I am very happy to be sober. Full of joy all the time? No. Of course not. No-one is, if they are completely honest with themselves. But being sober equalizes things for me. Brings me back to the middle. I still swing toward sorrow and fear at times. And though still too infrequent I have many, many days of contentment and joy.
I know this for sure, my ability to stabilize the bouts with depression is improved with not drinking, as alcohol is a depressant. You don’t want to believe that when you are drinking, but it’s true that alcohol exacerbates the bleak moments, dark moods, the feelings of despair.
I don’t work a program, though I believe that some of this would be easier if I did. There is a sense, when you are an alcoholic that you’re Alone with a capital A.Alone in a room of drinking people. The world is full of people (my husband is one) that can have a drink or two and stop. Alone in that others don’t have that “thing” that you do, which makes it impossible — to — stop once you have started. The inner compass that directs your soul, that moderates your actions and behavior. That thing is broken when you’re an alcoholic. During the last two years of drinking I just didn’t want to stop. Every time I drank, I wanted more. I was able to control it for a while by not letting myself have access to a lot of alcohol. One bottle of wine in the house at a time or whatever. But an open bar, or party, or what not pretty much guaranteed that I would be plastered.
Anyway, that’s all boring. Being a drunk is sad and boring.
Being sober is beautiful. I can feel my feelings. I can see my kids, hear them, and know them. I appreciate my life, my husband, my blessings. Friendships are sweeter. Writing and photography — all the goodness in my life — is connected to sobriety.
Most of all, I know that being an alcoholic (though at times a real bummer cause I wish I could still drink ) makes me need. I take that “need” and hand it over to God.
I am helpless. Hopeless. Lacking in anything good without God and so grateful to know I am loved.
Tonight in YOGA, I heard God say to me :
B E L O V E D.Over and over again, BELOVED.
YOU are deeply loved by me.
Let go of what others think of you (or what you think they might think.)
Why do you care.
The only thing you need to care about now
is that you are my BELOVED.
That’s all I need for tonight.
Mel
I have written a lot about sobriety both poems and prose. If you ever want to talk about any of this, I am available. I’m no expert, but I’ve been told I listen well and care deeply. melhhanson@yahoo.com
my life story has been full of tension and some might say tragedy. The process has been grueling and traumatic. My parents have made a problematic imprint on my life. I am working toward the days when I can celebrate again the good people that they are, but I must work through our family legacy, parts of which I must reject.
Often, I have found myself focused on the negative ways that my father especially has affected me. I rarely talk about my mother, in part because she is still alive and that story is not complete. Something happened recently between us that I feel is worth remembering here.
My mother
is a strange mix of strength and weakness that constantly perplexes me. I have been devastated at times by our relationship, which is strange and erratic. Both emotionally and mentally agonizing, but at times we have moments of tremendous truthfulness. I do not trust her and yet I deeply wish for her understanding. I love her and yet I want to live my life without her (at times) because she has an uncanny way of being able to hurt me. This frightens me. It would be easier to walk away. So far, I haven’t chosen that path.
My mother, seventy-two years old, is the daughter of a southern philanderer for a father and a mother who raised five children by herself washing and ironing clothes. She grew up in poverty, but my mother is bright, with a photographic memory to compensate for her dyslexia. She was the first in her family to go to college where she trained to be teacher and supported my father through college and graduate studies. They went to the mission field in 1966 to be teachers.
Today, sitting in her condo with the air conditioner running and the Red Sox playing, she is a far cry from the woman who trekked through the jungles of Papua New Guinea pregnant with me and holding a toddler. She is a complicated person.
So Mom showed up the other day,
sitting, chatting about nothing important (something she hasn’t done for at least a year.) I said “Stay and hang out while I feed the kids lunch.” She was on a fast of some sort, or I would have offered her the PB&J I was feeding the children.
And she blurted out that she wanted to be my friend.
… Heavy silence ensued …
I felt in a moment, as she threw out those words, that time stood still. And as she waited for my response it took
f o r e v e r.
She threw down her wishes as if everything, the past, had just magically disappeared.
A whirlwind of panic blew into my kitchen and was swirling around in my stomach, and heart, and head. Many things were going through my head. I am afraid of my mother — that she’ll need me too much. And I am afraid that she will reject me. I am frightened by her power over me. Should I be ecstatic that she wants to be my friend? Remember the not small part of the equation where she is constantly forgetting important things? Not telling me about a mother’s day lunch out with my sister. Her calling and turning me down on one of the kid’s concerts at the last-minute. Feeling too tired to come to my photography exhibit. Forgetting the Artist Showcase at my church where I had things on display. There are hundreds of occasions like these which I try to forget because it hurts. Over and over it hurts and I tell myself “Do not care. Again.” These things are unimportant in the larger scheme of life and yet they are a part of why I am so afraid of her.
I’m afraid and I somehow convey this to her as we sit there at my kitchen table. Then tears slowly begin to slip down her face. And as they start to really flow she says something that utterly blows me away.
“It is so difficult to get old.” She continues that it’s frightening. It’s unpredictable. It’s simply hard to face going places alone, not knowing if she’ll find handicapped parking and be forced to walk a long distance. And at times this completely overwhelms her and she can’t face it. So she cancels.
I cannot express adequately to you now how huge this is for me. I have taken her actions as personal rejection of me, as her daughter. Her absences. Cancellations and no shows. And rather than tell me the truth she’s used sickness and fatigue as the excuse. Why? Why do these things ever happen? We are all a strange mixture of motives, fears and desires. She hates that she’s getting old. She’s afraid. She lives alone and what if we decide she can’t handle that any more. What if she decides she can’t? What will it mean for her independence? For all of us? As she sits in her condo, comfortable and safe it’s just easier to not go out.
Growing old is hard on one’s ego. And so uncool don’t you think? The loss of privacy. Dignity. Independence. God help us all as we walk toward this with our parents. May we love them and listen well. Take enough time to ask the right questions and have discernment as we move ahead.
I have felt that my mom doesn’t want to me in her life, not really. This comes out of my dysfunction certainly but has been based on actual events.
And it turns out that she just needs a ride. This is a new place for us to travel to in our relationship — a place of dependence and fragility — but a step closer to one another.
I appreciate the care and concern. And thought it would be good to write an update since I fear some may avoid me for my returned melancholia and others will fret and worry for me.
By the time I postedthat poem, I was doing somewhat better. Improvement made it possible to write and think and therefore compose those words, stringing them together one after the other into some semblance of poetry. At the very least they were a cry for help, as they say. Ha!?
For days I have looked at my camera and not had the will to pick it up. The last couple of days I have been able to and that is a sign. Though yesterday in my ineptitude I spilled water all over my camera and it may be dead. I am afraid to put in a charged battery and know for certain whether it is gone. All is not lost. I have a better camera bought for the business venture. I don’t know how to use it exactly but I may be forced to learn.
finito
That reminds me. The business of Imagine Photography LLC is finished. Although I love working with entrepreneurs (my father was one) I am not one. And I didn’t enjoy the business of family and wedding photography. I am hanging up my “professional photographer” hat and picking up my Artist’s. Closing the “doors” after three years and it’s somewhat of a relief, though I regret not having the personal umphf to “make it.” Some of my depression may have been triggered by the finality of this admission.
back to the issue
I have certain people for whom I have held on to lack of forgiveness. I feel hurt by them and so I resent. Resentment hurts me and is a self-defeating prophesy in a way. Anxiety, insecurity and fear come in and all of a sudden it is unbearable. Figuring out how to forgive, myself and the other person, is the only way to get past this. This requires time to pray and find the place of openness inside. Right now, my heart is still full of anxiety, it’s pressing down and creating tension and pain. I must do this business of forgiveness to move on.
It is no coincidence that this all started right after I wrote the poem about forgiving my parents. I wanted something powerful from that ‘gift’ of writing it for my church. My ego wanted it. And ironically, what has come of it is a humbling (er, humiliating) experience of being battered down by my weakness, frailty and continued inability to be a forgiving person.
“To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.” [Lewis
B. Smedes, The Art of Forgiving.]
This is the journey. This is only one piece of it but it is imperative that I figure it out. What a joke to be a follower of Christ and hold on to resentments and pain. To live held captive. To live without joy. To live bound and controlled by our fear and bitterness.
I know this is not right. I am humbled by my mistakes and want to climb out of this hell hole I’ve sunk into. That’s only accomplished one fragile experience at a time, as I listen and respond to the nudging of the holy spirit. I am so relieved to know there is a way out of this.
Feeble though I may be, I respond. There’s strength to be found in that.
It’s been a while, I know. I have major depression which comes and goes for me and it has come again.
I have not been able to do much of anything for a month, though I have learned over the years to overcome eventually. At first it was too hard to think, or write, or be coherent. I have been afraid to put words down for weeks. This time, it has been really bad. Worse than I have experienced in years. I’ve been so frightened by it that I haven’t wanted to try to write – one – word.
But then the truth, it sits inside me stewing and I have to try to get it out of me. This poem is truthful, but now I believe I am starting to come out of it. But if you’re the praying type please do. I don’t really think this poem is finished but I needed it out.
Melody
a thousand conspirators
The devil with his fist is pressing on my soul
while a thousand conspirators chant in my head.
Deceit is their only aim.
They laugh at my impotence.
They dance away with my heart.
I cannot breath.
I cannot clear my mind.
I can only listen to their lies. And surrender.
I do not understand this affliction.
Or fathom why it chooses me.
With my heart constantly racing. Jolts of fear come, and come again.
This is what depression brings.
It comes when I am least expecting it. When I imagine I am good. When life is safe.
When I am well.
I fear it is me. That I can not heal.
That my head and heart have learned
only this path.
That isolation will always be my companion.
When I am depressed I feel inept, frantic. Heavy as sand.
When I am depressed
I can’t think or do what needs doing.
I no longer pray. There is no universal truth. No god.
I have lost my sense of wonder.
I am tired. Frequently angry, disoriented.
Dizzy with feelings of defeat.
Disappointed in myself, because depression always returns. Wondering if it will ever end?
Will this hell ever end?
For a moment this cry becomes a lifted prayer, every detail of the noise in my head.
With the utmost of my attention and effort
momentarily, I believe.
I surrender the fear. The disbelief. The weakness. My Doubts.
I loosen the two-fisted grip I have on my sanity. I hope.
But How? How does letting go of my frailty
do that? I have no answer.
I grasp for healing
because there is no cure.
This affliction of mine
is pure misery.
If I could give it away would I? Not to anyone that I know, not even an enemy.
If I cannot bear it how could anyone else? Not that I am better, but
in all of it, for reasons unknowable to me, it is mine. I accept this.
I no longer wish, or cry, or pray it away from me.
And in a moment, in a miracle,
a glimmer of faith returns. I do not feel
quite so alone. Nor do I sense
the devil with his fist pressing on my soul.
God has shown me twice this week, by marking time in my past, to show me how I have changed. When this happened I was blown away by how much God loves me, something I have long struggled to believe. And that in and of itself is so sweet. So good. I just sat in the moment, feeling precious. God loves me enough to show me the changes, the progress, the healing that has come.
When I fell into my first major depression in 02, I didn’t really know what was happening to me. At first I just sat absorbing the fact that I couldn’t think, or sleep, or make decisions, or read; I couldn’t do anything. It was strange. Foggy. A bit like being in slow motion. A ten-hour day at home with three small children didn’t feel like a day at all. It felt like a flash, because I wasn’t really conscious. I had no words to describe what was happening to me. Depression took everything.
Lost My Way
After five weeks stranded in this place, I finally told Tom that something strange was going on. And then my friend Carol, then at some point I told my parents. I remember sitting on my back porch talking on the phone to my father who had called. Of course he said he would cancel all his plans and come straight away if I needed him. He was good in an emergency. But I declined his offer knowing it wouldn’t be that pleasant nor likely to be helpful. And I don’t remember much about that conversation except saying “Dad, I just want to be happy. I can’t remember the last time I felt happy.”
Looking back today, from the perspective finally of joy and contentment, I have to admit that I never believed I deserved happiness. It wasn’t something on the conscious level or anything I thought about very clearly. But at a deep, foundational level I couldn’t remember happiness. And didn’t believe I deserved it. I would reach out for it sometimes. Usually that resulted in hurt because I did it in such needy or aggressive way. And more than how others treated me, my thinking about myself was so bad, so low; I had a deep hatred for myself.
I can only guess that this was caused by being yelled at so often and so unexpectedly as a child, young adult and adult. You knew it might come at some point, but you could never guess why he was mad or what you might have done. My father was unpredictable in his rages. Berating. Pushing. Demanding that you admit wrongdoing. Keeping at you, over and over again verbally — until you concede to him, whatever it was. The subject didn’t matter. You must apologize. You must ask for forgiveness, absolutely. Looking back, he was Psychotic.
And so, inside I slowly disappeared. Life was numbing and I was without opinion. Without question I began to do whatever he expected of me. And that too reinforces your own loathing. I was a classic under achiever, my one way of getting his goat.
Every once in a while over the years, the last time happened in the late ’90s, I would meet someone who seemed to see right through the walls and ask me “Why are you in so much pain?” It was if I was translucent and they could peer into my heart and soul in a way that I couldn’t even do any more. I just looked at this person who didn’t even know me, with shock and disbelief at what they saw. I felt exposed and yet I had revealed nothing. They felt the pain I had stopped feeling. It was horrible. And yet, looking back it was so important. Again, one of those markers God gives me to see how far I have come.
I worked for my father for many years. My reasons (I see now) were to receive his affirmation. And it worked, though I worked too much and became a workaholic. I worked unreasonable hours, had no boundaries between work and my life, and I had hardly any personal life until I met Tom. Even then, I really had trouble getting home for dinner, worked through lunches, lived and breathed work. I worked 150% and knew that I couldn’t fail, which was what I was sure was going to happen if I stopped striving, because it was my father’s reputation and his good will toward me that were hanging in the balance. His love?
It wasn’t until I had my third baby in five years and quit that life to be at home that it all came crashing down around me. Thank God it did. I say that because it began a nine-year process of finding myself , FINDING LIFE — Oh, the mistakes I had to make in order for that to happen. But hey, I was doing the sped up version of adolescent rebellion I guess. Growing, learning, expanding, reaching, feeling. Finally feeling. And it felt terrible, and good at the same time.
Nine long years. And in those years I found
Photography.
Writing poetry and thought put into words in general.
A study of the Bible and the power of prayer with faithful believing women.
I developed opinions, thoughts and ideas that originate with me!
I found gardening and theology.
I have been slowly overcoming of anxiety – mostly social anxiety which I get so badly even still. I really do hate that.
I have found joy. I’m actually glad to be alive.
I have found love from humans and cats,
And more important than any of this I have found that Jesus loves me. No really, he does and I never believed it. After the phone conversation with my father he sent me a postcard in a frame that said “You are the One Jesus Loves.” I was so uncomfortable with it that I buried it in a sock drawer for years. Long past when he died. I really couldn’t fathom it. Sunday, right before church, I found the post-it that he included on it which said: “And your father loves you too. Love, Dad. 7/02” (Yes, in the strange third person.)
I don’t want to die anymore.
I started smoking in that time, which was a slow suicide and last year I quit smoking.
I starting drinking, socially at first, and then heavily and began to abuse it. And I quit drinking over a period of three or four l o n g years. When I started to think about quitting, I thought I would never have any fun again. I actually thought that. No fun, ever again. I had no idea what true contentment and joy, even happiness was until I quit drinking, accepted my powerlessness against it, and faced the shit I had been so cleverly (or not so cleverly really) been avoiding.
When I was depressed I thought I would never be happy. When I overdosed, a small part of me must have wanted to live because I woke up and told Tom what I had done and I lived. But only a tiny piece of me still wanted life, mostly I still hated myself.
But it has been the process of becoming ME that has made it possible to consider forgiving my father and mother. I know I am a strong person. As I begin to want more from life, I can accept and voice what happened to me. Yes, my father had to die for me to have the courage.
This near decade long process made it possible for forgiveness. And it isn’t a short or easy road. Truly, it has taken all those years.
My first honest words expressed about my dad were in a poem called “Good Dad. Bad Dad.” It felt so risky, so bold at the time. After reading it again after all these years, I think I’ll post it here:
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
I shed no tears today
for the warrior who has fallen.
Taken down by Cancer's sword.
My heart is full of memories,
good and bad.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Constant worry.
Constant change.
Who could have foreseen
the Cancer overtaking his mind;
that became my liberation
in five short months.
The danger --
of loving too much;
needing tenderness,
and all the things Daddy's are supposed to be.
PAIN. FEAR.
Emotions jangling around me
like some kind of white noise;
pushing their way into my conscious thoughts.
Invaders, threatening to undo
the weak hold I've found on a Good Life.
So many memories
good and bad,
bad and good.
Who was he? Why was he MY dad?
MY tormentor.
MY warrior;
Finally broken,
beaten by the cancer
that was to become my friend.
Betrayal,
these thoughts which plague me.
Broken;
the unspoken promise
to keep our secrets to the end.
How do I remember?
How do I stay true and honest,
when the Truth causes an ache
too strong to feel,
to face,
to bear.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Who was he in the end?
A demon? A saint?
Now simply a Muse --
remembered, but no longer feared.
Thought of
in furtive,
anxious moments.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Who is he to me now?
A man driven to despair
Living a chaotic, frantic life.
Not the Good Life I choose,
Not the legacy I will repeat.
Good Girl. Bad Girl.
Who will I listen to?
Who will I believe?
I am the woman I choose to become
today,
tomorrow.
These are the Good Days
that I can change.
Yesterday is Dead.
Burned in the funeral pyre.
Vapors
Mist
Dust settling around me.
Good Girl. Bad Girl.
Good.
Bad.
Good.
by Melody Hanson, 2004
So how does it work, to forgive a tormentor, an oppressor, an abuser? Does it mean taking someone’s anger and rebuke over and over again? I’ll never know if I could have stood up to my father? I have never met someone who did and stayed in relationship with him. That’s daunting.
Forgiving is “the opposite of ignoring and excusing. It is moving toward the offense.” And that’s been my path. Naming the pain. Drawing attention to it in my writing. My father’s anger and rages were ugly and dangerous and as a child I was constantly afraid of him. With some amount of distance – his death – and my personal work, I’ve worked to let go of it. But there will never be restoration and reconciliation because he has gone.
On the other hand, I’ve also experiences anger toward my mom over the years for her lack of action, defense of us and for shutting down. She also disappeared into health problems, depression, and eventually alcohol. But we, two fragile and broken people are working on a long healing process and I try every day to trust her and not expect or need her to change.
My pastor said recently about forgiveness: “Let go, open your heart, move toward the pain. Recognize the person’s humanity, their broken heart and sense of failure.” I can do that with my mom.
For the longest time I couldn’t have said that my pain and hurt belonged to my father. I had a blessedly complex relationship with him. I longed for his approval while at the same time had much hurt, anger and resentment for his controlling behaviors. I learned to be exceptionally passive aggressive and sarcastic because that was, I thought, the only safe way that I could express myself.
“Safe” is so ironic. I don’t remember ever feeling safe growing up. I was anxious, afraid, tense, doubtful, insecure, wracked with shame, self-loathing, and fear. Fear of the ambiguity of my home growing up — I actually said to a boyfriend “Treat me well or treat me badly. I don’t care. Just be consistent.” I longed for it.
But grace, coming from God in the life of Jesus and the sacrifice done for me — that’s changed everything!!! He takes the most broken and restores. Better put, he heals.
He makes like new but different, strong; his touch, attention, and gaze are profound. I will never be the same.
I have a new life. I have a life. I have started living. I have hope. I have joy. I may not ever feel loved by my human father …but I’m going to be okay. I don’t expect the way forward to be simple because as I grow God continues to ask things of me that are difficult.
Will you obey? Will you choose my path? Will you give such and such up? Will you forgive? Will you seek me? Will you be disciplined to know my words, the Word? Will you exercise because you know it helps your mood, and eat right? Will you pray? Will you have a generous heart? Will you sacrifice your desires for mine?
“Everyone says that forgiveness is a lovely idea until they have something to forgive.” – CS Lewis
Forgiveness of grave acts of injustice can feel like an abstract concept to those who have not experienced those acts. ( — PRISM magazine)
Sometimes I write, telling parts of my story, in order take what is anything but abstract for me and try to make it clear to others – to help my fellow journeymen (and women.)
My pastor said yesterday … that anger and the need to retaliate when someone has hurt you is “normal“; as normal as the reflexes a doctor checks when she taps on our knees during a check-up. Normal.
I hate that word. I don’t understand the use of it. It is a bit reckless to say anything is normal these days when people have such diverse experiences. But think I understand what he was trying to say — that a wish for vindication when you have been hurt is a healthy response. But even that doesn’t sound quite right. How about a human response?
But what response should one have to being hurt or abused or rebuked or shamed or yelled at? To retaliate? No, I think he means a human response to lighter stuff like being gossiped against is to strike back. Because when I think about my childhood, I think the healthy response is to shrink. One will cower. One learns to hide, to disappear, to not be the object of that person’s attention. Perhaps this response is not “normal” but it sure was “reflexive” for me. That’s why it is hard to hear that “wanting revenge is normal” if that is indeed what he meant.
Then, as I look back, I see that THERE HAVE BEEN TIMES when I wanted a sort of revenge with my father and mother.
I have carried fear of my father for as long as I can remember and an anger at my mom for not protecting us. And a kind of fury. I used to have rage dreams and on the really rare occasion I will have them still. But they are thankfully now years in-between.
The powerlessness that comes from having a father who never admitted he was wrong creates that anger and sense of worthlessness.
It is not worth trying to explain yourself.
It is not worth needing your own opinion.
It is not worth expending energy because nothing really matters. Nothing
really matters at all.
I am so glad I am past that.
It’s just too bad he had to died for me to come to this place. I carry a huge feeling of loss that I never knew a sweetness in my relationship with my dad. I loved him out of fear and a wish to please him. I know he loved me. But he just – couldn’t – help himself?
It is true he couldn’t help himself. I wish he could have let God help him.
I miss him now, as I ponder what could have been. He really was a dear man, loved by so many around the world who were his friends and never knew the secret rage inside him. I’m glad that many people didn’t know – in a way – because Dad accomplished many good things. Helped many people. Was loved by many.
God why did you take him so young? Sixty-two? I hope
it wasn’t simply
so I could live.
No, I don’t think God works like that.
It was simply a convergence of events coming together to give him cancer and take him home. And my ability to heal, to forgive, well I have to believe that I might have come to it even if my dad was still here. Perhaps it would have taken longer, but it would have come.
I have forgiven my father and then I think of my mother, who still has a story to tell. I don’t know if anyone would believe her, but she has so much in her life story that could be helpful to others. Surely we can’t be the only ones in this situation, caught between a person who does good things and has their secrets. A Christian leader who means well but whose home life isn’t right at all. But that, is her story. Perhaps one day I can help her tell it.
IN THE END what needs to be said is this.
Forgiveness is what each Christ follower is asked to do in response to the forgiveness Jesus extends to us. It is not easy. It can take a long time. It often depends on the emotional health of the person doing the forgiving. It always depends on all the factors surrounding the situation and each person has to sort that out, often with the help of a pastor or a counselor.
I have been in therapy of one sort or another, off and on, for almost twenty years! Wow, that’s crazy sounding but it’s true.
Pulling back the layers of pain,
the years of stagnation and lack of healthy growth as a human being,
the crazy mixed up ideas,
the strange perspectives and opinions picked up over the years.
The times of resisting and not being willing to obey God.
And finally coming to a point that one decides for themselves what to do — without the guilt or coercion of others, but in complete obedience.
It’s messy. It’s damn difficult.
But it is so sweet, when finally healing, forgiveness and the mercy of Jesus at the cross come down on you.
And you begin anew… and your story continues…
Where does rage come from?
I do not know and I have pondered my father’s strange rage for many years. I cannot pretend to have answers and obviously I cannot ask him. But I have a friend who works with incest survivors. She has a very special ministry. My father always said that he was sexually abused as a child, by a minister in his church. I never believed him. But I asked my friend about this and she said: “When a person admits to this as an adult, they are telling the truth. They have no reason to lie.”
No reason to lie. She also said very often anger like that comes from abuse in the past.
I don’t know if it is true but I cannot ignore this:
In Forgiveness: following Jesus into radical loving Paula Huston says: “Regarding the tender souls of children, Jesus says in a passage that can be read as referring either to young human beings or to “baby” Christians: ‘Things that cause people to sin will inevitably occur. It would be better for him if a millstone were put around his neck and he be thrown into the sea than for him to cause one of these little ones to sin.‘ (Luke 17:1-3) The roots of our adult sin patterns are often to be found in the still-gaping wounds of childhood.”
So my father was hurt as a child. And I was crushed by his pain and hurt, as he took it out in the form of rage and anger.
At some point we are each responsible to work through our experiences and get to a point of healing.
Again, from Huston,
“Then, and only then (after the process to be sure) we can see the other person as “a human being, no matter how degraded, a fellow soul made in the image and likeness of the God we adore.” (added by me)
God causes his sun to fall on both the good and the evil, and his rain to fall on both the righteous and unrighteous. (Phooey, I can’t remember the reference.)
The longer we shut up our heart against the one that has hurt us the closer we come
to losing our own heart,
our humanity,
even our life.
And for some even our minds.
These things happened to me in the form of depression, alcoholism, and self-loathing.
And so, for today, I just want you, the reader, to know that there is hope. It is found in Jesus at the cross if you will spend some time there. Lay those things down; the heavy burden of pain — close your eyes and picture** putting it at Jesus’ feet. Give it to God. Release it when you are ready and be ready for miracles.
MHH
** Some people have a hard time picturing things in their mind’s eye. If that is true for you I would urge you to watch the movie THE MISSION. That movie will give you a picture of your pain and lack of forgiveness as those heavy pieces of armor that the priest dragged up a water fall as penance. Whenever I begin to forget what my bitterness and anger, lack of forgiveness are doing to me, I can see in my mind’s eye that sack of armor. No one can live that way. No one should live that way. No one needs to live that way.
“If you’ve ever been part of a loving, healthy family
you have smelled the sweet aroma of heaven.
If you’ve ever lived in a troubled, broken home
you have breathed the foul stench of hell.”
I have never heard someone put it quite that honestly before! Except myself and I have done it with a bit of trepidation.
One of the things that is so difficult for me to reconcile was my father’s anger issues and other dysfunctional behaviors with being a Christian, an ordained minister and a ministry leader.
It is not that I think anyone can or should be perfect by any means, but it was disproportionate, it didn’t improve, and it was very confusing as a child. (And as an adult for that matter!)
Turns out half of evangelical kids walk away from Christianity as adults. I’m surprised the numbers aren’t higher actually.
Christian leaders get caught up so often in the doing, the work, others.
We all need to have to have more intentionality with our children. It isn’t too late. I choose not to repeat the things I learned growing up. It is such a relief to know isn’t to late!
The quote above is from the book It Starts at Home. I’m thinking of reading it. I only have 102 titles in front of it on amazon.com. (Sigh.)
I cannot speak, unless you loose my tongue;
I can only stammer, and speak with uncertainty;
but if you touch my mouth, my Lord,
then I will sing the story of your wonders!
Teach me to hear that story,
through each person,
to cradle a sense of wonder in their life,
to honor the hard-earned wisdom of their sufferings,
to waken their joy that the king of all kings stoops down to wash their feet
and looking up into their face says, ‘I know – I understand’.
This world has become a world of broken dreams
where dreamers are hard to find and friends are few.
Lord, be the gatherer of our dreams.
You set the countless stars in place,
and found room for each of them to shine.
You listen for us in your heaven-bright hall,
open our mouths to tell our tales of wonders.
Teach us again the greatest story ever;
The one who made the worlds became a little, helpless child,
then grew to be a carpenter with dark-seeing eyes.
In time, the Carpenter began to travel, in every village
challenging the people to leave behind their selfish ways,
be washed in living water, and let God be their king.
The ordinary people crowded round him
frightened to miss a word that he was speaking.
Bringing their friends, their children, all the sick and tired,
so everyone could meet him,
everyone be touched and given life.
Some religious people were embarrassed,
they did not like the company he kept,
and never knew just what He would do next.
He said, “How dare you wrap God up in good behavior,
and tell the poor they should be like you?
How can you live at ease with riches and success
while those I love go hungry and are oppressed?
It really is for such a time as this that I was given breath.”
For a long time I have felt a growing disquiet and troubled feeling about my days. Because of the nature and pattern of them, I could endlessly sit and take in all that’s going on in the greater world. And because of my propensities, my heart hurts anew each time I read something: about the raping of women in Congo, genocide in Rwanda, plight of girls in China and Afghanistan, homeless in America, immigrants, undocumented kids who grew up in the US, poor black kids in my city, incarcerated Black men, young unwed mothers, gays and lesbians I know are not really welcome in my and most evangelical churches, the plight of women in the evangelical church, racism …
… over and over, it hurts to read it all and want to do something. I almost went to New Orleans during Katrina, I almost went to Cambodia, I dream of doing a lot of things, dream only dream…..
I haven’t felt passionate about anything specific in a long time.
In my twenties I worked with high school students at my church. I loved that and gave up a part-time job just to travel with the kids to Florida Keys to camp. I went along on two Global Projects with college students to Kiev and Moscow. I was not very well equipped for either of those opportunities but my heart was in the right place. I loved taking survival backpacking or camping trips in high school. The challenge really motivated me. I like to push myself. I am charged by effort, hard work, sweat on the brow, and I love being in the natural world which fills me up when I stay in it. I love to travel. I love to learn, study, get lost in a topic, get lost in book. I love to take photographs. I am a wordsmith. I write poetry. I blog. I wonder what I should do with it all. I dream of publishing a book of poetry and photography.
I am considering all this, where my leanings are, and asking “What is my one thing?”
So, I’m asking those that know me, would you help me define myself?I haven’t had a clear picture of myself in years.
What is it that I could be doing? I am listening, praying, asking friends.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking for definitive answers about God’s purpose for my life, my time and energies. I can only hope that God will continue to change me so that I might live peacefully with that purpose as it is revealed to me.
I know that the things I have learned over the last ten years about myself, the pain worked through, present opportunities for understanding and have a purpose.
May I face whatever is ahead with courage, honesty, and integrity.
Chime in won’t you. Pop me an email on Facebook or melhhanson@yahoo.com or if you’re comfortable write something here.
Be well,
Melody
P.S. Some of my favorite movies of all time, without thinking hard about it, just off the top of my head: The Mission, The Killing Fields, Broadcast News, The Whale Rider, and more recently: Up. What do they say about me?
This is me in Honolulu, about five years ago or six or seven … With my good soul mate and friend Junko and her son. I put it here, because I was probably 25 pounds thinner and I thought at that time I was fat. Just goes to show….
I just found myself writing on Facebook: “I am feeling dissatisfied and out of sorts.” I know this is true — it has been so for days. It put me in such a funk last week I thought I was coming down with the Black Dog (you know, depression.)
But I wonder why. Examining ourselves is hard. And I get the feeling that I do it a lot. But I can easily not engage with things emotionally and stay on the surface of life.
On the level of superficial, surface things, I know why I’m grumpy:
There are piles of laundry that are never “done.”
The stuff, everywhere! And I can’t keep up. My kids are clueless, and useless! No matter how many reminders, of the stuff they leave around the house and yard — practically dropping it anywhere they finish with it — it is everywhere.
There is no open surface in my life – except the kitchen – after I clean it – daily, sometimes twice depending on things in the evening.
my garage is driving me nuts. my basement is driving me nuts. my bedroom is driving me nuts.
I can never keep food in the house. My preteens are eating everything that isn’t nailed down. and what we have is never what they want. Now I’m not one to really care about that, them getting what they “like” but it starts to rub me wrong, after a while.
That’s the surface and it’s bad, but then if I go below the surface:
I never see my friends. Rarely have deep conversations with people. Just living on the surface of my friend’s lives and I feel lonely. Did I just write that. I think I’m not sure. Do I feel lonely? I mean, I could choose to pick up the phone. I like isolation I think. But then, internally, I know accountability in friendship is good and deep connections are so life-giving. Yes, connection is important to me and I don’t have it. There is no where in my life, not church, not my kids schools, where else do I go – not the grocery store, that I connect with people. Okay, at Trader Joe’s they are really nice and I always leave there feeling good, because they are quite happy to be talking to you. That is so pathetic.
Another thing. I decided last year, to not buy clothes for myself, for a year. Mostly, cause I’m fairly stupid about spending money and I was wasting away the fortune we did not have on this and that. I mean how many hats does a girl need? And to be honest, since early October I haven’t spent a dime, on myself. I did find myself buying a lot more clothing for Emma. That had to stop cause it definitely defeats the purpose and she’s swimming in clothes. Really though, I haven’t missed shopping.
I worried about what ideas I was giving my daughter about looks. (I blogged about all this in October of last year.)
The other reason that I stopped was because I was tired of thinking and caring so much about image. But that bit hasn’t changed (much) and frankly I’ve let myself go over the last six months. I feel shabby, and dumpy and what was that word that my friend in college used to call me? Frumpy. What a word. I’ve lived up to that of late and I hate myself. And we won’t even go into the weight thing. No, not today. When I say hate I’m talking about the suicide kind of self-hatred, or harming yourself, or anything tragic like an eating disorder. I’m just referring to simple self-esteem. Body image. Naked in the mirror stuff. Can’t find an outfit that feels good to me kind of days.
And then this trip to the Bahamas comes (two and a half weeks and counting) and I start freaking out. For some reason, I have this crazy need to impress and seem cultured and look urban and eclectic and interesting. It matters to me (and that’s a long story from being an MK that I think I’ve written about here before.) So I wasn’t going to buy anything. And then I started obsessing about this awards night banquet that everyone gets all spiffy for and I couldn’t let -it -go.
I looked at my clothes, of which I have an abundance, in sizes 10, 12 and 14 and I don’t have anything for an evening dinner in the Bahamas, not fancy but not too casual. So, I “don’t have anything” and yet I know that if I was saving money for my kid’s transplant or something I could find something to wear in my closet. So it wouldn’t be Tommy Bahama or nicely starched from newness. But it would be just fine. One night. One outfit. Perhaps three total hours of my life. But there’s no transplant needed, and Tom doesn’t care if I buy a dress, he’s getting a new shirt.
So dammit I bought one, online, it probably won’t even look good. Which is okay cause I can return it but every time I think about that stupid trip I get all anxious. Like what’s on the outside is what matters. Tho I don’t believe that, already I’ve fallen back into that kind of thinking. …. If I have a new dress, I will also need new shoes, a necklace, earrings,and a decent bag. Oh, and can’t forget the very important cover up for the cool nights and to cover the flabby size 14 arms….. so I spend the evening last night (while watching Idol among other things) tooling the internet looking for the perfect dress. And even this morning ….
No wonder I feel dissatisfied and grumpy. As a friend just said, (on Facebook not in person, I told you I have no face-to-face friendships any more.) I need to check this more closely.
Identity. Self-esteem. Body image. Eureka! I have ignored the root of my problems with shopping. Wow! I can’t believe I’ve been able to stick my head in the proverbial sand about this!
We all do it. I know we do. Except for those few say 20% of exercising folk, most of us ignore our bodies a good part of the time. Just living with regret, or wishing it were different, or saying when I lose those ten pounds, I will …
Absolutely what I’ve done!
“I will like myself when I’m thin. I know I’m thin inside there somewhere. I was thin(ner) for most of my life and that person is still in there. When I’m thin, I’ll … pursue showing my photography. And take more risks like searching for a publisher for my poetry. And ….blah, blah frikin’ blah…”
Well, isn’t that interesting.
P.S. If you’re one of those actually thin people or in your early thirties (or younger) and you don’t know what I’m talking about — related to your body, just wait. Call me when it hits. I will so be there for you to cry on my shoulder. By then, I’ll be thin. Surely.
