesterday?
The Children of Israel in the wilderness?
Did I not provide for them there?
Did they starve?
Or wasn't it I Who rained down manna from Heaven to feed them?
Did Pharaoh capture them and bring them back as slaves again to Egypt?
Or did their pursuers not drown in the very same water the Children walked through the middle of on dry land?

Security is a fiery pillar by night and a tower of clouds during the day.
I was always there for them to see.
And I AM ever present in your time of need.
And even after I had rescued those people, and they forgot every miracle they had seen or tasted...
and they turned away their faces and looked at the problems ahead as though they were bigger than ME...
...I STILL never left them.
Remember the city where they marched around for seven days....
Do not forget that.
I delivered them over and over and over again.
And is Jesus not the hope and redemption of all mankind?
I will never leave you nor forsake you
Do not despair
If you will remember Who sent along boxes of clothes
and bags of food
and assorted produce in the car
and envelopes of gift certificates and money
and a can of peas that everyone ate and liked
and a ten dollar bill stuck in a rake for a Thanksgiving turkey
and a grandmother who would buy dresses for you in the summer
and Easter bunny cakes in the spring
and soda pop and your favorite cereals when you would visit
and shoes and back to school stuff when you needed it most
I provided a wide variety of people the opportunity to receive a blessing from Me
by giving unselfishly to you.
Don't focus on the negative.
The negative is around you all the time.
You have it every day.
This world lies in the lap of the evil one
but you have overcome through ME
I cannot fail.
Trust Me.
Let Me work.
I am knitting ends and edges together.
I am weaving a most marvelous work
The big picture will soon be finished
though it seems sometimes like it is taking forever
and it will have everyone in it together
trust My handiwork.
You have today.
Don't worry over tomorrow.
It is in My hands.
No matter what happens I love you dearly.
I created the universe
I hand crafted galaxies and stars and regions of space not yet explored or known
and I made the microcosms, so small things have had to be invented just to glimpse it in part
Every bit of it fearfully and wonderfully made...
...and yet...
it is you I hold in my heart
You are etched into the palm of My hand
And you are the apple of My eye
Whoever touches you, touches Me
Don't lose heart
Give Me time
for all things work in timing....
and My time is always perfect.
Never too soon
Never too late
Always right when it should be
Fear not, stand still,
Fear not, stand still
and see the salvation of the Lord!

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Scars

I'm a scarred person.
I've got a number of scars that tell a lot about my life.
One on my leg from a dog bite back when I was in elementary and tried to intervene in a dog fight between my pet and another dog.
I've got a scar above one of my eyebrows from getting chicken pox as a child.
I've got another one in the palm of my right hand that looks about the shape of a match head. Got that one from trying to put out a fire that was begun with a match, funnily enough. I was a kid and panicked. But the fire was put out... no harm done. Just a reminder of that left on my hand for the rest of my life.
Oh and I've got scars from a couple of minor surgeries for hernias and such.
And a really big one from three dear children who were all c-section deliveries.
Not to mention a lot of old leftover stretch marks...
And then, I've got a very bothersom and obvious scar on my left arm.
It's near the wrist and continues down near a vein for about three inches.
It still bears the marks of the stitches on either side of the cut, looking rather like a mini stretch of abandoned railroad tracks.
Draws a lot of attention sometimes.
People comment on it because it's so easily detected.
It has faded more and more, so it's not as discolored and glaringly noticable as it once was.
But it's also a reminder of a time in my life when I had no joy.
No hope.
I could find no reason worth living, and this is why I have the scar today.
And it really used to bother me.
I was so obsessed with being perfect.
Looking like everyone else.
Wishing I did not having a huge scar reminding me of the old hurts and horrors of my past.
It was like a reminder of my failure in the past.
I failed to realize the gift of life I was given and that this life is really not mine to end, but it is my duty and my constant assignment to serve the One who loved me enough to save me and give His own life for my salvations.
I find myself facing a number of old scars inside myself too.
I'm scarred both inside and out...
Scars of being abandoned, scars of being hurt physically, emotionally, or attacked verbally. Scars of abuse. Scars of loved ones who died due to suicide leaving an open ended question that can never be answered.
Scars of all the little hurts from my past that left me hurting and wounded and afraid to live because I knew the weapons out there would only cut deeper wounds if I dared to move again.
But these scars and wounds heal in time.
Some leave more of a visible mark than others.
Some are mere ghosts of what they once were.
Each one has a reminder. A history of life, be it a good time or a struggle.
Each scar has a significance behind it telling a story of my little life and bears witness to the events of what I've lived through and overcome.
So why allow myself to view them as something wretched?
Why the wish to be free of them and look like everyone else?
I don't know what it is in our human nature that makes us want to be accepted because we're just like the other person beside us.
It's not something we SHOULD wish for.
And when I think of all my scars I count them as nothing in comparison...
with the One who has two nail scarred hands
two nail scarred feet
scars upon His sacred brow where the thorns pierced his innocent skin
scars upon His back where he was scourged, whipped, beaten in my place
and the deep scar in his side, thrust through by the sword of a soldier.
Scars of love.
Scars of life.
Scars that tell the most wonderful story in all of eternity.
Scars that mean I can live with Him eternally, accepted and loved by the one who gave the ultimate sacrifice for human kind.
Scars that should have been mine, but for His saving grace alone that bore my own sin and shame to the cross.
And when I think of His scars, I don't despise them or wish they weren't there.
I am drawn to tears to think of them.
For by One man's scars, I am made whole again. By His scars I am given new hope and a new life.
By His suffering, I was able to cross the bridge over the great divide between man and his Maker.
I am able to be a part of God's family because of the sacrifice made by the bearer of those scars.
No scars?
No thank you.
I'll keep my scars... they too tell a story.
A story of grace, hope, love, faith and redemption.
A story of my feet walking down that path before me.
Tells of the times I fell. The times I got back up again and kept walking.
The times I faced an enemy and maybe got bit in the leg by a dog.
And the times I fought off all the fiery arrows of the enemy and prevailed.
Let me wear my scars in honor of Him who bears the scars for me.
Mine may not be the scars of saving another's life, but they are the scars that remind me where He has been faithful to save me again and again.
I found this beautiful poem written long ago by a faithful missionary, Amy Carmichael.
I think it is very, very fitting.




NO SCAR?


Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand?
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land;
I hear them hail thy bright, ascendant star.
Hast thou no scar?


Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers; spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die; and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swooned.
Hast thou no wound?


No wound? No scar?
Yet, as the Master shall the servant be,
And piercèd are the feet that follow Me.
But thine are whole; can he have followed far
Who hast no wound or scar?


BY AMY CARMICHAEL,
IRISH MISSIONARY TO INDIA FOR 55 YEARS

In The Depths

In the depths of His love is a powerful place to be.

We think of depth in terms of deepness of things like water, or a really deep sink hole, or maybe the vast depths of space beyond our little world.
And we seem to like to measure things a lot down here...
We measure mountains to determine the highest height of each one, and measure all those really deep places to find out just how deep they are after all.
We hold up our measuring sticks to keep track of our kids and their growing progress.
We mark the wall to show how tall they've grown over the years.
And we measure the growth of all things from plants and pets to our circle of friends and our incomes.
Then we measure ourselves against our friends and family and those we meet to make sure we're measuring up to them so we can fit in and be as normal and regular or as different and as extraordinary as possible...
That's a lot of measuring.
We seem to spend our whole lives holding up one after another means of measure to everything and everyone along the way.
But what about the real measure of our lives?
Only God can see and know the contents of our heart, no matter what our tape measure or our scales or our yard stick has to say.
He alone knows if we are measuring up.
And in the end, we shouldn't be trying so hard to measure ourselves up to anyone else except Him.
And there lies the real beauty of it all.
We cannot be perfect. We cannot ever reach it while we walk around on this earth filled with the dust of human kind wearing our earthen suits of clay....
And we know this deep down.
It frustrates us to no end sometimes. We're such a long way from being perfect creations.
Tempers flare, we lose sight of our goal, our joy is stolen away and we lose hope and begin to wonder, why does He even bother with me? I can never be perfect.
Ah, but the answer is just beyond that conclusion.
In our imperfect state, we accept Him as the only answer to our lowly position here.
In our sin, we ask Him to complete us.
In our separation from the Father, Jesus becomes that missing piece (or peace) that makes us whole.
Only in Him are we made perfect.
And in that measure, we have nothing to fear.
We know in Jesus, we can finally measure up.
No more struggling to keep up with the Joneses next door and struggle to make ourselves meet their income, their social stature, or their level of fitness, or their social acceptance...
We have ultimate acceptance in His eyes.
What else counts?
Nothing.
It is the one true measure of all eternity.
And in those depths of grace and mercy, we find His love is deeper than anything we can ever comprehend.
What does infinite mean?
God's love is the definition of infinite.
How can one put a limitation on infinity?
How can there be an end to something that is fathomless?
How can something that is bottomless be filled?
How can we put His love into a box and say to anyone, there is no love in God's heart for you...
when it is not true?
How deep and wide it runs.
It encompasses us on every side.
It is a mighty flood that has escaped out of its shore and is surging beyond every border in pursuit of those who have not yet known His love.
It is a fire that fully consumes anything in its path.
It is so large, it can hold all our universe in the palm of one hand, lift it up to the face of love and smile.
And it is so infinite and intimate His love can hear the smallest whisper of our hearts breathed in a prayer in the middle of the night just before sleep sets in
He knows our deepest secrets, our hidden thoughts, our most disguised painful memories...
every tear drop we've cried he has seen, heard and felt.
In our deepest hidden place where we crawl into and shut out the world behind us... even there He is.
He is closer to each of us than the very air we breathe...
He's more a part of us than our own skin.
He is more intimate to me than my very own thoughts inside my head.
He is more life to me than the pounding of my own heartbeat.
How can I measure this?
There is no measure.
It is without end. Measureless. Fathomless.
Deeper than anything I can begin to comprehend.
In His depths is a very powerful place to be indeed.
I am held more secure there than I know.
And He isn't letting go of me... His love is forever.
No matter what.