Song of My Heart's Devotion

a room full of silence

Another serial sexual predator exposed, another set of victims attacked. This story is so old it has decomposed.

"Why didn't they speak up?"

Only those who have not been abused would ask that.

The rest of us know you have no idea whereof you speak. It makes us angry, it makes us sad, and most of all it just reinforces the desire to stay silent.

Your ignorance is showing, and it goes to show the strength of my belief in the power and meaning of words that I'm even bothering to try to correct you. Because you don't know--you can't know--what it's like. The forces that seal your lips closed when your mind is screaming are many and varied. Do you want to hear our reasons? Ok. You read these reasons and you decide which one of them isn't good enough.

 

We don't talk --because people don't believe us when we do.

We don't talk --because of how people reacted when we did.

We don't talk --because nobody did back then.

We don't talk --because we saw what happened to that girl who did.

We don't talk --because we saw there was little or no justice for the ones who did.

We don't talk --because we could not bear to admit the truth even to ourselves.

We don't talk --because we were trying not to rip our families apart, then or now.

We don't talk --because it's a story our own children are too young to hear.

We don't talk --because the statute of limitations means there will never be any justice.

We don't talk --because our beloved child is a product of rape.

We don't talk --because we fear retribution from the perpetrator or his family.

We don't talk --because everything we've ever said or done or worn will be picked apart.

We don't talk --because in spite of it all, no matter what the circumstances were, no matter how many years of therapy we go through, no matter what we know now about the healing to be found in Christ, we still believe there was something we did or didn't do that caused this to happen.

 

We don't talk because our voices have been stolen, taken from us by force, discarded like trash, suppressed to the point of extinction.

There are those of us who have carried this secret for so long we don't remember how to speak. Those of us who were children find we have a silent room inside us, which has never heard the sound of our own voices.

 

Which one of those reasons isn't good enough for you to leave us to our own timetable of speaking out?

Which one of those reasons gives you permission to think we're "exaggerating" the trauma of a pain you've never encountered?

Which one of those reasons makes you think it's ok to blame the victims for anything at all in this matter?

 

Maybe you should think about it this way.

Which one of those reasons would be enough to keep you silent?

news that changes nothing

I've turned into one of those people who blogs to process stuff, and as I struggled with some recently-received news, I wanted to head straight for the keyboard and get it all out.

But I had to wait--not only because my loved ones deserve time to hear things and process in their own ways, but also because, as transparent and real as I try to be about my journey, there are some things that are just a little too raw and real to talk about right away.

I finally have a name for what I've been experiencing, which has been above and beyond my severe adrenal fatigue (which way better now, by the way!) Puzzled by the panic attacks and chronic anxiety that persisted and even worsened as I rested, I finally went to see someone. And I heard words that were a surprise and yet not surprising at all.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

Panic Disorder.

When I got myself home from the appointment and turned to the internet for answers (oh, come on, you do it, too), I read descriptions that matched me perfectly. This was not just a case where reading stuff on the internet turns you into an instant hypochondriac. I really have those things.

So yes, that IS me, I am so sorry and so FLABBERGASTED to say.

Flabbergasted is the best word.  Webster's Dictionary says it conveys "astonishment with bewilderment and dismay." Yup, and a fair degree of hysteria, to boot. Have you EVER heard of anything more ridiculous? I've actually got agoraphobia. I mean, seriously? Come on! Who GETS agoraphobia?

Apparently, me.

Even now I'm both laughing and aghast as I type this outrageous, wildly improbable occurrence. How on EARTH does something like this happen? What turns an active Christian businesswoman, wife and mom, into someone who can't even go to church, let alone get on a plane to speak at a conference, or even sit in a restaurant with friends for lunch, in the space of about twelve months?

It's dumbfounding. Yet, here we are.

Anxiety attack on Aisle 4. Panic episode in the school pickup lane. Rescheduled reservations finally cancelled altogether.

Well, we'll be picking this apart for a long time. But in the end, my reality is exactly what it was the day before the diagnosis. It's news that doesn't really change anything.

You don't just "get over" agoraphobia by yourself. I cannot make depression disappear by willing it to go POOF! I can't drag myself out of this panic pit and overcome anxiety with heavy doses of sheer stubborn. That's really comforting, actually. To hear and to know, finally, that I cannot fix myself. I've had thirteen months of intense struggle and interrupted life to arrive at a place where it is clear and undeniable that I need outside help and intervention.

And as there always is, there's a grace in that moment of letting go. There's a peace that tempers the grief, when I release what I wish was true, and accept what actually is true. The truth sets us free.

Sometimes we get news that changes things, but alters nothing about God's goodness or His ultimate plan for us.

Sometimes it wasn't truly a surprise, but we still have to experience the shock... and process the grief.

And always--never sometimes, but always ALWAYS, for the believer-- there is a grace and peace for that moment.

Even the ones that flabbergast us.

not what you signed up for: to my spouse

I know this is not what you signed up for.

I didn't sign up for this, either.

On good days, I know you know that.

On bad days, I'm convinced I've ruined us. That my weakness is going to spell the end of your love for me. That no marriage can survive these bouts, these see-sawing seasons of up and down, happy and sad, well and unwell.

That your long-suffering, incredibly patient and loving nature will finally reach the point of no return and you'll come to the conclusion that whatever you saw in that laughing girl long ago is irretrievably gone. My panic disorder has changed nearly everything. It must have changed your love for me. 

I wonder constantly what you really think. I am on high alert for exasperation identification in your voice. I imagine a tinge of impatience coloring your words. I read into everything you say. Is it now? Is now the time when I've finally exhausted the love of my spouse? Is this it? The beginning of the end?

All this brings home to me the miraculous love of Christ for His bride the Church. He DID sign up for pain and suffering, betrayal and death. He knew in advance His people would wander, play the whore, turn to idols, lose faith and disobey at every turn, and yet He still signed on the dotted line.

There was no vague line about "in sickness and in health" or "for richer, for poorer" in His vow.

There was no naive ignorance of what the future held.

There was only, "I love you so much I'm going to defeat death itself to save you." 

You have the harder job, my love. My job is to to love you and respect your role as the leader of our home. Dearest, you make it so easy.

But your job is to love me as Christ loves the Church, to the point of dying to redeem her (Ephesians 5:25.) Loving me more than your own life (vs. 28.) That kind of love blows the mind. We both know no human can ever live up to that. But I see the seeds of that kind of love in you, a clearer kind of picture lived out right in our home. Each marriage intended to be a living example of Christ's unselfish, undying love for His bride.

Honestly? I have a hard time trusting the God of the universe to have my wellbeing at heart. I have an even harder time trusting any human to truly, honestly put my needs above their own. But over and over, time and again, your choice to wake up next to me and face whatever comes together quiets the voice in my head that tells me I broke us. The one that would have me believe there is a bottom to the well of your love, and the bucket has surely scraped up the last drop for the last time.

Be patient with me, beloved. Keep telling me what is true when I can't trust my own thoughts. When old demons rise to re-fight battles I thought I'd already won. I feel so guilty for being part of what God is using to refine you. Let my season of weakness be a tool for both of us, to bring us closer to Him.

No, this is not what we signed up for. And I long for the day when it all makes sense because we're finally in blood-bought, blameless fellowship with Him, face to face, the veil gone and at last in complete accordance with His plan. So clearly the only way it could have worked. So plainly motivated by a love beyond comprehension.

When God shows us what HE signed up for, and we all marvel at the perfection of His plan.