Alice
Bethany:
Dear Reader,
Do you remember that week before Christmas? Mom would be shopping for secrets and lingering in her bedroom for hours on end with the familiar slight ripping sound of wrapping paper. Yeah, that week, where the things that she had set apart all year would finally have their moment. The word sanctification is one that is usually used in religious and church venues means “to be set apart”. To sanctify means to be made better, to be made different by being set apart.
The funny thing is, when we heal we have transformation and we have sanctification. They work hand in hand, to change our what-we-used-to-be’s into what we are nows. Like anything beautiful, this process requires work. It insists that we lay down our fear, our anger, and our shame, along with our pride, and our grief. We may write lists of all our hurts, our emotions and our complaints in order to turn them over to God. By the time we finish that, we are probably just exhausted from all that writing. So be brave, and take heart.
Do you remember that week before Christmas? Mom would be shopping for secrets and lingering in her bedroom for hours on end with the familiar slight ripping sound of wrapping paper. Yeah, that week, where the things that she had set apart all year would finally have their moment. The word sanctification is one that is usually used in religious and church venues means “to be set apart”. To sanctify means to be made better, to be made different by being set apart.
The funny thing is, when we heal we have transformation and we have sanctification. They work hand in hand, to change our what-we-used-to-be’s into what we are nows. Like anything beautiful, this process requires work. It insists that we lay down our fear, our anger, and our shame, along with our pride, and our grief. We may write lists of all our hurts, our emotions and our complaints in order to turn them over to God. By the time we finish that, we are probably just exhausted from all that writing. So be brave, and take heart.
But
in the meantime, write this down.
I.
AM. ENOUGH.
Even with everything I have been through. I. AM. ENOUGH. Because one can't go around feeling sanctified if one feels worthless.
Even with everything I have been through. I. AM. ENOUGH. Because one can't go around feeling sanctified if one feels worthless.
The
thing is, Reader, Something happens when you start to speak up and shout aloud.
You change, and everything around you begins to change. A dear friend once told
me, “It’s a wonder what a little surrendering will do for a girl”
YES.
I hope this much is clear so far. So let me say it again. BEFORE TRANSFORMATION
---IS SURRENDER. And when that beautiful transformation happens? Oh Dear
Friend, when that happens, sing out and shout aloud. Tell everyone what your
God is capable of doing.
“Sing,
Daughter of Zion; shout aloud, Israel! Be glad and rejoice with all your heart,
Daughter Jerusalem!” Zephaniah 3:14
Daughter Jerusalem!” Zephaniah 3:14
Alice:
Once upon a time ago I was a bright
and sunshine-y girl. A people pleaser and one of those typical “good girls,”
but frankly I was a jerk. I thought I knew absolutely everything. I was raised
by a mother who protested for marijuana rights and a father who later got sent
to prison for selling meth to minors. My home life was never really stable. So
I had to be the good girl. I had to be the calm in the storm; I had to be the
one thing I could count on, so I got good grades and never ever got into
trouble. But the other side of my life was that I had horrible self-esteem and
actively practiced self-harm.
I had a Christian History teacher in 8th grade who would smile at me every day and ask the important questions. “Are you sleeping enough?” “What is that bruise from?” I would nod and smile. I would answer politely or just out and out lie. She noticed the deep gash I gave myself the first time my Dad fingered me. This was my way of coping, because in some way I needed to have pain: something to focus on or distract. But she noticed. When I told her that I had an accident while cutting a watermelon, she appeared to believe me.
I thought Christians were supposed to love the unlovable, but maybe I just kept meeting the wrong ones. She should have kept pushing. She should have kept asking. She wasn't supposed to be appeased by some stupid kid that really was a terrible liar. But she believed me, or at least chose to --maybe it was easier.
The next time I came in contact with a Christian I was 19 and seven months pregnant. I went into a shelter that helped young, troubled women. I needed food, I needed a place to stay and I hadn't even begun to think about what I was going to do with this baby. And mostly I was pissed off. In the five years since 8th grade a bunch of stuff had happened. I was angry that I needed help, but I really had no choice at this point. So into the shelter I went.
I was greeted by the tiniest, littlest old lady I had ever seen. At maybe 4'10” and maybe 100 lbs. she was more fairy godmother then homeless shelter warden. I opened my mouth to speak and she reached up and placed her hand on my forehead. I closed my mouth immediately and stood there, waiting. With her eyes closed, her hand still on my forehead, she started to speak. “Father, thank you for sending me this sheep. May she sleep well and may her dreams be dreams of peace. And may her heart be open and soft by morning.” Then I was pissed. Like, SUPER pissed.
How dare this old lady think she knew me? Seriously, what a bi*ch. Does she think that all she has to do is be this fake, sugary lady and I would be just like her? I no longer cared that I needed the food or the rest. After lights out, I made my move. Waiting till 11 PM when she was sleeping, I crept past the dorms and then into the sanctuary. After a moment or two of creeping, I found it; the small metal box marked “offering.” I stepped out into the street, smiling smugly to myself. That would teach the old hag to love people that blindly. What did she know? The money from the offering wasn't much, but it was enough for the night.
An hour later, in a slightly crappy hotel room, my tummy full of pizza and pop, I fell asleep, feeling safe and secure, no twinge of guilt, no drop of remorse. About 3 am I woke up to a loud banging on the door, and found my ex-boyfriend, the father of my child, scumbag extraordinaire, aka Pete. “What the fuc*, Alice!!!!” he yells, screaming in my face. He starts swinging at me, hitting me in the face and the arm. “Why the fuc* were you going into that fuc*ing church like somehow I can't provide for my own fuc*ing baby!? I should just kill you, you are an ungrateful b*ch!” I stared at him in horror. I had that thudding moment when you realize what a mess your life has become. Ducking under his arm I ran.
I ran as fast as I could.
I ran past the corner where my dad had turned me out for the first time. I ran past the school where my history teacher accepted that I was just “clumsy”. I ran past the snack shop where those boys had raped me freshman year. I ran past the parking lot where I used to love to skate. I ran past the McDonald’s where I met Pete. I ran past the subway station where I got pregnant in the bathroom. I ran. And I ran fast.
I ran back to the shelter and the door was locked. Crying, I curled up the best I could on the step, shivering in the October air, my hoodie pulled around me. Maybe, just maybe it wouldn't be so very bad to let someone help me; to let someone love me. About 5 AM I woke up to the little old lady nudging me with her foot. She didn't say a word, but offered me her hand, and with a smile and a nod I took it.
She led me inside to the warm and once again put her hand on my forehead and bowed her head. “Father, watch over this one lost sheep. Protect her, soften her heart and help her to grow. May she see Your love and Your light in me.”
Something in me snapped and I hit the little old lady. And then she hit me back. And then I started to cry. I couldn't stop crying and I collapsed on the floor. She knelt down and picked me up again and led me to the chair. “Child, just breathe.” I tried to listen. I tried to stay there and let her love me. But I just couldn't. I had to fight. So, once again, I ran.
This time as I ran, I was angry-- very, very angry. How dare she love me? She didn't know anything! I ran down the stairs of the shelter and into the parking lot and around the corner of the building. Suddenly, I ran smack into her again. From the ground I shielded my face to the coming light. This tiny little old lady looked like she was on fire. And then she knelt down and again placed her hand on my forehead and said “Father, thank You for this one lost sheep. Thank you for the healing that You will do in her heart and thank You for sending her to me.”
I lost it, struggling to my feet. “How dare you! You stupid bi*ch!! You don't even know me!!!” She just smiled and gave me a hug. For a brief moment, I melted. This pattern of our relationship was repeated over and over again for seven years. I would let Deborah love me and then I would hate her. I would steal her car, money and time. She helped raise my daughter. She gave her the name Hope. She helped me get my GED. She raised me. And I treated her like dirt.
Finally, when I was 26, in the bathroom of a gas station, I became a Christian. After getting super strung out, and really drunk, I was puking and hiding in the bathroom. And a woman walked in and asked if I wanted to pray. Yeah, I understand how crazy that sounds. Believe me, I do. It’s insane, but God was sending people after me, “Hounds of Heaven,” to speak life into me. I am so very crazy thankful that we serve a God like that.
She knelt in my puke and asked me if I wanted to accept Christ into my life. I laughed and cried and nodded swiftly in helpless defeat. That chance encounter changed my life. I was reunited with my daughter and reconciled with my Deborah. Today, I am continuing to grow, but apparently that is a way of life when following the Lord. A transformed life is a powerful one and I want to do something with my new-found freedom. Not sure what, yet, but I know that I need to do something with the new life I now have.
I had a Christian History teacher in 8th grade who would smile at me every day and ask the important questions. “Are you sleeping enough?” “What is that bruise from?” I would nod and smile. I would answer politely or just out and out lie. She noticed the deep gash I gave myself the first time my Dad fingered me. This was my way of coping, because in some way I needed to have pain: something to focus on or distract. But she noticed. When I told her that I had an accident while cutting a watermelon, she appeared to believe me.
I thought Christians were supposed to love the unlovable, but maybe I just kept meeting the wrong ones. She should have kept pushing. She should have kept asking. She wasn't supposed to be appeased by some stupid kid that really was a terrible liar. But she believed me, or at least chose to --maybe it was easier.
The next time I came in contact with a Christian I was 19 and seven months pregnant. I went into a shelter that helped young, troubled women. I needed food, I needed a place to stay and I hadn't even begun to think about what I was going to do with this baby. And mostly I was pissed off. In the five years since 8th grade a bunch of stuff had happened. I was angry that I needed help, but I really had no choice at this point. So into the shelter I went.
I was greeted by the tiniest, littlest old lady I had ever seen. At maybe 4'10” and maybe 100 lbs. she was more fairy godmother then homeless shelter warden. I opened my mouth to speak and she reached up and placed her hand on my forehead. I closed my mouth immediately and stood there, waiting. With her eyes closed, her hand still on my forehead, she started to speak. “Father, thank you for sending me this sheep. May she sleep well and may her dreams be dreams of peace. And may her heart be open and soft by morning.” Then I was pissed. Like, SUPER pissed.
How dare this old lady think she knew me? Seriously, what a bi*ch. Does she think that all she has to do is be this fake, sugary lady and I would be just like her? I no longer cared that I needed the food or the rest. After lights out, I made my move. Waiting till 11 PM when she was sleeping, I crept past the dorms and then into the sanctuary. After a moment or two of creeping, I found it; the small metal box marked “offering.” I stepped out into the street, smiling smugly to myself. That would teach the old hag to love people that blindly. What did she know? The money from the offering wasn't much, but it was enough for the night.
An hour later, in a slightly crappy hotel room, my tummy full of pizza and pop, I fell asleep, feeling safe and secure, no twinge of guilt, no drop of remorse. About 3 am I woke up to a loud banging on the door, and found my ex-boyfriend, the father of my child, scumbag extraordinaire, aka Pete. “What the fuc*, Alice!!!!” he yells, screaming in my face. He starts swinging at me, hitting me in the face and the arm. “Why the fuc* were you going into that fuc*ing church like somehow I can't provide for my own fuc*ing baby!? I should just kill you, you are an ungrateful b*ch!” I stared at him in horror. I had that thudding moment when you realize what a mess your life has become. Ducking under his arm I ran.
I ran as fast as I could.
I ran past the corner where my dad had turned me out for the first time. I ran past the school where my history teacher accepted that I was just “clumsy”. I ran past the snack shop where those boys had raped me freshman year. I ran past the parking lot where I used to love to skate. I ran past the McDonald’s where I met Pete. I ran past the subway station where I got pregnant in the bathroom. I ran. And I ran fast.
I ran back to the shelter and the door was locked. Crying, I curled up the best I could on the step, shivering in the October air, my hoodie pulled around me. Maybe, just maybe it wouldn't be so very bad to let someone help me; to let someone love me. About 5 AM I woke up to the little old lady nudging me with her foot. She didn't say a word, but offered me her hand, and with a smile and a nod I took it.
She led me inside to the warm and once again put her hand on my forehead and bowed her head. “Father, watch over this one lost sheep. Protect her, soften her heart and help her to grow. May she see Your love and Your light in me.”
Something in me snapped and I hit the little old lady. And then she hit me back. And then I started to cry. I couldn't stop crying and I collapsed on the floor. She knelt down and picked me up again and led me to the chair. “Child, just breathe.” I tried to listen. I tried to stay there and let her love me. But I just couldn't. I had to fight. So, once again, I ran.
This time as I ran, I was angry-- very, very angry. How dare she love me? She didn't know anything! I ran down the stairs of the shelter and into the parking lot and around the corner of the building. Suddenly, I ran smack into her again. From the ground I shielded my face to the coming light. This tiny little old lady looked like she was on fire. And then she knelt down and again placed her hand on my forehead and said “Father, thank You for this one lost sheep. Thank you for the healing that You will do in her heart and thank You for sending her to me.”
I lost it, struggling to my feet. “How dare you! You stupid bi*ch!! You don't even know me!!!” She just smiled and gave me a hug. For a brief moment, I melted. This pattern of our relationship was repeated over and over again for seven years. I would let Deborah love me and then I would hate her. I would steal her car, money and time. She helped raise my daughter. She gave her the name Hope. She helped me get my GED. She raised me. And I treated her like dirt.
Finally, when I was 26, in the bathroom of a gas station, I became a Christian. After getting super strung out, and really drunk, I was puking and hiding in the bathroom. And a woman walked in and asked if I wanted to pray. Yeah, I understand how crazy that sounds. Believe me, I do. It’s insane, but God was sending people after me, “Hounds of Heaven,” to speak life into me. I am so very crazy thankful that we serve a God like that.
She knelt in my puke and asked me if I wanted to accept Christ into my life. I laughed and cried and nodded swiftly in helpless defeat. That chance encounter changed my life. I was reunited with my daughter and reconciled with my Deborah. Today, I am continuing to grow, but apparently that is a way of life when following the Lord. A transformed life is a powerful one and I want to do something with my new-found freedom. Not sure what, yet, but I know that I need to do something with the new life I now have.
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