Prayer as therapy

Posted on Tuesday, July 8, 2014 by Rebecca

After all the years I’ve spent as a Christian, all the hours I’ve spent reading and studying the Bible, and a lifetime in the church — I should have most of the answers, right? But knowing about God is not the same as knowing, really knowing Him. He remains a Mystery, too vast for my puny, human mind to comprehend. Sometimes, in His Presence, I’m reduced to the little girl who went forward years ago at a Billy Graham crusade.

Some days, I have more questions than answers. Some days, I struggle. But my earthly father has always assured me that God can handle all our questions, even the messy ones.

This is raw. It’s not neat and tidy. But it’s true. And it’s where I am today.

“Thanks for not being a traditional therapist.”

That’s what I said to Donny as I hugged him goodbye at the end of one of our sessions months ago. After that, I wrote the following in my journal, slightly edited here for clarity:

Earlier, I’d expressed pretty much the same sentiment at the beginning of my prayer — only the words I’d chosen then were more vulnerable in some ways, and more expressive of how deeply thankful I am that my therapist has always been far more concerned about pleasing God and serving Him than he has been about living up to human standards and expectations. Of course there have been times over the past five years that I have been less than thrilled with the guy, and wished he was more of the feel-good kind who wanted me to leave the office smiling after every session, one who wouldn’t ever stoop to “imposing his values” on me. Once I even jumped on him for something I now don’t remember — I thought he was wrong to “make me feel guilty” — and he let me know quietly but firmly just Whom he was serving. (In case anyone wonders, it wasn’t me.)

The irony is that this “odd” approach of serving God instead of the person he’s supposed to be serving — as in me, his all-important client, the one he is being paid to make feel better — turns out to have been the most healing thing for me. Then again, that’s hardly ironic; God has always had my best interests at heart.

So it was that we started our New Adventure in Therapy: praying through my past. I felt a little apprehensive and self-conscious at first. Part of me was afraid that I hadn’t quite communicated what I meant when I originally brought up my idea, and that Donny would suddenly put on the brakes once he realized what I really meant. Then I worried that he would want to structure or stifle it somehow…but all those fears were laid to rest after my first introductory sentence or two. (All that seems unrealistic and silly now. I thought I’d gotten over my fear that Donny will unexpectedly morph into a Completely Different Sort of Therapist, one that is Frightening and Sinister…or just one I no longer like.)

At that point, my nervousness was about the prayer itself. Other than a few desperate phrases here and there, and I mean truly desperate, I’ve only prayed out loud with him once, and that was before his last mission trip. I could tell that I was possibly using some delaying tactics, and was about to start using said tactics in a big way, so I forced myself to…gulp…just get started.

I ended up covering my life from the beginning — in utero — up until we moved when I was 5. The starting point was what I’d already planned, but I’d not given much thought to where I’d wrap things up for today.

As I’d anticipated and warned Donny, I cried pretty much the whole time. It wasn’t some big huge sob-fest — not at all an “ugly cry” — but what seemed like a fairly steady stream of tears and no small amount of sniffling. Next time I need to remember the Kleenex box conveniently located on the end table, so I won’t be reduced to using the cuffs of my sweatshirtish jacket.

There were lots of good memories in there, and they probably caused the most tears. I thanked God for so many things, and I felt as if He kept bringing really special pictures, thoughts, feelings, events, and people to my mind. I was truly blessed during those early years, and it’s no wonder that I remember myself as mostly happy, and feeling right in my own skin — even if I was an unusually fearful child.

Yes, and I’m glad I have a therapist who doesn’t pooh-pooh the idea of being impacted by maternal emotions while in the womb…or my wacky ideas about early attachment…or any of that stuff.

Towards the end, I thanked God for the personality and temperament He gave me. Some babies would have been a wreck not to be held “constantly”. I didn’t spend hours weeping or screaming in my crib, nor did I shut down. God spared me that, and He spared Mums that. After all, she didn’t choose to be ill, weak and exhausted.

So I left, feeling wonderful. Sat in the car, jotted down some notes, and started writing this. Dropped off two bags of bedroom junk and clothes for Goodwill. Drove to Laguna Lake and practically raced into the bathroom — a result of all that water and coffee. It was then that I felt a sudden wave of anxiety. Uh, oh. Not good. It was wrong to pray like that in therapy. It was bad — bad — and not therapeutic at all. That’s why I’ve never heard of any reputable therapist — or even a disreputable one — conducting “therapy” in such a manner.

For a looooong moment there, I was convinced it wasn’t just wrong; it was dangerous. I felt that familiar panic — yeah, that one, the one I haven’t missed having around at all — and I got the desperate urge to call Donny before I fell apart in a completely hysterical shambles.

But…!

Before the panic mounted up into the stratosphere, I suddenly thought, “Huh? What could possibly be wrong or dangerous in praying about my past?” I’d like to take credit for that sensible thought, but I’m convinced it was a God thing. And, just as soon as I thought it, my panic vanished — poof! — and seemed laughably ridiculous. Oh, yeah, praying is so dangerous — to whom? (I really did think that last part with correct grammar. Yet another miracle. Haha.)

It seemed such an obvious ploy of the Enemy. All too often, I had fallen for that sort of thing; in fact, there had been an almost uncanny pattern of:

an Especially Good Session — a significant breakthrough —
followed by Suddenly Being Convinced the Session was Really THE BIGGEST MISTAKE EVER —
followed by anxiety, panic, desperation…and sometimes tequila.

That is, unless I took a Xanax or two first, or ended up in the hospital (which happened only once…my panic attack that tried to disguise itself as a heart attack). But this time…well, I was going to say “God intervened”, but I bet He did the same all those previous times. Only this time I listened.

God is good.

It’s as if I’m just spreading everything all out in front of Him, asking Him to clean it up, free me from it, and redeem it — and seeing what He chooses to do. But what about putting it at the foot of the Cross — that’s where it really needs to go, isn’t it? What more redemptive place is there?

And now? What about these months later?

I’ve hit a wall. It took me a while to realize it, because I kept coming up with excuses to put “praying through my life” on hold while dealing with supposedly more pressing current life issues. Last week I let Donny know that’s what I was doing, although I suspect he already knew. We spent that session trying to figure out what exactly I was avoiding, and why I didn’t want to pray about 10 to 11 year old me. It’s not like something horrid happened to me at that age; in fact, those were good years, full of wonderful memories. It was during that time that I encountered a very personal God in some very real ways, and I treasure those memories beyond words.

No real answers for my avoidance. I left, feeling still stuck.

And kinda silly about the whole thing.

A week later, today I was in his office again, trying to will myself to just start praying. I mean, really, how hard could it be? It’s not as if God and I had never talked about any of this stuff before!

I couldn’t. Finally I figured out that I wasn’t so much avoiding praying through those good years as I was dreading praying through the years that followed. I decided this whole “prayer therapy” was ridiculous anyway. It was stressing me out. Here I was, after sitting mostly adult-like in therapy for months upon months, suddenly reduced to taking off my shoes so I could adopt my childish couch-huddle, hiding behind my knees, chewing on my fingers, playing with my hair, and hugging myself. Even worse, my legs started trembling. Ugh.

We tried to talk about it. Finally it dawned on me why I was so afraid: what if God “fussed” at me for some of the things I did during my teens? What if He turned out not to be as compassionate, tender, and forgiving as I hoped? What if I ended up feeling as I did then? My voice no longer sounded like an adult as I said the words that described those long ago feelings: “Dirty…small…insignificant…dirty…”

Then another, stronger fear hit me. What if God turned out to be as loving and compassionate as I am beginning to hope and believe He is? How will I survive such love without feeling completely undone? vulnerable? naked?

“I think I’d prefer a somewhat impersonal God,” I said, feeling like a doubting, rebellious heretic for even voicing such a thing. Then I cried because how could I doubt the extravagant love of God after all He has done for me? How often must He demonstrate it to me?

As Donny talked about leaps of faith and jumping off cliffs, and I told him my high-dive story and said that this felt like jumping into a foggy abyss without knowing if there was even a swimming pool there, I kept picturing myself standing on a mountain top, yelling up at the sky, “Who are You, God? Who are You?”

…and being afraid of the answer, even while demanding it.

“Why does God have to be so complicated?” I cried, only to laugh at how ridiculous that sounded. I answered myself, “Duh, because He’s God.”

This is not a mature, adult faith. It’s a mess, a broken jumble of confusion. But I’m posting it here because it’s real. Jacob wrestled with God. David asked Him tough questions, and lamented and wailed. The Bible is full of people struggling with God, people who didn’t have neat and tidy answers, people that we would feel uncomfortable having around if they showed up at our next small group meeting.

Way back when I was 11 years old, I threw two troubling questions at God, and He answered. Now I feel as if that wasn’t a lifetime ago, as if I’m still Little Me, all childish and earnest and troubled, desperate to believe and trust, desperate for answers that satisfy.

He’s the same God Who answered a crying little girl…the same God Who brought peace to a little girl who needed to cling to hope and beauty…He’s that personal, intimate God…Abba…Daddy…

It scares me. He scares me. Because I know that encountering His love never leaves me unscathed. Never. I will be undone. My heart will be broken…in the most beautiful and healing way. Who will I turn out to be, when I see myself through the loving eyes of my Creator?

I want to run…far far away from a God I cannot escape, at the same time that I want to throw myself into His everlasting arms.

So I stand on what feels like a mountain top, yelling to the Heavens, “Who am I? And You — who are You? What kind of God could possibly love me? And how will I survive Your unfathomable, wild, fierce, tender love?”

Spelling, Indoctrination, Public Schools, and Internet Debates

Posted on Saturday, May 10, 2014 by Rebecca

As a child, I was an excellent speller, but I hated the subject of Spelling. It was hideously boring, being forced week after week to engage in the most mind-numbing exercises designed to teach me to spell words I already knew how to spell.

In second grade, my frustration caused me to rebel. I began using words in my spelling sentences designed to show how ridiculous it was that I should be pretending to be “learning” anything. For the word “colors”, I used my new favorite word: “The colors in that painting,” I wrote, “were stupendous.” At every opportunity, I threw in the spelling and vocabulary words that I was learning, at home. My attempts to get my teacher to see the error of her ways failed miserably.

In third grade, I would try to force my sentences into stories — not at all an easy task. That teacher didn’t see the light either.

By fourth grade, I gave up. I can remember listlessly scrawling my homework in my spelling workbook day after day. Apparently my scrawling was so atrocious that it outraged my teacher, who called my parents, with the result that I was forced to copy everything into a fresh spelling workbook, only using far neater penmanship. There was a bright spot in all this: in addition, I was finally freed from the tyranny of the spelling curriculum and allowed to create my own spelling and vocabulary curriculum in its place. (Hey, it was the 1960’s.)

I wasn’t necessarily that “gifted” in all my subjects.

As an adult, I have been diagnosed with the inattentive type of ADHD. It has made me wish I could run back to all my teachers, wave the results of four grueling hours of testing in their faces, and insist, “See? I wasn’t lazy, or careless, or stubborn, or stupid! And there was a damned good reason I wasn’t always paying attention!” Some kids, as frustrated as I often was, act out. Some give up entirely.

I was a quiet rebel. One example: on the last day of my tenth grade creative writing class, the teacher asked in an offhand sort of way while dismissing the class, “If anyone has any suggestions to improve this class…?” and I whipped out a spiral notebook and left it on her desk.

That notebook was how I’d vented my anger at having a teacher suck the life out of the thing I did that gave me the greatest satisfaction in life. It was my ideas on how the class should have been taught. Actually, it was far more than that. It was a course outline, with goals and objectives — and almost a full semester’s worth of lesson plans and assignments.

Of course it was wasted on her, and I knew it.

Oh, and by the way, all of my former teachers who used to tell me that I just needed to work harder? You have no idea how hard I worked in your class.

From second grade onward, I was observing, critiquing, analyzing, and silently resisting. I saw the injustices of the system. I saw the absurdity. I saw the emptiness and futility — even at excellent schools with excellent teachers. It was a box. It was a prison.

School robbed me of joy. It crushed me. But I refused to let it destroy me.

And years later, when my first child approached school age — a child who “learned differently” and would have had to have been diagnosed, labeled, and drugged in order to fit into an elementary school classroom — I swore that no child of mine would be served up to the institution until they were mature and strong enough not to emerge as wounded as I was.

I don’t think public school is evil. I don’t think teachers exist to make children’s lives miserable. I had some excellent teachers, whose memories I cherish. (Come to think of it, the really good ones were renegades and rebels themselves.)

In fact, I think many students are well served by the public schools.

But most of you…of us…have been indoctrinated. Unless we have ever questioned the system — and I mean far, far beyond, “Why do we have to take this class?” and “Waah, waaah, that teacher grades so unfair” — we have been indoctrinated. Unless our public school teachers taught that alternative forms of education (some of which look nothing like our notions of “school”) are just as valid if not more so than our education, unless they had us reading authors like John Holt, unless they encouraged us to question whether we really belonged in public school — we have been indoctrinated.

Some of us fought it better than others. Some of us eventually woke up and saw the system for what it is. As long as we think that government-funded institutions of learning are somehow neutral, indoctrination-free zones, where every teacher, administrator, and textbook author has the amazing ability to remain free from personal biases or agendas — we are still drinking the koolaid.

All this came back to me during a recent Facebook debate which, I’m told, finally degenerated into correcting someone’s spelling.

A note to my readers: I have been dubbed The Typo Queen. The spelling brain cells of my youth seem to be vanishing rapidly. In addition, I’m close to being world’s worst proofreader. So feel free to offer me any and all corrections. You would be doing me a service.

But don’t make the mistake of thinking that poor spelling means poor reasoning, or that your spelling prowess makes you somehow superior in intellect. If that’s what you think — or if you think odd grammar, lack of a college degree, and poor proofreading abilities makes someone “uneducated” — you need to get over your indoctrination. Learn about multiple intelligence theory. Face your bigotry and prejudice. Don’t try to squeeze the whole world into your institutional schooling box.

It’s Easter morning and I can’t sleep

Posted on Sunday, April 20, 2014 by Rebecca

Actually it’s not morning yet. It’s still dark night.

There are all sorts of things I would like to write, things more important than mail organizers — the topic of my last post — things that are beautiful and celebratory and all about Resurrection Sunday. But my mind isn’t up to the task. So I will write the words that have been filling my mind these past few moments:

He bore our shame.

Those of us who have been sexually abused know shame. It is our constant companion until we find healing. It baffles non-survivors, sometimes to the point of impatience: What do you have to be ashamed of? they ask, not understanding why we are reluctant to let anyone know about our rape. The shame belongs to the rapist, our supporters say so easily. You are not to blame. Yet the shame clings to us. Deserved, undeserved, it doesn’t matter. It’s there. Only other survivors seem to fully understand how crushing this burden is.

He bore our shame.

Not just our sins — amazing as that is. But He also bore our shame. We don’t need to sort out whether it belonged to us or was put on us by someone else. He took it all. Even the worst of it. Even the parts we think we could never whisper out loud. He carried it so we don’t have to.

Today we celebrate the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection. The grave didn’t hold Him. He’s alive!

It’s been a few years since the reality hit me that my Savior bore the shame of my rape. I was weary of carrying it. It was crushing me, destroying me. But you know what? All the stuff that got nailed to the cross with our Savior is gone. We don’t have to see if anything fell off that we need to put back on ourselves.

Simple words. Hardly profound. But lifechanging.

He bore my shame.

And He is risen.

Best news ever.

Coming out as a survivor

Posted on Tuesday, April 1, 2014 by Rebecca

We all have stories. My favorite stories, the ones that yank at my heart and inspire me, are stories of redemption and reconciliation. Maybe that’s why I like the Bible so much. Come to think of it, I have that backwards — the reason that I like redemption stories so much is because of the Bible, and because of how I’ve experienced its truths in my own life. As I wrote a while back:

But I have to believe in the grand theme of Scripture: that the very One I rebelled against is a God of reconciliation and redemption. I believe it brings Him glory when He accomplishes those things in our lives. It is what Satan rages against in a battle he can never win. God snatches us out of the pit, washes us clean, tends our wounds, clothes us, and adopts us as sons and daughters. Those of us who are prone to wander He welcomes back home with celebration. He doesn’t just redeem us — He demonstrates His redemption power over and over again in our lives, giving us beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness… He takes the most horrible, vile and ugly things that Satan used for evil in our lives, and He unbelievably, amazingly does the impossible by somehow using those things for good. It’s what He does. It’s Who He is.

Redemption stories are powerful, but they aren’t pretty. In fact, the most powerful ones are messy, very messy. It’s something I didn’t understand the first time I set out to read the Bible from cover to cover, at the tender age of 10. With the exception of Joseph, the Old Testament “Heroes of the Faith” were a deep disappointment when I encountered their unsanitized stories. I couldn’t comprehend why some of the Psalms were in the Bible. I was aghast that a prostitute was not only an ancestor of Jesus, but was mentioned by name in His genealogy! The Bible is quite a shocking book.

That’s because redemption is shocking, and grace is scandalous. Redemption stories are meaningless unless we tell what has been redeemed and what we have been redeemed from. Otherwise, why would we need a Redeemer? And, if we have no wounds, why would we need a Healer?

I don’t think any of us can escape being wounded in some way or another. But some of us have wounds that go deeper than others…wounds that leave us shattered and broken. Some of those wounds are inflicted by others while some are self-inflicted, often in response to what others have done to us. We live in a fallen world, surrounded by evil. Some of us have experienced that evil in traumatic ways.

If this blog is to contain my redemption story, there are things I can’t leave out. Otherwise, my story will make no sense.

By the grace of God, I am a survivor.

Many of us have survived things: disease, heartache, poverty, divorce, loss of a loved one, death of our ambitions and dreams…but none of those things inspired me to get the shirt that not too many people have ever seen me wear.

I am a sexual trauma survivor. There are different forms of sexual trauma, and varying degrees of severity. All of it, I believe, is violating, and damaging to the soul in a way that is unique from nonsexual trauma.

Although I have been planning this blog post for months, right now the words are failing me. Actually, that’s not exactly true. I am shrinking back in fear from writing a particular word, from having my name forever linked with it on the Internet for all to see. The world is not always kind to those of us who go public with such a disclosure. Actually, that last sentence ranks up there with some of the greatest understatements I’ve ever made.

So I’m second-guessing myself. Why on earth would I write about this, admit such a thing publicly? After all, eventually readers will find their way to this blog, or follow links I’ve posted to it…why shouldn’t I stick to posting nice, uplifting, safe, G-rated stuff like inspirational quotes, feel-good Bible verses, and pictures of kitties?

Because that’s not my redemption story.

For those of you who wonder why on earth I’m posting any of this, here are two important reasons:

It’s my way of shouting from the rooftop one of the most powerful truths that I know, and that’s that God can redeem anything!
If telling my redemption story will help or encourage even just one other survivor, that will more than make up for anyone whose knickers get all in a twist over what I’m about to write.

Enough preamble.

Significant parts of what I will write in this blog will not make sense without knowing the following about me:

At 23 years of age, I was raped by two of my neighbors. It was evil, so evil that it almost destroyed me. By the grace of God, I have not only survived, but continue to experience His healing and redemption in deeper and sweeter ways.

So this is it. I am coming out publicly as a rape survivor. It feels scary in a way…but also good. Very good. I am finally free to write the things that truly matter to me.

***********

Note: Don’t worry or be scared off. This will not turn into a “rape blog”, nor will every post be heavy or serious. There is far more to my life than that.Anyone who enjoyed my previous blog (Random Musings) can expect to find much here that will be familiar.

Today is a special day

Posted on Wednesday, March 19, 2014 by Rebecca

I posted this on Facebook also:

Does God actually speak to us? And, if so, how? Depending on whom you ask, the answers vary widely. But this is what I know…

It was July 9, 1986. A very ordinary day. The only reason that I know the date is because I wrote a note on an index card, which I saved and have in front of me right now. I remember that it was about mid-morning, and I was washing dishes. Our oldest son was almost 11 months old.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I had this crazy, overwhelming thought, kind of a mental picture, and I couldn’t get it out of my head. It made no sense, yet was so strong and persistent that I felt compelled to run part of it by my husband and then write it down…just in case I would someday want to remember.

Here is part of what I jotted down: “Thought of name ‘Isaac Lawrence’ for next son…For some reason I feel strongly about the name.” I wrote that I thought he would be “born at home, and welcomed at birth with much joy and laughter.”

That last part seemed especially crazy. Matthew had been born by c-section. A home birth, at the time, seemed out of the question.

I also wrote about this “Isaac Lawrence Prewett”, who I was convinced would be our second son: “I long for him. Perhaps God has given me this desire that I might begin praying for him now.”

Our next child was our sweet Miriam, born by c-section after an attempted home birth. By the time I was pregnant after that, I thought I had the baby-gender-guessing thing down pat and was so convinced that I was carrying a girl that I almost didn’t bother getting out any non-girly clothes for the baby.

It was March 19, 1990, one of the most amazing, memorable days of my life. I took one look at my new son, just born in our living room, and laughed as if the most hilarious practical joke had been played on me. In that moment, I remembered…and I knew.

“This is Isaac!” I announced joyfully to my husband, who had no idea what I was talking about. And then…well, things suddenly got dramatic. The son I recognized as the one God had promised me had to be rushed to the hospital and, later that night, I wondered if his name held a more bitter meaning: was God asking me to give back my Isaac? Was his name less about laughter and more about sacrifice?

Our Isaac survived. In fact, he thrived. He’s our “miracle baby”, grown into a strong, intelligent, handsome man. Today I celebrate the birth of a wonderful son, the fulfillment of a promise, and a God who still speaks and answers prayer.

Happy birthday, Isaac!