A Broken Hallelujah

"I believe God wants to wreck you."

The words, spoken in a gentle voice, shake me. I understand immediately that 'wrecked' is not being used in a bad way. Not in a way that would leave me more damaged than I already feel. I understand what it isn’t, but I’m not sure I understand what it is.

I am sitting on a small couch in a cozy room. Cream colored walls decorated with peaceful paintings designed to soothe, enhanced by soft lighting and backed by melodic instrumentals mingled with the sounds of water trickling over rocks. I know the ambiance aimed for is working to some degree, for I feel lulled, almost heavy with a longing to sleep. But the part of me that wants, no, NEEDS, to be in control is fighting against sinking deeper into the couch and letting go.

I am a recently divorced, 36 year old mother of two. I come every week to this room to meet with my counselor where I emotionally vomit all the pent up secrets of my past, in hopes that bringing the wrongs into the light will somehow help me put my life back together. So far, I don’t think its working. I leave each week feeling fragile, exposed, raw. I worked so hard in the 10 years of marriage to hide everything. To put on the mask of perfection, to play make believe about our marriage. To say to the world that we were blissfully happy, that my life was charmed and blessed and wonderful. But now, with no reason to lie anymore, the truth can come out. It needs to come out.

So each week, I come and I talk, unpacking a trunk full of ugliness. My counselor helps me sort through the wreckage and prays for me but when the hour is done, the trunk has to be repacked until the next time. I have learned how to place the trunk in a closet for safe keeping until the next session but it’s not been easy. I must admit that the trunk seems less full now. Little by little, each week as we sort, I find more things I can toss. Perhaps good things are happening.

But now, I hear my counselor telling me she believes God wants to wreck me. I came to her already wrecked. After the years of physical abuse, emotional manipulation, and psychological blackmail, I was little more than a shell of a woman, held together by a tenuous thread. But slowly, slowly, the strong-willed child that had been buried under the violence was making a comeback.

When I first started seeing Carolyn, I would sit tightly on the couch, my hands balled up into fists. I didn’t cry. Crying was something I did not do. It was one small thing I had control over. He could beat me, belittle me, shame, or humiliate me, but I had managed to turn off the faucet inside where the tears were stored. One small victory in the face of defeat. So, no tears for me. Instead I just shredded the Kleenex she always provided for me.

I had built a solid wall around my heart in the years I was married. A wall to protect myself, to keep some small part of me sane in the midst of the insanity we lived in. It was my only protection but now, living in a safe place, surrounded with a good, healthy support team of family and friends, Carolyn was trying to get me to see that the wall wasn’t needed anymore. It would be OK to let the wall down so others could get close. So that God could get close.

I wasn’t so sure. It felt very risky. Yet I longed to feel love and give love in return and I knew that as long as I kept that wall around me, relationships in my life would remain superficial at best. I had had enough of superficial living. I wanted, needed, authenticity in my life. I was tired of lies and pretending everything was fine. I wanted to live and live fully.

I knew God loved me. I had asked Jesus into my heart when I was a little girl. I had wandered away from the teachings of my youth however when I reached my teen years. I had decided sneaking out and dating boys my parents didn’t approve us was much more fun than going to bible studies. Still, the biblical truths I had been raised on and the knowledge that God was there for me held me together in my darkest hours. When I cowered in fear as my husband raged over me, when I hid in the closet to escape a beating, when I lay on my back, choking back screams as he raped me, what was going through my mind but cries to God. I prayed. Oh, how I prayed. I prayed for the abuse to stop. I prayed for a miracle to occur. I prayed for escape. I prayed for someone to discover the truth of my life and rescue me.

There were times when I felt I was crying out to no one. I never stopped believing in God. I just thought I got myself into this mess and eventually it would be up to me to get myself out of it. And I did. I somehow managed, with all the courage I possessed, to leave.

And now, here I am, week after week, working hard to rebuild my life, regain my self esteem,and renew my faith in mankind.

Carolyn smiles as she pushes the Kleenex box closer to me. I take one out of the box and return the smile. We both know it will end up shredded but she keeps hoping. She believes eventually the faucet will be turned back on and that it will be a good thing. A healing thing. I’m not sure but if anything has happened over the past several months, it’s coming to know I can trust Carolyn and I am starting to trust myself.

A part of me would like to cry. I know I don’t need this tool anymore. For a long time having that one small thing I could control was a lifeline. As long as there was one thing I had control over, it meant I hadn’t completely disappeared. But I’m tired. Tired of holding everything back. I do want to feel. Survival in the past meant not feeling. But I want to know how to laugh—deep belly laughs that go on till I’m breathless. I want to know how to play again—without fear of consequence. And most of all, I want to know love. Love as it was meant to be. Pure. Respectful. Free.

“I believe God wants to wreck you.” Carolyn says and I nod.

I sense this means being rendered helpless before God, on my face, desperate for His Presence. I sense it means wrecked as in breaking down any and all walls that stand between me and The Creator of the Universe. I sense there are things I need to confess, choices I made that I need to own. That until I allow surrender to take place, full healing will not. I understand what God wants is a broken spirit. That like David in the book of Psalms discovered, God will not reject a broken and repentant heart. (Psalm 51.17)

The chorus from one of my favorite songs starts playing in my head.

"We pour out our miseries,

God just hears a melody,

Beautiful, the mess we are,

The honest cries of breaking hearts,

Are better than a Hallelujah,

Better than a Hallelujah, sometimes."*

I nod again and Carolyn places a loving hand on my bowed head. She begins to pray over me and suddenly I am overwhelmed with exhaustion. I wonder what would happen if I took the risk and let go. She prays some more and I am overwhelmed with an ache that threatens to split me wide open. A gasp escapes. And another.

And, I let go.

 I let go and as I do I feel a crack in the wall. I let go and I feel the wall begin to crumble. I let go and something rises up deep inside me. I can’t hold it back. I don’t want to hold it back. I let go of everything. Everything that is still in the trunk. All the emotions that have been stuffed away, all the hurts and fear, the hatred, the self loathing, the disgust-- it all comes rushing out. A tidal wave, a tsunami of emotions that have been locked away all this time. Carried on a wave of tears.

For I am crying. After all this time, I am crying. I am on the floor, on my face, desperate for God.

And then I fully, completely, understand “wrecked.”  

* Better than a Hallelujah" ~ Amy Grant. Lyrics by Chapin Hartford & Sarah Hart

**based on a true story. 

Let It Be Now

She holds in her hand a check for $100. Made out to her. One hundred dollars is not a fortune but it is more money than she has had access to in all her 12 years of married life. She was surprised when she opened the mailbox and found the letter addressed to her. Stunned when she ripped open the envelope and the check slipped out. The accompanying note simple said "Thank you for blessing us with your music." and she'd flushed as she thought about last weekend and the anniversary party for the older couple from church. Twenty five years was an accomplishment and she'd been shocked with the wife had called and asked if she would sing at their open house celebration. She liked singing, was able to carry a tune and not cause harm to anyone's eardrums but she never thought of herself as a singer. Still, she had enjoyed the moment of fame as she sang to the Wilsons and their room full of guests. Had flushed with pleasure as they politely and some, even enthusiastically, applauded when she'd finished her song. It wasn't till they were in the car driving home that Jim attacking her with his words, had methodically destroyed any pleasure she'd taken in her performance.

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She sighs and lays the check on the table. Brushes her hair back from her face and stares hard out the window. Jim is outside with the children. She needs to get dinner started but she can't bring herself to move. She picks the check up again and allows herself a brief moment to think about what she would do with $100 if  allowed. Because she knows that once Jim learns about the money he'll be taking the check to the bank to cash it and use for his own selfish purposes. She contemplates tucking the check away and destroying the note and envelope. Jim doesn't need to know about the money, does he? Could she keep it hidden, a secret, a little insurance for a "some day"?

Her heart pounds in her chest at the thought of keeping a secret  from her husband. She hasn't been able to do that sort of thing very successfully. Jim has an uncanny way of ferreting information from her. She bows her head in a moment of frustration and shame as she recalls some of the thoughts and feelings he's gotten her to share with him over the years, only to turn around and use it against her when she least expects it.

She knows it is wrong when Jim hits her but the subtle ways he abuses through the twisting of words is often harder to recognize. Manipulation seems to be something Jim excels at and she never seems to be strong enough or smart enough to combat it.

Defeated from her thoughts she lays the check back on the table and makes herself walk away. Jim will come in, see the check, demand answers and then will calmly put the check in his wallet and tomorrow they'll go to the bank, cash the check and that will be that. She'll never see the money, never experience the joy of spending something she's been gifted. It will just be one more way in which Jim reigns in their relationship and she shrinks once again.

As she pulls out pans from the cupboard the memory of a trip to town without Jim's permission rises up inside her. She'd impulsively decided to run to the store and pick up a few things to make a special dessert one afternoon but Jim had come home early. Of all days to come home unexpectedly, he'd come the one time she'd dared to go somewhere without his approval. Adrenalin pumps furiously as she recalls his seething anger when he met her in the driveway upon her return. She cringes as she remembers his face so close to hers, yelling, accusing, blaming. Her stomach turns as she remembers him throwing the sack of groceries to the ground and stomping on it, she flinches as her memory brings back the pain of the blows to her side and head as he drug her into the house. Punished for daring to do something on her own. For thinking she was clever.

That fear, that crippling fear is what makes her leave the check on the table. Let Jim decide to do with it as he sees fit. She knows she doesn't have the strength or courage to defy him or his wants and needs. Too many times of being beaten down over the years, experiencing that shrinking feeling when he wins has left her wrung out, helpless. Every time Jim succeeds in the wielding of power, she diminishes more. Some day she imagines she will just disappear altogether and a small part of her thinks this might be a relief. To not care anymore might be safer.

But as she watches her husband of 12 years walking towards the house, the children scrambling to try and keep up, something flickers inside her. Something akin to hope and that puzzles her.  She watches in bewilderment as their 10 year old son trips his younger sister in an effort to make it to his daddy's side before her. Watches how Jim chuckles as he realizes what the boy has done. With her heart in her throat she watches their 7 year old daughter fighting back tears as she struggles to her feet. Continues to watch as Jim picks her up and plunks her on his shoulders. Her heart aches for she knows-- Jim knows!-- her daughter dislikes heights and she watches her little girls face struggle with emotions. Jim has offered no comfort for the fall she's taken, now he's effectively robbed her of the decision to walk on her own.

She is thunderstruck then with the realization of how Jim isn't just controlling her life but also the lives of their children. Teaching them values she's never intended her children to learn. The abuse Jim dishes out on her is one thing but she sees clearly for perhaps the first time what he is also instilling in their kids.

It frightens her. Chills her. She knows what Jim's doing is wrong. Wrong and needs to be stopped. She feels powerless as she always does in the face of Jim's control.

And yet.

She walks back to the table where the check lays. What could she possibly do with just $100? Would it put gas in the tank and propel her down the road to freedom perhaps? Wouldn't  it at least get her as far as a shelter for women and children? She thinks about what she has done to 'earn' this monetary gift and shudders. The sense of empowerment is so foreign it overwhelms her. Does she have the courage to take charge of her life and make changes? The strength?

She stares at the check, hardly breathing, knowing her moments are limited. Fingers crawling nervously on the table,fresh fear bringing a binding pain across her chest. It's now or never. Watching surreptitiously through the window, she snatches up the check,  tucking it into the waist band of her jeans and gathers the envelope and note. Can she really do this? 

It is only $100 but it is more money than she'd ever had access to in the 12 years of marriage. It's now or never had been her thought. And with determination that she's forgotten she possesses she tells herself let it be now.

Are You Being Abused?

As part of my personal commitment to helping women, or anyone in an abusive relationship, find their way to safety, I am sharing this checklist...

AM I BEING ABUSED? Checklist
Look over the following questions. Think about how you are being treated and how you treat your partner. Remember, when one person scares, hurts or continually puts down the other person, it’s abuse.
Does your partner....
____Embarrass or make fun of you in front of your friends or family?
____Put down your accomplishments or goals?
____Make you feel like you are unable to make decisions?
____Use intimidation or threats to gain compliance?
____Tell you that you are nothing without them?
____Treat you roughly - grab, push, pinch, shove or hit you?
____Call you several times a night or show up to make sure you are where you said you would be?
____Use drugs or alcohol as an excuse for saying hurtful things or abusing you?
____Blame you for how they feel or act?
____Pressure you sexually for things you aren’t ready for?
____Make you feel like there "is no way out" of the relationship?
____Prevent you from doing things you want - like spending time with your friends or family?
____Try to keep you from leaving after a fight or leave you somewhere after a fight to "teach you a lesson"?
Do You...
____Sometimes feel scared of how your partner will act?
____Constantly make excuses to other people for your partner’s behavior?
____Believe that you can help your partner change if only you changed something about yourself?
____Try not to do anything that would cause conflict or make your partner angry?
____Feel like no matter what you do, your partner is never happy with you?
____Always do what your partner wants you to do instead of what you want?
____Stay with your partner because you are afraid of what your partner would do if you broke up?
If any of these are happening in your relationship, talk to someone. Without some help, the abuse will continue.
Your Domestic Violence Survival Kit
Protecting Yourself in a Dangerous Relationship
Print and Carry with you
If you are still in the relationship:
· Think of a safe place to go if an argument occurs; avoid rooms with no exits (bathroom) or rooms with weapons (kitchen).
· Think about and make a list of safe people to call.
· Keep change with you at all times.
· Memorize all important numbers.
· Establish a code word or sign so that family, friends, teachers or coworkers know when to call for help.
· Think about what you will say to your partner if he or she becomes violent.
· Remember you have the right to live without fear and violence.
Your Personal Safety Plan
The following steps are my plan for increasing my safety and preparing to protect myself in case of further abuse. Although I can't control my abuser's violence, I do have a choice about how I respond and how I get to safety. I will decide for myself whether and when I will tell others that I have been abused or that I am still at risk. Friends, family and coworkers can help protect me, if they know what is happening and what they can do to help.
To increase my safety, I can do some or all of the following:
When I have to talk to my abuser in person, I can ________________________________
When I talk to my abuser on the phone, I can ___________________________________
I will have a code word for my family, coworkers or friends, so they know when to call for help for me. My code word is ________________
When I feel a fight coming on, I will try to move to a place that is lowest risk for getting hurt such as (at work)__________, (at home)____________, (in public)_________________.
I can tell my family, coworkers, boss or a friend about my situation.
I feel safe telling: ______________________________________________
I can use an answering machine or ask my coworkers, friends or other family members to screen my calls and visitors.
I have the right to not receive harassing phone calls.
I can ask to help screen my phone calls. (home)________ (work) _____________
I can keep change for phone calls with me at all times.
I can call any of the following people for assistance or support if necessary and can ask them to call the police if they see my abuser bothering me.
Friend _______________________________________
Relative ______________________________________
Coworker _____________________________________
Counselor _____________________________________
Shelter _______________________________________
Other ________________________________________
When leaving work I can: _________________________________________________
When walking, riding or driving home, if problems occur, I can: _____________________
I can attend a support group for women who have been abused. Support groups are:_______
____________________________________________________________________
Telephone numbers I need to know:
· Police/Sheriff's Department: ___________________
· Probation officer: _________________
· Domestic violence/sexual assault program:________________
· Counselor: ________________
· Clergy: _____________________
· Lawyer: ___________________
· Other: ____________________
After you have left the relationship:
· Change your phone number.
· Screen calls.
· Save and document all contacts, messages, injuries or other incidents involving the batterer.
· Change locks if the batterer has a key.
· Avoid staying alone.
· Plan how to get away if confronted by an abusive partner.
· If you have to meet your partner, do it in a public place.
· Vary your routine.
· Notify school and work contacts.
· Call a shelter for battered women.

The National Domestic Violence Hotline

             1-800-799-SAFE       (7233)             1-800-787-3224       (TDD)

No More Secrets

In a shadowed alley, Krista, little Marie in tow, hurried to find refuge behind a large garbage container. Krista placed a finger to her lips in warning, staring at her daughter anxiously. Eyes round and warm as chocolate returned the serious gaze. They huddled together, frozen by fear. They ducked down, as the sound of the approaching car grew closer. When it had passed by without slowing, Krista straightened and smoothed the little girls’ hair with trembling hands. What were they doing here, crouched in this dark alley, fearing for their lives? Krista had a vague plan, one that involved seeking refuge at the sheriff’s office, but walking openly down the sidewalk was as dangerous as if they had stayed home.

Home. A word that should convey safety and comfort, it only caused Krista to shudder. And suddenly, she was back in the kitchen, cowering, as Hank raged. She shook her head, willing the painful recall away. She couldn’t think about that now. She had to focus. Survival. That was all that mattered. She had to get Marie and herself to a safe place.

Unbidden, her thoughts raced. How many nights had she lain awake, staring down at Hank’s slack figure sprawled on their bed? How many nights of choking back tears as she watched him sleep? How many nights of silently questioning who this man really was? He was her husband, but did she even know him at all? Understand him? Sometimes it seemed all she knew how to do was make him angry. She would have never guessed him to be controlling, authoritative, violent, when they were dating, although looking back, she realized, the signs were there. 

The first time he had ever struck her shocked them both. Now, after being beaten down time and time again she was only shocked that she had finally found the courage to leave. 

How many years of secrecy? Putting on the happy face for family and friends, teaching Marie that there were things they just didn’t talk about -- to anyone. How many times had she sent Marie to her room, cautioning her to be quiet, to stay put, no matter what?

The scene from earlier returned with a vengeance. Hank, disgusted and spent, had given her one last shove as he turned to leave the room. Only after she heard his snores from the bedroom did she rise from where she had fallen and go to check on her daughter.

It was what she had witnessed from Marie’s bedroom doorway that had done it. Not fully comprehending at first, she had watched as Marie, one arm poised as if to strike, bent over her doll. She was hissing words. Ugly words, words that Krista had just endured from Hank. Then, quickly, Marie’s role-play had changed and she was scooping up the doll, whispering, “Shhh! We don’t talk about this.”

Awash in crushing grief at this disturbing revelation, Krista faced her moment of truth. She had acted quickly. An overnight bag in which she shoved only what they would need for the next day. Money. Car keys. There wasn’t time for anything else. She was counting the minutes, gauging how much time she had and how far she could get.

Hank’s rages followed a definite pattern: Anger. Violence. Exhaustion. Sleep. She knew she didn't have much time before he would awaken, demanding her presence. What would follow next would be the manipulative apologies, warnings about keeping the secret and finally, sexual domination, Hank’s version of making up.

They had made it only a few blocks when her car had sputtered to a stop, it’s flashing fuel light mocking her. She knew he would come looking. Panicked, she had unbuckled Marie from her car seat. He would see the abandoned car. She couldn’t waste time. They had taken to the streets on foot. 

Now, Krista rose from the kneeling position her body was cramped in. Marie followed obediently without being told. As Krista sought out Marie’s face in the shadows, it was Marie who raised her finger to her lips and made the shushing sound.

Fighting the tears, Krista swallowed hard. With a strength she had not previously known, she squared her shoulders, resolutely taking Marie’s small hand. She would get them to safety. She would teach Marie new rules. There would be no more secrets. And she would never say, “Shhh” again.

This story was written originally  for a Faithwriters Challenge in 2010. This month of October is National Domestic Violence Awareness Month. I felt it appropriate to share this story here. I always hope that despite the ugliness of domestic violence, raising awareness will bring even ONE person to a safer, better place. 

In Denial

I love reading Jan Ackerson's blog  One Hundred Words. I have tried a few times to do as she does, capture a character in 100 words, to suggest in just a few sentences,an entire plot. It's a challenge to be sure. But a fun one!  

The following is based on a true experience (not mine). One thing I have learned as a survivor: when such things are brought into the light, it loses it's power. Here's to breaking the bond of silence and letting the truth be told in order to be set free! 

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When Nellie was 14, and you didn’t talk about such things, she was raped. Once Nellie's mother realized Nellie was pregnant, she whisked her away to a home for girls in such condition. 

When the baby was born, Nellie turned her face away. She returned home, her mother firmly stating, it didn't happen. 

Her father long dead, today, Nellie greets people following her mother's memorial. At 64, silver hair neatly coiffed, Nellie looks regal, strong, unflappable. But for those paying attention, Nellie is heard to repeatedly murmur, "My father raped me when I was a girl. My father raped me."