When you’ve lived for lots of years, you have lots of stories. I believe our stories are meant to be shared for the benefit of others, so I’m sharing a part of mine with you today.
This memory many years ago while living in Ohio is still vivid. I’m sitting in my pickup truck, parked in the driveway of the apartment I shared with my abusive husband. We rented the upstairs portion of an older home. Wooden steps lead to the 2nd floor from the outside. I stared at the door with tears in my eyes. I dreaded going in because he was there. What personality waited on the other side? Would he be high and happy or a raging lunatic? My prayer was something like this as tears wet my cheeks. “God, I want you, but I know I’m not good enough. I still smoke cigarettes and I can’t stop.” That was as far as my prayer could go before it hit the wall, that barrier that made me “not good enough.”
At that time my barrier was cigarettes, but I had other barriers. Unwed pregnancy, divorces, alcohol, drugs, sex; there were many broken rules… I was taught it was all sin, against the rules and would send me to hell. I was raised to believe that breaking the strict rules we were given by churches we attended would cause me to be eternally dammed. If I died while wearing pants or a bathing suit while swimming in a pool with boys, or in a movie theatre or dancing; without having asked God for forgiveness, it would mean burning in hell’s fire. I sang the songs, Jesus loves me, The Old Rugged Cross, and Amazing Grace, but they all lacked meaning. Their words couldn’t penetrate the barriers built by man and held up by me.
There’s another experience still vivid in my mind. At 14 years old, I was raped behind some apartment garages on my paper route. I had gone behind the garages to smoke a cigarette a friend had given me. I wanted approval and acceptance so badly that I was willing to risk the threats of hell for smoking. I can still see the knife poking in my side… And as I understood it, now I would have the sin of a sex act condemning me to hell, even though it wasn’t my fault. When I came home crying and muddy, my mom asked what was wrong. I was afraid to tell her because I had broken the rules with that cigarette. When her attempts to get me to talk failed, she slapped me in frustration, so I made up a lie which further condemned me. That slap silenced me for years. My secret would stay buried as higher barriers surrounded my heart.
Today, I thank God that the dividing walls have been torn down and I’ve forgiven the hurts of abusers past. But that stinking thinking, “I had to make myself good before God would love or accept me,” was one of the most damaging lies that could be planted in the mind of a little girl. It became so ingrained I couldn’t receive true love from anyone. I didn’t deserve it and I wasn’t worth the effort.
There were two abusive marriages in my story. I remember how hard it was to break through the negative thinking with the third marriage. We’ve been married for 34 years now. My husband has always been good about constantly telling me he loves me. We could stand face to face, and he’d tell me I was beautiful, or he loved me, and I couldn’t even look him in the eye. I’d turn away, laugh it off or degrade myself somehow. They were just words, like the songs I sang as a kid. It took years before I could hear those words and even begin to receive them with a quiet thank you.
The biggest way the churches hurt me as a child was by misrepresenting the God I’ve come to know. Frequent church scandals exposed over the years compounded the damage. It’s no secret, so I think it’s time we’re honest to confess. God sees, knows, and still loves… Wow!
God is so much bigger in my eyes now. I can’t point to a specific event that caused a shift in my thinking. Sadly, it wasn’t the church that even played a large role. It was very personal between God and I. Hours alone journaling, spilling my heart out on paper, reading books and scriptures, even still trying to do everything right. I put on my Sunday best and the “church smile,” regardless of what was happening around me. I was careful to check all the boxes for time spent in prayer and reading the Bible. Doing those things did make me feel more accepted, but the truth was, my check boxes just made me proud, arrogant, and critical of others who didn’t act the part or fit the look.
Yet, God’s work in my heart continued. I was gaining insight, understanding, and becoming more open to seeing the inner workings and the effects of my story. I felt encouraged to dig deeper, but not until I was ready. I wasn’t being forced to believe anything about God and it never felt like religion being shoved down my throat.
You don’t wake up and your brand new just because you check the boxes or look the part. Transformation is a process. It takes time, and it’s not always pretty. Do you know that when a caterpillar is in the cocoon, it’s not that its body slims down, it grows wings and gets pretty colors. It’s body literally becomes nothing. It’s just goo inside the cocoon. We don’t see how it happens in the lonely darkness, but we know transformation took place when we see the butterfly break free.
I had to work up to being ready to allow the process. I had buried things so deeply; my hard heart needed to be bulldozed. I can pinpoint the day God began the deep healing. I had just come home from a Sunday night church service. I was a mess of emotion. Something had been triggered which caused me to act out in a way that my husband sent me to my room. That enraged me further, but I went. As I lay in the dark bedroom sobbing, God began his surgery. I described it as being filleted alive and left wide open – for years. Looking back, I know why. This process took years. It was a spiritual work between me and God. Others played small roles and I am grateful for those people. Most of this work has been done with material from an organization called Mending the Soul, which I’ve gone on to facilitate support groups through. We walk with others who have suffered from the cruel hands of abuse, working through a 250-page workbook in small groups, for as long as four months. As a facilitator, I revisit my exercises right along with the group. I’m amazed as God continues to show himself to be my faithful healer, increasing the understanding into my own story.
I feel closer to Him. It’s not that he was ever far away. It was those barriers. He truly loved me, so there was nothing forced. There was no abuse involved and he waited, right there with me the whole time. He never took his eyes off me as he waited for me to see, for me to trust enough that I could see my own worth to him. He waited until I could receive his love and love him in return.
You may be wondering why God didn’t stop the bad things from happening in the first place. I wondered, too. God gave us freedom to choose. He didn’t want an army of lifeless robots. We get to call the shots. But not everyone chooses well, and we know bad things happen, even to good people. I don’t believe that God causes the bad, but I know he can bring good from the bad. He’s done it in my life.
You may also be questioning as I have. Couldn’t God just instantly heal memories and emotions? Yes, I believe he could, but what good would that have been? I would have been grateful, but I never would have gotten to know myself or know him in the same way. I wouldn’t have the same understanding to be helpful to anyone else. The process is a treasured gift that can keep on giving.
So, you can’t tell me I’m not good enough anymore. Don’t tell me when I don’t have it all together, God doesn’t accept me. Don’t judge me because I still have a habit or hang up you don’t think is appropriate. Don’t dismiss me because I don’t believe exactly like you. Don’t tell me that I must act and look a certain way and must follow your rules. And don’t you dare tell me that I’m not loved by God!
I know I’m not the only one who lost faith because of the actions of people who bore the name of God. I pulled away from belonging to a congregation for a time, but I’m back. I want to belong. I need to belong to something bigger than myself. I still believe there’s hope for churches to become communities where I can thrive. I believe I’ll find people who are willing to be vulnerable enough to be honest, authentic, and human, imperfections and all. I want to find those willing to express their love of other humans through more than words on a website, but love expressed through action. That’s the place that will accept me as I am, the real “imperfect” me.
The church I’m attending now has a sign on the wall at the entrance, “No perfect people allowed.” I pray that they let that be true for me and let it be true for you, all of you who have been hurt in a church. Let us come as we are. Love us as we are. Let God be the one who does the cleaning, because there’s no better surgeon. Being filleted alive at his hand, brought me more life than I could have ever imagined. It brought me true life.
Remember that old hymn I mentioned, Amazing Grace? It’s grace! It’s all grace, not our efforts. You can’t make yourself good enough. You don’t have to earn God’s acceptance, approval, or love, so stop trying so hard. And you don’t have to fear rejection because God’s grace really is amazing!
If you are the victim of any kind of abuse and looking for support, visit https://mendingthesoul.org
To find out if this kind of support group is for you, visit https://avisibledifference.org
I wish you could have seen what I saw last night. I sat among a group of women that I had been in close communication with for the past six months. When we first met, there were many tears, even deep sobs. Their tears were angry, grief laden, heavy with shame, guilt and loss. Through dark stories with deeply buried secrets, the group expressed gut wrenching pain. There had been thousands upon thousands of wishes, even futile attempts to make it stop, but it didn’t.
was different. There were still tears, but now they were sweet, filled with almost overwhelming joy. They were no longer ugly tears. They were beautiful. So beautiful… I wish you could have been there.
They say every great story needs a hero and a villain. These women’s stories all had villains, for some there were many. Their stories had heroes, as well, but there was one hero common to every one of these stories. That hero is their Creator, the giver of life. They know him so personally now as their loving and good Father. The Author of Life had penned a twist in their story line. I wish you could have heard their stories, but that’s for them to tell. In time, they will tell it! I hope you’re there to hear it.
I haven’t written an update on my triathlon efforts lately, so I think it’s time for some catching up. In case you aren’t familiar with what DNF and DNS stand for, here’s a little Tri education. A DNF is dreaded. You do not want to have it listed beside your name on a race results list. It means “Did Not Finish.” Almost everyone who races has had one or will have. The tri world is super supportive when someone else gets one, but when it’s labeling your race, whether we admit it or not, it hurts. It’s a disappointment, no matter how supportive others will be about it. I had my first DNF this last May at the Santa Rosa Ironman 70.3. Insert sad face here.
Yes, it’s been a while since I’ve posted, but life certainly hasn’t been without adventure! For the athlete friends out there, I’ll give a quick injury update. Since my hamstring tear last October, I’ve slowly been moving back into running, swimming and biking. Slow progress is still progress, but there have been a couple more setbacks along the way. It truly has been two steps forward, one step back ever since the long string of injuries started. So many pieces and parts of this gosh darn kinetic chain have been affected, it’s all starting to become a blur now. I was allowed to start doing some easy walking and biking in December. I was able to start swimming with a pull buoy and add 
walk/run intervals about the middle of January. I made gradual progress to the point that my coach was able to schedule my workouts in miles of running instead of minutes of running at the beginning of May. Even though my longest straight run had only been 3 miles at that point, I was able to do The Santa Barbara Wine Country Half Marathon, which was May 10th, using run/walk intervals. Even at turtle speed, it felt awesome! I have to say, Santa Barbara was the hilliest 13.1 mile course this flatlander has ever done, but it was the most beautiful ever! Add in perfect weather and the wine at the finish line, do I really need to say more? No, but I will. It was awesome! 
I was just getting back out on the road again last week, more so with cross training still, but my calves were recovering. Last Tuesday I was enjoying a wonderful ride on my bike. I’ve been happy that I was finally getting my average speed back up to where it was before the hamstring thing. I like riding where there isn’t a lot of traffic. The problem with that though is, there isn’t a lot of traffic. If you run into an issue, you’re pretty much on your own. The more desolate roads around the desert aren’t always the quality of the busier roads, either. I was drinking from my water bottle, hit a bump, and swerved off the road into sand deep enough to bring my tire to an abrupt stop, thus throwing me into the road. Isn’t is 
funny how even in the middle of nowhere, you still look around to see if anyone saw you fall? Yes, I did that first, before I got myself off the road. After a few minutes catching my breath and examining my wounds, I decided I had to be tough and ride home, blood and all. After all, isn’t that what athletes do, suck it up, ignore the pain and move on? The problem was, my chain had come off and I wasn’t able to get it back on 
with my injured hand, so I had to humble myself and call my husband to come rescue me. Thankfully, nothing was broken, no stitches required, just a very bruised, swollen hip, sprained hand and a bruised, road rash covered elbow. Apparently, there was a benefit from the crash. According to my son, a racing team cyclist, I now have something called “street cred”. That’s respect among the cycling community, so I guess that makes up for the pain, right! My Doctor said it could take four weeks for the swelling to go down and the bruising to disappear. The Physical Therapist said I can swim with the pull buoy still, aqua jog lightly for now, but NO running or even walk/run intervals until the swelling goes down. And in my mind I’m saying, “But don’t you understand, I’m already signed up for another half in August and September?!?!” You runners that have dealt with injuries are tracking with me, right? You’ve been there too! And there you have it, one step back yet again! It appears that I will always have something to deal with, as most of my issues have been stirred up by problems with my spine and impinged sciatic nerves. The doctor’s encourage me to continue, as it’s important to stay active and healthy and my activity is not going to cause my condition to get worse. I will have pain regardless, but if I stop moving, I’ll stop moving, period and that isn’t healthy. I do get injections and see a Physical Therapist weekly, however, as long as I can avoid medication or surgery, I will keep doing what I love. I’ve titled this post, “The Trial-Athlete”, but not because of me and my silly injuries. I’m thinking way beyond what I’ve dealt with. I’m not a minimizing my “adventures” here. I’m just looking at them from a different perspective in this post. My mind is drawn to some unsung heroes in my life. Let me just tell you a little bit about them. I won’t name names today, so to those who know me, no reason to be nervous. 
There is the friend who has spent years, almost a lifetime dealing with her disease. It’s very difficult to manage, as her body doesn’t want to cooperate as it should. It’s not only challenging, it’s risky, even life threateningly dangerous at times. Her husband died several years ago and she remains home alone most days, missing him terribly. She doesn’t remain home alone by choice. You see, she’s had a series of falls, eleven of them! Each has resulted in bad breaks of her arms, legs, hips and pelvis, each requiring surgery and rehab. It’s now very difficult for her to get around. Yes, she has times she gets discouraged, very discouraged, yet each time I see her rally her will and her mind to stay positive and move forward, even if it’s through tears that she does it. There is the friend who found herself a single parent with more children than most of us have. Any of you who have been single 
parents can relate to the difficult challenges that this role presents to an already wounded mom or dad. That wasn’t her plan when she married him. Life wasn’t supposed to happen this way. This wasn’t her dream for herself or her kids. And if that isn’t enough, imagine if it were you as the parent and one of your children were handicapped and now a teenager that you have to do everything for. This has been the case for 15 years already and will be the case for a lifetime. Somehow she does it. She’s not just trying to survive. She is putting herself through school at the same time. She does it well! Even if it’s through tears. There is the friend whose career dreams were brought abruptly to a halt by a serious accident before she could even finish college. Severe spinal injuries have caused her a lifetime of pain and suffering as a result. Years after the first accident, a doctor was finally able to do a surgery that enabled her to walk again. Her dreams had a chance to be reawakened, as it appeared she had been gifted a moment of hope that life could return to normal again. Within weeks, those dreams were violently torn from her grasp when she became the victim in another serious accident. Not only would she not be able to walk normally, she returned to a life of constant pain with many other complications to numerous and graphic to describe here. While she has every reason to be angry and bitter, she is one of the sweetest, kindest, and most loving people I’ve had the privilege to share life with. She just wants to love people, even in pain, even through tears. There are others who have had their lives drastically and tragically changed in an instant. The friend who lost her son… I just can’t imagine how devastating that would be. The friends who have lost spouses… parents… other loved ones… Those are life altering events. You live with the aftermath for the rest of your breathing days. That’s the type of unsung hero I’m talking about. Talk about an ability to endure! When the accidents and surgeries are past, when the diagnosis has been given and the torturous treatments are ongoing, when there is never going to be any relief for the pain, when the funeral is over, the obituary archived and everyone has gone home, these heroes are left to live with their lifelong “new normal”. 
incredible ability to endure and that strength and endurance carries over into other areas of life. It leaves them with a sense of achievement. They’ve accomplished something beyond what they thought months before they would never be able to do. It’s an incredible feeling! And yes, you get addicted to it, so most of us do it to ourselves over and over again. The thing is, we do it by choice. Our race has a date and a finish line. The unsung heroes I’m talking about never would have chosen the circumstances that brought their pain. Yet they do it day after day, month after month and year after year and they survive. There aren’t crowds cheering for them along the course or people handing them water and nourishment every few miles. Some are lucky enough to have a good network of support around them, but unfortunately, most do not. Their race involves more than just a few hours of their time. There is no medal to display in their home. There is no finish line for them, at least not as long as they are breathing the air of this world. 
Talk about an ability to endure! These unsung heroes have it! That’s a special gift. I call it a gift of grace. That’s how they survive. They live day by day, one day at a time. They live on the grace or the strength they have for that day. Most days they don’t “feel” strong. They might not even want to be strong anymore, yet they make it, one more breath, one more step, one more day. And while it may appear that they do it alone most of the time, the friends I’m talking about, know they aren’t alone. They know where their help comes from. Their help comes from the maker of heaven and the creator of this world. Yes, they have unanswered questions as to why, yet they trust their God for the strength to make it. They trust in a God that enabled them to overcome and push through tragedy, disease, painful suffering and heartache. Anger and bitterness have been exchanged for kindness, forgiveness and love. They are true trial-athletes! Many are inspired by the athletes who train and compete in a race for finish lines and medals. Look around at the forgotten, 
unsung heroes you share life with. They are still running their race, often injured and their finish line is still years down the road. Their legs and arms get tired. It’s hard and it hurts. They shed tears out on the course. Keep cheering for them. Step up and pass them a cup of cold water or nourishment from time to time, whether it be just a smile, a card, a text or phone call, a hug… Let them know they are heroes in your eyes and that you’re sticking with them for the long haul! By doing so, you will have entered yourself in a race. It’s a race with no finish line and no medal on this earth, but the rewards are far better! You will become that special gift in their lives and you too, will build an ability to endure. Just watch out though. You might become addicted! I hope so!
Real - One Day At A Time 