On Google Reader I'm reading a ton of blogs with beautiful, devotional reflections on Christmas.
Additionally, some of my writer friends sent me Tweets and emails wishing me Merry Christmas and sharing Jesus-y thoughts.
Jesus.
Not dirty toilets, spontaneous-combustion stoves, poopy diapers, toddler wrangling (and wrestling), knitted snakes stretched across hallways or all the other compulsory tasks that remain undone.
Jesus.
I'm forcing myself away from aforementioned thingies to reflect on the evidences of Jesus today. In my life. In December.
Most of you know my family dwells in a pit of trials and strife of all kinds. Accidents, injuries, job-losses and chronic pain conditions have depleted us to the brink of nothing. More so now than ever. Our needs increase as the ability to access them decreases.
On our own steam.
A kindly stranger overheard a conversation I was having with a friend about the hardships and weariness that plague my life. Filled with Jesus in her heart, she got my information from my friend after I left and sent me a HUGE check. It arrived in time to lessen my medical debt as I face two more MRIs this coming Sunday. God knew I was going to be hit hard again with headaches and more tests. He provided. I can get my MRIs.
John took his car in for an $18.95 oil change. $1000 dollars later...
God provided by allowing John's boss to double his Christmas bonus this year. He was able to pay for his car and some other unexpected expenses and due payments.
Christmas shopping for us didn't happen. It couldn't. Jesus moved some dear friends to play Santa Clause to my family by showering us with gifts not only for Kyle but for John and I! Something to look forward to tomorrow morning!
Earlier this month, Denver Water sent notice they were going to shut off water to our house due to ONE MONTH's unpaid bill. We're in that place where we have to let some bills go unpaid in order to eat.
In the same batch of mail was an envelope from my parents. In it was a check for the EXACT amount of money owed to Denver Water. I called my parents in tears. How did they know?
Mom said that God impressed it on Dad's heart to send us some money for food and bills. So they did.
This past weekend, Psalm 42 went to the Adams County Detention Center prison. We gave three concerts to two groups of men and one group of women. With each concert, we pulled out a few songs and added personal testimonies. Several men from each group received Christ and the women found hope and encouragement.
Get this. The group elected me to share with the female prisoners. My nerves buzzed with electricity as I agonized over what to share. I've never been to prison... er, a brick and mortar prison...
One young girl sat curled in a ball on the front corner chair. The sadness in her amber eyes was unmistakable. She was at the end. Life offered her nothing but bars and stripes. Why go on.
So I talked about something none of them were able to relate to: depression. After my ironic intro, the floodgates opened. ALL of the women wept. I touched them where they hurt the most. In that moment, God told me to share with them my depression experience that hurt the most. It was as if He asked me to expose my dirty underwear and shake it all around for the world to see. I was trying to forget my darkest moment. Bury it. I'm practically an outsider among certain circles at my church. I've been deemed a threat. Rejected by some of my once best friends. Why bring it out?
When God says "Do." You do.
I felt like a ventriloquist's dummy. The Holy Spirit snaked his hand up my back and moved my mouth. His words fell from my mouth. I didn't spare any details of my darkest moment of wanting to die and trying to do so.
Why am I here today?
Well, there was this little baby boy born 2000 + years ago in Bethlehem. Born to die. Born to save.
In a way I've never experienced before, I shared the gospel. The hope of this Jesus we celebrate. Jesus nudged my husband to come downstairs as I tried to cram pills in my mouth. Jesus surrounded me with new friends from ACFW and WFTJ. Friends who didn't look at me like I was a rotting grape, rather friends who gazed on me with compassion and understanding. Friends who have been there.
These women related with my story. The hope on their faces was the best Christmas present ever. Having God use me, weird little me, to send out a nuclear shock wave in a prison, reinforced His reality.
The chaplain asked if I'd come talk to different pods of women about depression and suicide. It's an epidemic in that place amoung the women.
Is Jesus real?
Yeah.
I wouldn't be here blogging and smelling a poopy diaper if he weren't.
Merry Christmas. Dwell on his presence in your life NOW.
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hope. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
"They" say it's irrelevant. Well it's not!
Sun and shadows danced around me moments ago while I worked though my Beth Moore Bible study, Breaking Free.
I'm in the final few chapters that focus on God's love. A reality I misunderstood for way too long. A reality, I chose to deny when circumstances vacuumed.
Followers of Christ are not the most beloved, popular people on the planet. And it's not only Christ deniers who beat up and persecute . . .
Beth instructed me to read Psalm 13 asking if David was timid, fearful or bold when he prayed the following:
Long enough, GOD --
you've ignored me long enough.
I've looked at the back of your head
long enough. Long enough
I've carried this ton of trouble,
lived witha stomach full of pain.
Long enough my enemies
have looked down their noses at me.
Take a good look at me, GOD, my God;
I want to look life in the eye,
So no enemy can get the best of me
or laugh at me when I fall on my face.
I've thrown myself headlong into your arms --
I'm celebrating your rescue.
I'm singing at the top of my lungs,
I'm so full of answered prayers.
Psalm 13 ( The Message)
That first block of sentences . . . I could have written them. I've prayed, cried, screamed, moaned, wimpered those very words more times than I care to admit. But I stopped there. I didn't go beyond those very real, very horrid emotions like King David did.
I love David because he doesn't pretend he has it all together. In fact, many scholars believe he may have suffered from bi-polar disorder (manic-depressive). Knowing depression as intimately as I do, that doesn't surprise me.
David doesn't get sucked down for too long. He laments, whines, cries, pleads, screams in the initial parts of his Psalms, but then a God-reality sets in and he welcomes God's perspective. He adopts God's perspective which is the TRUTH about his circumstance.
God's most beloved, the man after God's own heart feels God's ignored him for a long, long time allowing unwarranted suffering and distress in his life. Oooh.
He shifts from despair to telling the Creator of the Universe exactly what he wants. Exactly what I want.
People ask me all the time how they can pray for me, or what I want. Clarity escaped me for years as I undulated in and out of varying degrees of depression. Now I know! I yearn to look life in the eye so no enemy or opponent can get the best of me and laugh at me when I fall flat on my face - which I promise will happen.
Most of my life I've allowed hard circumstances, mean people, and faulty perceptions to define who I am. I bought into Satan's lies about my identity. Gee, this hurts to admit.
I'm a cradle-Christian. Born and raised in a fundamental, evangelical, Bible-believing church. I understood complex doctrine and theology before I hit middle school. Nobody could beat me in a Bible drill. During my short stint in Christian school (K - 4th grade), I was the un-defeated K-12 champion! Finished my AWANA books early to earn scads of points (and candy) for my team.
Head is one thing, heart is another. Yeah, I knew the stuff. Of course Jesus reigned my heart - to a degree - or as far as I'd let Him . . .
Knowing it, and living it are radical opposites.
Life in a fallen world is designed to test our belief system. Unexplainable trials and tragedies exist to aid in through self-discovery - or God discovery. Until a person is tested, no one, including that person, know who she is.
Take the hero's journey (the basic character progression found in great literature from the Bible to modern movies). All classic stories/movies etc remain in people's minds b/c of the element of trial and testing. Characters discover who they are and what they are made of in the face of disaster.
God, THE Storyteller, uses the same character arc in our lives. He lets us be tested so we can be proven.
Beth Moore says God can't be objective or unbiased towards us. We are his children. His love for us is incomprehensible. But, WE must choose to believe He loves us regardless of what life is doing to us.
My near-fatal error is waiting around for evidence of God's love. Make me FEEL your love, Lord, then I'll believe you love me. I've wasted thirty-one years waiting.
Embracing the lie that God must be disappointed in me b/c of all the crap and mess in my life nearly destroyed me a few months back. Christ-Followers base their existence on the unseen - faith.
King David, murderer, adulterer, liar, cheater, theif, hurls himself (I love this phrase) "headlong into God's arms".
He sings at the top of his lungs (a few verses ago his soul bled from perceived abandonment). He is FULL OF ANSWERED PRAYERS.
Okay, the dude, once engaged in prayer, turns a big corner. Check it out - he goes from "you've ignored me long enough" to "I'm so full of answered prayers." Six verses. That's it! Wow.
David is so confident God will respond and answer his plea, he dances around his living room like a madman, singing at the top of his lungs, scaring the royal pets into hiding.
This happened, what? Four thousand years ago? And people today claim the Bible is irrelevant.
Well, it's not. I'm living proof of that. I challenge any of you skeptics to pull a David, pour your guts out on the table in front of the REAL God, and see where He takes you.
Go ahead.
Try it.
I triple-dog-dare-ya.
I'm in the final few chapters that focus on God's love. A reality I misunderstood for way too long. A reality, I chose to deny when circumstances vacuumed.
Followers of Christ are not the most beloved, popular people on the planet. And it's not only Christ deniers who beat up and persecute . . .
Beth instructed me to read Psalm 13 asking if David was timid, fearful or bold when he prayed the following:
Long enough, GOD --
you've ignored me long enough.
I've looked at the back of your head
long enough. Long enough
I've carried this ton of trouble,
lived witha stomach full of pain.
Long enough my enemies
have looked down their noses at me.
Take a good look at me, GOD, my God;
I want to look life in the eye,
So no enemy can get the best of me
or laugh at me when I fall on my face.
I've thrown myself headlong into your arms --
I'm celebrating your rescue.
I'm singing at the top of my lungs,
I'm so full of answered prayers.
Psalm 13 ( The Message)
That first block of sentences . . . I could have written them. I've prayed, cried, screamed, moaned, wimpered those very words more times than I care to admit. But I stopped there. I didn't go beyond those very real, very horrid emotions like King David did.
I love David because he doesn't pretend he has it all together. In fact, many scholars believe he may have suffered from bi-polar disorder (manic-depressive). Knowing depression as intimately as I do, that doesn't surprise me.
David doesn't get sucked down for too long. He laments, whines, cries, pleads, screams in the initial parts of his Psalms, but then a God-reality sets in and he welcomes God's perspective. He adopts God's perspective which is the TRUTH about his circumstance.
God's most beloved, the man after God's own heart feels God's ignored him for a long, long time allowing unwarranted suffering and distress in his life. Oooh.
He shifts from despair to telling the Creator of the Universe exactly what he wants. Exactly what I want.
People ask me all the time how they can pray for me, or what I want. Clarity escaped me for years as I undulated in and out of varying degrees of depression. Now I know! I yearn to look life in the eye so no enemy or opponent can get the best of me and laugh at me when I fall flat on my face - which I promise will happen.
Most of my life I've allowed hard circumstances, mean people, and faulty perceptions to define who I am. I bought into Satan's lies about my identity. Gee, this hurts to admit.
I'm a cradle-Christian. Born and raised in a fundamental, evangelical, Bible-believing church. I understood complex doctrine and theology before I hit middle school. Nobody could beat me in a Bible drill. During my short stint in Christian school (K - 4th grade), I was the un-defeated K-12 champion! Finished my AWANA books early to earn scads of points (and candy) for my team.
Head is one thing, heart is another. Yeah, I knew the stuff. Of course Jesus reigned my heart - to a degree - or as far as I'd let Him . . .
Knowing it, and living it are radical opposites.
Life in a fallen world is designed to test our belief system. Unexplainable trials and tragedies exist to aid in through self-discovery - or God discovery. Until a person is tested, no one, including that person, know who she is.
Take the hero's journey (the basic character progression found in great literature from the Bible to modern movies). All classic stories/movies etc remain in people's minds b/c of the element of trial and testing. Characters discover who they are and what they are made of in the face of disaster.
God, THE Storyteller, uses the same character arc in our lives. He lets us be tested so we can be proven.
Beth Moore says God can't be objective or unbiased towards us. We are his children. His love for us is incomprehensible. But, WE must choose to believe He loves us regardless of what life is doing to us.
My near-fatal error is waiting around for evidence of God's love. Make me FEEL your love, Lord, then I'll believe you love me. I've wasted thirty-one years waiting.
Embracing the lie that God must be disappointed in me b/c of all the crap and mess in my life nearly destroyed me a few months back. Christ-Followers base their existence on the unseen - faith.
King David, murderer, adulterer, liar, cheater, theif, hurls himself (I love this phrase) "headlong into God's arms".
He sings at the top of his lungs (a few verses ago his soul bled from perceived abandonment). He is FULL OF ANSWERED PRAYERS.
Okay, the dude, once engaged in prayer, turns a big corner. Check it out - he goes from "you've ignored me long enough" to "I'm so full of answered prayers." Six verses. That's it! Wow.
David is so confident God will respond and answer his plea, he dances around his living room like a madman, singing at the top of his lungs, scaring the royal pets into hiding.
This happened, what? Four thousand years ago? And people today claim the Bible is irrelevant.
Well, it's not. I'm living proof of that. I challenge any of you skeptics to pull a David, pour your guts out on the table in front of the REAL God, and see where He takes you.
Go ahead.
Try it.
I triple-dog-dare-ya.
Thursday, March 06, 2008
The Dark Side of Christianity
I think I just experienced a first - I was chased out of MOPS. The letter below is about my life. Incidents that happened years ago. Nobody whose hands would fall on my letter from the editor were involved in past incidents. The newsletters were scooped up, and torn out of readers' hands as I tried to pass them out. I think 1st Amendment rights exist even in a church gym.
MOPS International has NOTHING to do w/ this. Let that be clear. As editor and creator of Den(ver) Mother, I wrote a letter to readers. Read on and see what sparked an explosive reaction. Pray for me b/c I don't know now, who my friends are. I'm hurting.
The senior pastor knew about this and approved of it a week ago.
The Dark Side of Christianity
A letter from the editor, Darcie Gudger
A few days ago I stood in my back yard, camera in hand, experimenting with the effects of sunlight on my face. An odd exercise for someone who despises having her picture taken. I twisted, turned and tilted with my arm extended away from my body at an awkward angle, praying I didn’t drop my Nikon.
The best shot was one with my face washed in brilliant, warm sunshine. My skin glowed. The premature wrinkles carving deep canyons across my forehead vanished. Dark circles lurking under my eyes fled the sun’s rays. It was like I had a new face. Maybe I do.
When we shine the light of truth on the dark places, that icky, stinky, mess disappears. Darkness and light can’t co-exist.
My calling as a writer is to shine light on things all of us would prefer to ignore. Failure to do so would be an act of disobedience. I’d rather pay the price here on earth for igniting fury, than come face to face with Jesus to explain why I shrunk away from His call. The Bible never promises that our lives will be all nice and pretty if we answer His calling. I’m resigning my position as publicity coordinator because God is leading me further into the world of professional writing. The commitment is enormous and the opportunities are ripe.
Before I go, I must expose what’s been on my heart for years. Please take a moment and read my story along with a few others, then prayerfully consider joining the army to annihilate the dark side of Christianity.
Seventeen years ago-
I traded my guard uniform for a bathing suit in the sweltering heat of Myrtle Beach, SC. Landlocked all my life, I’d only seen the Atlantic twice before. I had to revel in jumping over big waves, allowing the buoyancy of salt-water carry my body in its currants as if I were a piece of seaweed. Houghton College, where I was headed in August, was even more landlocked than North Eastern Pennsylvania. Sand sprayed from under the balls of my feet and I sprinted into the water without pause.
But -
My period was late. I prayed it would stay away until I got home. Already a social outcast, I didn’t want everyone to add another item to the long list describing my “weirdness”. I’d be horrified if they watched a thick red gooey trail of blood snaking down my leg or laugh if I collapsed into the foamy surf, screaming in pain.
Greenish brown water lifted me gently up and down in a steady rhythm. I can’t remember how long I floated, but it was long enough for the sun to kiss my skin.
What of my period? It never came. Not a week later, not a year later – or even a decade later.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, my body hurled itself into menopause. Being an active young 18 year old, spending my weekends rock climbing in Canada, or backpacking on the Finger Lakes Trail in western Upstate New York, the benefits of not having a period outweighed the annoyance of the monthly visitor. I told no one. Not even my mom. I feared she’d haul me off to another doctor who’d rape me with a speculum. Again.
During my junior year of college, she grew suspicious. My sister was a freshman at Houghton, living in a different dorm. Mom sent incredible care-packages; our friends drool with envy. Mom saved on shipping costs by sending one box. Before the package went out, she asked Tammie and I if we needed anything. One request, er… lack thereof, was apparent. Tammie needed tampons and pads, I didn’t.
On a frosty afternoon when Houghton sponsored a parents’ weekend, Mom and Dad ventured up for the festivities. Mom was only out of the car for a few seconds before she accosted me on the front lawn of Byerly House. The house stood silent, holding onto its stony wisdom garnered over the past century. Now’d be a good time to share a bit of its knowledge!
Fiery red oak leaves rained down on us while Mom interrogated me about my health. Was I having a regular period? No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t lie to my mom. Not to her face. Her ‘mommy gut’ told her there was something seriously wrong with me. She was right.
However, not menstruating was a relief. My life cruised along uninterrupted. I was content about it…
…until years and years later when I met John Gudger, the man who’d become my husband. A man whose dreams included a houseful of children.
We stood on a rocky ledge at Mount Falcon Open Space, overlooking the 3-foot vertical tube lights of the cross on the hillside. His fingers danced like spiders on speed as he chattered on about the fun adventures we’d have as parents.
By then I’d seen many doctors. Endured horrible tests. Denial of my problem was futile. I was infertile. Medical science couldn’t allow me to carry a baby in my womb.
I interrupted John in his soliloquy touting the wonders of parenthood.. I had to stop him. Shatter his vision of the future. Allow him to release me so he could find a “real” woman who could do what “real” women were created to do.
Violent sobs knocked me off balance. I tumbled to the sandy, rock sprinkled ground. John reached down, raised me to my feet then looked me in the eye. “I’ve already fallen in love with you. God is a God of miracles. Maybe He’ll surprise us.” The optimism in his voice made me cringe. He didn’t get it.
After we married, the years passed. No miracle. John held out, yearning for the doctors to be wrong about me. I was already taking the same hormone replacement drugs my 80-year-old grandmother took. Heck, my own mother still waited for The Big Change to happen.
John and I applied to adopt but our file was frozen for five years because we didn’t make enough money to provide for a child in the eyes of Colorado.
Friends had growing families. More and more I felt stripped of my woman-hood. People drifted away from us as if infertility were contagious.
Week after week we sat in Sunday school classes where pregnant women complained about being pregnant. Others complained about how annoying their kids were and how they wished they stopped at just one or two.
Plunge a long sword deep in my uterus and thrash it around! How could people take for granted what God deems a gift
. Everyone else could control whether or not children entered their lives. No one invaded their private lives, looking for reasons why not place a child in our home. John and I were at the mercy of the State of Colorado and the adoption agency.
Even after God brought Kyle to us, I was battered with messages of how I was a terrible mother. I was confronted about the vileness of using a bottle instead of a boob. Last year, a missionary stood in this gym proclaiming how the miracle of breast milk was what defines a woman as a woman. I wasn’t the only one who fled those hurtful words. Again, I had no choice.
Christians can be the meanest people on the planet. Not just to the sinners of the world, but more so to their own kind..
Not once did any of my unsaved friends say anything hurtful in regards to my infertility or other extreme hardships in my life. They offered open arms and words of empathy. Some provided aid.
Christian women like to make my barren womb something shameful. They assume I committed some unforgivable sin.
I’m often questioned about the severity of the love I have for my son. “Well, uh, how can you like, love him if he didn’t spend nine months in your stomach? You can’t tell me he’s fully bonded to you. I mean, he’s not, like, your real child.”
What do you think he’s made of… toothpaste? Real child. Give me a pickin’ break!
What’s the deal?
Folks claiming the name of Christ inflict the most painful experiences in life. A boss who mistreats his employees and cheats tax and labor laws. ‘Friends’ who left me for dead on the side of Mt. Quandary. Christians who upon finding out I couldn’t have kids said things like – “are you right with God? Are you sure you confessed all the sin in your life? You’re being punished for something you did in the past.”
The gut-wrenching truth is - Christians acting badly is universal. It’s not just in my realm of experience.
An unsaved neighbor of mine was invited to a gathering of Christian women. Sad to say, the experience pushed her farther away from the Lord who pursued her. “I thought Christians were supposed to be content with their lives. Why do they sit around and complain about their prayer life and how they want to be closer to God? Why do they sit around and talk mean about other women? Darcie, I’m not sure about this. It doesn’t seem real to me. I need something real.”
My dad has been in business for himself for over 30 years. He’s a heating and electrical contractor. Several years ago, I puzzled over why Christians were the most difficult people to get along with – especially when life was hard, and trials never-ending. His lips curled up into a tight-lipped smile. “Let me show you something,” he said.
In his office, he pulled out oh, maybe two filing cabinets worth of invoices. “These are all the people who owe me money for jobs I’ve done for them. These files go back to when I started.”
His next words stole my breath; “Darcie, 85 percent of these names belong to ‘Christians’. My secular clients either pay me early or on time, or even encourage me to charge them more because they are so pleased with the work. On the other hand, brothers and sisters in Christ seem to think I owe them a favor or should do the work for free. They try to talk down my bids. They sign contracts then fail to pay. I’ve heard every excuse in the book. I’ve never had this problem with a non-believer. Just because someone uses the word ‘Christian’ doesn’t mean you can blindly expect him or her to act like one. I’m sorry you’re learning this the hard way.”
Christianity has a dark side. A mother here in Denver worked hard for the music boosters at her daughter’s school so t he kids could put on great musicals and plays. Concession stands at big venues hire high school kids and parents to help with fundraising.
Two concerts were held at Fiddler’s Green. The first, a Christian music group. Concert attendees fought over open seating, were rude to the kids working behind counters. Demanded to be waited on hand and foot, then left a monstrous mess.
The next even was Lilith Fair. A secular music festival for women, by women, many of who are gay. The kids were treated with utmost respect. Generous tips were given to the boosters. And those audience members cleaned up after themselves.
Who was more Christ-like?
Why?
Why do we put up with this garbage? No wonder people On the Outside think believers are nuts.
As a writer, I’ve been called to use the light of the Son.
Lest you think I’m full of self-righteous muck, I’m not. I’ve been fighting for my life against the beast of depression. My marriage is falling apart due to unending trials of life. I’m plagued with physical problems in addition to the menopause. My precious son has special needs – some far greater than I’ve realized. I’ve hated God. I’ve called Him all sorts of names. I even tried to end it all with a bottle of Ambien a few weeks ago. John came down and tackled me to the ground.
I’m a mess. A bigger mess than what’s left in my backyard after the snow melts and the dog piles are exposed.
But you know what? Jesus loves messes. He’s not afraid. Look at whom he chose to hang with. Who he called to follow him.
Everybody is a mess, smelly and repulsive. Jesus is here to clean it all up if we ask him.
My prayer is that whomever takes over this newsletter will not be afraid to use the Son light. Exposing darkness and revealing the glaring hope of Jesus. Without him, we will disintegrate into the ground. Into nothingness and eternal hell.
MOPS International has NOTHING to do w/ this. Let that be clear. As editor and creator of Den(ver) Mother, I wrote a letter to readers. Read on and see what sparked an explosive reaction. Pray for me b/c I don't know now, who my friends are. I'm hurting.
The senior pastor knew about this and approved of it a week ago.
The Dark Side of Christianity
A letter from the editor, Darcie Gudger
A few days ago I stood in my back yard, camera in hand, experimenting with the effects of sunlight on my face. An odd exercise for someone who despises having her picture taken. I twisted, turned and tilted with my arm extended away from my body at an awkward angle, praying I didn’t drop my Nikon.
The best shot was one with my face washed in brilliant, warm sunshine. My skin glowed. The premature wrinkles carving deep canyons across my forehead vanished. Dark circles lurking under my eyes fled the sun’s rays. It was like I had a new face. Maybe I do.
When we shine the light of truth on the dark places, that icky, stinky, mess disappears. Darkness and light can’t co-exist.
My calling as a writer is to shine light on things all of us would prefer to ignore. Failure to do so would be an act of disobedience. I’d rather pay the price here on earth for igniting fury, than come face to face with Jesus to explain why I shrunk away from His call. The Bible never promises that our lives will be all nice and pretty if we answer His calling. I’m resigning my position as publicity coordinator because God is leading me further into the world of professional writing. The commitment is enormous and the opportunities are ripe.
Before I go, I must expose what’s been on my heart for years. Please take a moment and read my story along with a few others, then prayerfully consider joining the army to annihilate the dark side of Christianity.
Seventeen years ago-
I traded my guard uniform for a bathing suit in the sweltering heat of Myrtle Beach, SC. Landlocked all my life, I’d only seen the Atlantic twice before. I had to revel in jumping over big waves, allowing the buoyancy of salt-water carry my body in its currants as if I were a piece of seaweed. Houghton College, where I was headed in August, was even more landlocked than North Eastern Pennsylvania. Sand sprayed from under the balls of my feet and I sprinted into the water without pause.
But -
My period was late. I prayed it would stay away until I got home. Already a social outcast, I didn’t want everyone to add another item to the long list describing my “weirdness”. I’d be horrified if they watched a thick red gooey trail of blood snaking down my leg or laugh if I collapsed into the foamy surf, screaming in pain.
Greenish brown water lifted me gently up and down in a steady rhythm. I can’t remember how long I floated, but it was long enough for the sun to kiss my skin.
What of my period? It never came. Not a week later, not a year later – or even a decade later.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, my body hurled itself into menopause. Being an active young 18 year old, spending my weekends rock climbing in Canada, or backpacking on the Finger Lakes Trail in western Upstate New York, the benefits of not having a period outweighed the annoyance of the monthly visitor. I told no one. Not even my mom. I feared she’d haul me off to another doctor who’d rape me with a speculum. Again.
During my junior year of college, she grew suspicious. My sister was a freshman at Houghton, living in a different dorm. Mom sent incredible care-packages; our friends drool with envy. Mom saved on shipping costs by sending one box. Before the package went out, she asked Tammie and I if we needed anything. One request, er… lack thereof, was apparent. Tammie needed tampons and pads, I didn’t.
On a frosty afternoon when Houghton sponsored a parents’ weekend, Mom and Dad ventured up for the festivities. Mom was only out of the car for a few seconds before she accosted me on the front lawn of Byerly House. The house stood silent, holding onto its stony wisdom garnered over the past century. Now’d be a good time to share a bit of its knowledge!
Fiery red oak leaves rained down on us while Mom interrogated me about my health. Was I having a regular period? No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t lie to my mom. Not to her face. Her ‘mommy gut’ told her there was something seriously wrong with me. She was right.
However, not menstruating was a relief. My life cruised along uninterrupted. I was content about it…
…until years and years later when I met John Gudger, the man who’d become my husband. A man whose dreams included a houseful of children.
We stood on a rocky ledge at Mount Falcon Open Space, overlooking the 3-foot vertical tube lights of the cross on the hillside. His fingers danced like spiders on speed as he chattered on about the fun adventures we’d have as parents.
By then I’d seen many doctors. Endured horrible tests. Denial of my problem was futile. I was infertile. Medical science couldn’t allow me to carry a baby in my womb.
I interrupted John in his soliloquy touting the wonders of parenthood.. I had to stop him. Shatter his vision of the future. Allow him to release me so he could find a “real” woman who could do what “real” women were created to do.
Violent sobs knocked me off balance. I tumbled to the sandy, rock sprinkled ground. John reached down, raised me to my feet then looked me in the eye. “I’ve already fallen in love with you. God is a God of miracles. Maybe He’ll surprise us.” The optimism in his voice made me cringe. He didn’t get it.
After we married, the years passed. No miracle. John held out, yearning for the doctors to be wrong about me. I was already taking the same hormone replacement drugs my 80-year-old grandmother took. Heck, my own mother still waited for The Big Change to happen.
John and I applied to adopt but our file was frozen for five years because we didn’t make enough money to provide for a child in the eyes of Colorado.
Friends had growing families. More and more I felt stripped of my woman-hood. People drifted away from us as if infertility were contagious.
Week after week we sat in Sunday school classes where pregnant women complained about being pregnant. Others complained about how annoying their kids were and how they wished they stopped at just one or two.
Plunge a long sword deep in my uterus and thrash it around! How could people take for granted what God deems a gift
. Everyone else could control whether or not children entered their lives. No one invaded their private lives, looking for reasons why not place a child in our home. John and I were at the mercy of the State of Colorado and the adoption agency.
Even after God brought Kyle to us, I was battered with messages of how I was a terrible mother. I was confronted about the vileness of using a bottle instead of a boob. Last year, a missionary stood in this gym proclaiming how the miracle of breast milk was what defines a woman as a woman. I wasn’t the only one who fled those hurtful words. Again, I had no choice.
Christians can be the meanest people on the planet. Not just to the sinners of the world, but more so to their own kind..
Not once did any of my unsaved friends say anything hurtful in regards to my infertility or other extreme hardships in my life. They offered open arms and words of empathy. Some provided aid.
Christian women like to make my barren womb something shameful. They assume I committed some unforgivable sin.
I’m often questioned about the severity of the love I have for my son. “Well, uh, how can you like, love him if he didn’t spend nine months in your stomach? You can’t tell me he’s fully bonded to you. I mean, he’s not, like, your real child.”
What do you think he’s made of… toothpaste? Real child. Give me a pickin’ break!
What’s the deal?
Folks claiming the name of Christ inflict the most painful experiences in life. A boss who mistreats his employees and cheats tax and labor laws. ‘Friends’ who left me for dead on the side of Mt. Quandary. Christians who upon finding out I couldn’t have kids said things like – “are you right with God? Are you sure you confessed all the sin in your life? You’re being punished for something you did in the past.”
The gut-wrenching truth is - Christians acting badly is universal. It’s not just in my realm of experience.
An unsaved neighbor of mine was invited to a gathering of Christian women. Sad to say, the experience pushed her farther away from the Lord who pursued her. “I thought Christians were supposed to be content with their lives. Why do they sit around and complain about their prayer life and how they want to be closer to God? Why do they sit around and talk mean about other women? Darcie, I’m not sure about this. It doesn’t seem real to me. I need something real.”
My dad has been in business for himself for over 30 years. He’s a heating and electrical contractor. Several years ago, I puzzled over why Christians were the most difficult people to get along with – especially when life was hard, and trials never-ending. His lips curled up into a tight-lipped smile. “Let me show you something,” he said.
In his office, he pulled out oh, maybe two filing cabinets worth of invoices. “These are all the people who owe me money for jobs I’ve done for them. These files go back to when I started.”
His next words stole my breath; “Darcie, 85 percent of these names belong to ‘Christians’. My secular clients either pay me early or on time, or even encourage me to charge them more because they are so pleased with the work. On the other hand, brothers and sisters in Christ seem to think I owe them a favor or should do the work for free. They try to talk down my bids. They sign contracts then fail to pay. I’ve heard every excuse in the book. I’ve never had this problem with a non-believer. Just because someone uses the word ‘Christian’ doesn’t mean you can blindly expect him or her to act like one. I’m sorry you’re learning this the hard way.”
Christianity has a dark side. A mother here in Denver worked hard for the music boosters at her daughter’s school so t he kids could put on great musicals and plays. Concession stands at big venues hire high school kids and parents to help with fundraising.
Two concerts were held at Fiddler’s Green. The first, a Christian music group. Concert attendees fought over open seating, were rude to the kids working behind counters. Demanded to be waited on hand and foot, then left a monstrous mess.
The next even was Lilith Fair. A secular music festival for women, by women, many of who are gay. The kids were treated with utmost respect. Generous tips were given to the boosters. And those audience members cleaned up after themselves.
Who was more Christ-like?
Why?
Why do we put up with this garbage? No wonder people On the Outside think believers are nuts.
As a writer, I’ve been called to use the light of the Son.
Lest you think I’m full of self-righteous muck, I’m not. I’ve been fighting for my life against the beast of depression. My marriage is falling apart due to unending trials of life. I’m plagued with physical problems in addition to the menopause. My precious son has special needs – some far greater than I’ve realized. I’ve hated God. I’ve called Him all sorts of names. I even tried to end it all with a bottle of Ambien a few weeks ago. John came down and tackled me to the ground.
I’m a mess. A bigger mess than what’s left in my backyard after the snow melts and the dog piles are exposed.
But you know what? Jesus loves messes. He’s not afraid. Look at whom he chose to hang with. Who he called to follow him.
Everybody is a mess, smelly and repulsive. Jesus is here to clean it all up if we ask him.
My prayer is that whomever takes over this newsletter will not be afraid to use the Son light. Exposing darkness and revealing the glaring hope of Jesus. Without him, we will disintegrate into the ground. Into nothingness and eternal hell.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Healing for Dummies... anyone?
For the past few months I've hinted about plunging into the pit of a serious illness. An illness that was at one point life-threatening enough to land me in the ER.
In a way I saw it coming, and despite my herculean efforts to stop it on my own, this disease surged over and through me like a cataclysmic tsunami.
I thought I was helpless during the great elbow debacle...
Sometime in November I was handed the diagnosis of Major Depression.
I scored the highest number possible on the assessment scale used by doctors to establish the severity of the illness. My primary care doc prescribed some meds and sent me home. Two weeks later, I found myself in the emergency room. Rather than improving, my depression raged out of control destroying every part of Darcie, it's debris ridden waves could reach. My thyroid was "alarmingly abnormal" to quote one of the ER docs, my hormones all a-whack, and as time went on and I saw multiple practitioners and specialists, it's been determined that my adrenal glands are toast (Some call it adrenal fatigue, the Mayo Clinic website denounces that term, calling the symptoms a combination of hypothyroid and major depression.... uh...)
My hidey-hole had been the most comfortable place over the past eight weeks. It takes a lot of prodding to pry me out. I'm swamped by the stagnant waters left over by the tsunami wave, but at least I'm protected from the full impact of the surges.
Until now.
I (stupidly??) allowed myself to be yanked from said hidey-hole (complete with a new leather reading chair - another post yet to come) to face one of the biggest fault lines on the floor of the Darcinian Sea.
Some of you regulars may remember the devastating blow I received last February when I was cut from our church worship team. I'd been singing for four years and was suddenly deemed lacking in skill.
A week and a half ago, I was invited to be a backup singer on a "super-team" for the Christmas service (Dec 23). My dear friends who also suffered the same fate a year ago begged me to join them. They argued we need each other's support. We've all been devastated and affected by this over the course of the past ten months.
Last night was the first rehearsal. We had to sing with the very people who stared us down during auditions and said "you don't measure up." It was hard. Emotions I thought I buried shot through the cracks in the fault line. It was all I could do to hold myself together.
My best friend, Stinky, told me to try to use this experience as an opportunity to heal. How? Can someone point me to Healing for Dummies? Oh. There isn't one.
People speak of healing all the time. Author Kristy Dykes has a rare, deadly form of cancer and has most of reading America praying for healing. Author Mary DeMuth is in the process of healing from a traumatic year on the mission field in France. Best-seller Brandilyn Collins WAS healed of Lyme disease. She was wheelchair bound, loosing function in her joints then God...
Depression is not new to me. Looking back, I think I've been affected by it from an early age. Most of my life, perhaps. But it was something I could manage on my own. Now it's grown to something bigger, more ominous. Something that threatens to steal my life.
I know God is bigger than depression, but HOW do I live that? How do I live the hope of healing when my body and mind refuse to respond to treatment or just plain don't work? How do I use situations such as this singing gig as a time to heal rather than time to rip off a scab?
I pray and I pray...
Yet...
Silence.
Thank God for my friends here in Denver, my family in PA, and my new found writing buddies of ACFW. Only through them and with them do I feel God still cares.
In a way I saw it coming, and despite my herculean efforts to stop it on my own, this disease surged over and through me like a cataclysmic tsunami.
I thought I was helpless during the great elbow debacle...
Sometime in November I was handed the diagnosis of Major Depression.
I scored the highest number possible on the assessment scale used by doctors to establish the severity of the illness. My primary care doc prescribed some meds and sent me home. Two weeks later, I found myself in the emergency room. Rather than improving, my depression raged out of control destroying every part of Darcie, it's debris ridden waves could reach. My thyroid was "alarmingly abnormal" to quote one of the ER docs, my hormones all a-whack, and as time went on and I saw multiple practitioners and specialists, it's been determined that my adrenal glands are toast (Some call it adrenal fatigue, the Mayo Clinic website denounces that term, calling the symptoms a combination of hypothyroid and major depression.... uh...)
My hidey-hole had been the most comfortable place over the past eight weeks. It takes a lot of prodding to pry me out. I'm swamped by the stagnant waters left over by the tsunami wave, but at least I'm protected from the full impact of the surges.
Until now.
I (stupidly??) allowed myself to be yanked from said hidey-hole (complete with a new leather reading chair - another post yet to come) to face one of the biggest fault lines on the floor of the Darcinian Sea.
Some of you regulars may remember the devastating blow I received last February when I was cut from our church worship team. I'd been singing for four years and was suddenly deemed lacking in skill.
A week and a half ago, I was invited to be a backup singer on a "super-team" for the Christmas service (Dec 23). My dear friends who also suffered the same fate a year ago begged me to join them. They argued we need each other's support. We've all been devastated and affected by this over the course of the past ten months.
Last night was the first rehearsal. We had to sing with the very people who stared us down during auditions and said "you don't measure up." It was hard. Emotions I thought I buried shot through the cracks in the fault line. It was all I could do to hold myself together.
My best friend, Stinky, told me to try to use this experience as an opportunity to heal. How? Can someone point me to Healing for Dummies? Oh. There isn't one.
People speak of healing all the time. Author Kristy Dykes has a rare, deadly form of cancer and has most of reading America praying for healing. Author Mary DeMuth is in the process of healing from a traumatic year on the mission field in France. Best-seller Brandilyn Collins WAS healed of Lyme disease. She was wheelchair bound, loosing function in her joints then God...
Depression is not new to me. Looking back, I think I've been affected by it from an early age. Most of my life, perhaps. But it was something I could manage on my own. Now it's grown to something bigger, more ominous. Something that threatens to steal my life.
I know God is bigger than depression, but HOW do I live that? How do I live the hope of healing when my body and mind refuse to respond to treatment or just plain don't work? How do I use situations such as this singing gig as a time to heal rather than time to rip off a scab?
I pray and I pray...
Yet...
Silence.
Thank God for my friends here in Denver, my family in PA, and my new found writing buddies of ACFW. Only through them and with them do I feel God still cares.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Voice of Truth
Perception. So subjective. So inacurate. So misleading.
My last post probably left you thinking I've gone off and hurled myself into some deep mountain crevasse. I'd love to be deep in the mountains right now, but not lying in a crumpled heap sprinkled with scree. Jesus doesn't like it when we take our life/death timing into our own hands. I promise you all, that's not an option for me. Ever. Hope does exist in this litterbox of a world. Faith is what carries us when we dig and dig and can't find it.
Anyway, God's been revealing things to me. Spooky, huh?
I haven't heard any voices in babbling streams or wind-tossed trees (yes, I have been hiking to get away from the 'noise' of Denver), but I have been reading words of truth. Everywhere I turn, I read/hear words that speak directly to my heart and situation. It's creeping me out.
The day after I wrote my last post, Beth Moore rocked my world even more. I even dialed my mom b/c lesson 5, week 5 seemed to have been written for me.
I thought the previous lesson on betrayal was enlightening. It helped me figure out what I was feeling. Lesson 5 blasted all the soil off the roots of my pain leaving them exposed. "Hearts broken by loss". I've lost a lot. So much, I didn't think anyone, anywhere could possibly understand. I've done hundreds of Bible studies, but not one has affected me in such a powerful way. Beth shares her losses. One after another, after another, after another. Like Job. Like me. No breathing room. In fact, she admits she's still healing from some of them!
Tears splashed onto the page smearing the vibrant orange highlighter marks. I found someone whose been on this road. Maybe even more painful than mine. She spoke to the raw places. She focused on the pains in my heart. She knows. She's experienced them. She's also allowed Jesus to do his thing. I've been mad at him. I've kept him at arm's distance.
By the end of the lesson I realized the TRUTH of my mental/spiritual bondage - I'm stuck in the grief cycle. I got hung up on anger years ago and never moved on. I've let circumstance feed the anger, fanning the flames higher and higher until they consumed me. Destroying me.
The scripture given was John 11:1-44. It's about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Take time and read it.
The freaky thing is, I've read this a gazillion times. Made popsicle stick mummies in Sunday School as a kid to play act, "Lazarus, come out!"
Never before had I focused on what Jesus did and said before he brought the poor man back to life.
Jesus knew his buddy was gonna die. He knew Mary and Martha would be beside themselves with grief. He knew they'd be horked off at him.
Jesus didn't keep his motives hidden. He was overt. Verse 4: This will be an occasion to show God's glory, Verse 15: You're about to be given new grounds for believing. (From the Message)
You see, it was about The Big Plan. Lazarus had to die. Mary and Martha had to grieve, so Jesus could perform the mother of all miracles - and foreshadow his own death and resurrection.
This is where Jesus identifies himself as the Resurrection and the Life. Without death, he can't resurrect.
Back to Beth. I'm just gonna throw some quotes out. They speak for themselves. Let them hit you as they hit me.
"Christ never allows the hearts of His own to be shattered without excellent reasons and eternal purposes."
"Any kind of 'death' is an invitation to resurrection life to the believer."
"Joy and effectiveness may seem to pause for a while as grief takes its course, but those who allow their broken hearts to be bound by Christ will experience them again."
"When our hearts have been shattered by loss, we hyyave an opportunity to welcome a supernatural power to our lives."
"Perhaps the most profound miracle of all is liing through something we thought would kill us. And not just living, but living abundantly and effectively - raised from living death to a new life."
"When our hearts are hemorrhaging with grief and loss, never forget that Christ binds and compresses it with a nail-scarred hand."
Whoa.
It hit me that my losses happened so Jesus could do his thing. I haven't let him. I've been mad. My losses/needs are great - beyond human repair. God knows that. I need to step away from the "poop" and let Jesus scoop it up with his scarred hands.
Beth wasn't the only one who honed in on my hurt over the weekend. Writer's Digest, had some quotes about perseverence. I've been seriously thinking about giving up on the whole writing thing.
"I know so many writers who are a hundred times better than me and have longer, greater ideas than mine, but they gave up; they stopped. The biggest talkent you can have is determination." Chuck Palahniuk Fight Club author
"The writers who succeed are the ones who refuse to buckle under the failures that are heaped upon them; who reject the notion that they aren't as mediocre as industry professionals say they are." Jodi Picoult, NYT Bestselling author
One more thing - on Sunday, a special music was done "Voice of Truth" by Casting Crowns. I've heard this song hundreds of times on the radio. For some reason, on Sunday, I felt I'd never heard the lyrics. Here are some below
Oh,what I would do
To have the kind of faith it takes
To climb out of this boat I'm in
Onto the crashing waves
To step out of my comfort zone
Into the realm of the unknown
Where Jesus is,
And he's holding out his hand
But the waves are calling out my name
and they laugh at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The waves they keep on telling me
time and time again
"Boy, you'll never win,
you'll never win."
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
the voice of truth says "do not be afraid!"
and the voice of truth says "this is for my glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
- Casting Crowns, Facing the Giants
For decades I've been listening to the wrong voice. I know that now. Really, really know it now. So, out of all the voices calling out to me I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth.
My last post probably left you thinking I've gone off and hurled myself into some deep mountain crevasse. I'd love to be deep in the mountains right now, but not lying in a crumpled heap sprinkled with scree. Jesus doesn't like it when we take our life/death timing into our own hands. I promise you all, that's not an option for me. Ever. Hope does exist in this litterbox of a world. Faith is what carries us when we dig and dig and can't find it.
Anyway, God's been revealing things to me. Spooky, huh?
I haven't heard any voices in babbling streams or wind-tossed trees (yes, I have been hiking to get away from the 'noise' of Denver), but I have been reading words of truth. Everywhere I turn, I read/hear words that speak directly to my heart and situation. It's creeping me out.
The day after I wrote my last post, Beth Moore rocked my world even more. I even dialed my mom b/c lesson 5, week 5 seemed to have been written for me.
I thought the previous lesson on betrayal was enlightening. It helped me figure out what I was feeling. Lesson 5 blasted all the soil off the roots of my pain leaving them exposed. "Hearts broken by loss". I've lost a lot. So much, I didn't think anyone, anywhere could possibly understand. I've done hundreds of Bible studies, but not one has affected me in such a powerful way. Beth shares her losses. One after another, after another, after another. Like Job. Like me. No breathing room. In fact, she admits she's still healing from some of them!
Tears splashed onto the page smearing the vibrant orange highlighter marks. I found someone whose been on this road. Maybe even more painful than mine. She spoke to the raw places. She focused on the pains in my heart. She knows. She's experienced them. She's also allowed Jesus to do his thing. I've been mad at him. I've kept him at arm's distance.
By the end of the lesson I realized the TRUTH of my mental/spiritual bondage - I'm stuck in the grief cycle. I got hung up on anger years ago and never moved on. I've let circumstance feed the anger, fanning the flames higher and higher until they consumed me. Destroying me.
The scripture given was John 11:1-44. It's about Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead. Take time and read it.
The freaky thing is, I've read this a gazillion times. Made popsicle stick mummies in Sunday School as a kid to play act, "Lazarus, come out!"
Never before had I focused on what Jesus did and said before he brought the poor man back to life.
Jesus knew his buddy was gonna die. He knew Mary and Martha would be beside themselves with grief. He knew they'd be horked off at him.
Jesus didn't keep his motives hidden. He was overt. Verse 4: This will be an occasion to show God's glory, Verse 15: You're about to be given new grounds for believing. (From the Message)
You see, it was about The Big Plan. Lazarus had to die. Mary and Martha had to grieve, so Jesus could perform the mother of all miracles - and foreshadow his own death and resurrection.
This is where Jesus identifies himself as the Resurrection and the Life. Without death, he can't resurrect.
Back to Beth. I'm just gonna throw some quotes out. They speak for themselves. Let them hit you as they hit me.
"Christ never allows the hearts of His own to be shattered without excellent reasons and eternal purposes."
"Any kind of 'death' is an invitation to resurrection life to the believer."
"Joy and effectiveness may seem to pause for a while as grief takes its course, but those who allow their broken hearts to be bound by Christ will experience them again."
"When our hearts have been shattered by loss, we hyyave an opportunity to welcome a supernatural power to our lives."
"Perhaps the most profound miracle of all is liing through something we thought would kill us. And not just living, but living abundantly and effectively - raised from living death to a new life."
"When our hearts are hemorrhaging with grief and loss, never forget that Christ binds and compresses it with a nail-scarred hand."
Whoa.
It hit me that my losses happened so Jesus could do his thing. I haven't let him. I've been mad. My losses/needs are great - beyond human repair. God knows that. I need to step away from the "poop" and let Jesus scoop it up with his scarred hands.
Beth wasn't the only one who honed in on my hurt over the weekend. Writer's Digest, had some quotes about perseverence. I've been seriously thinking about giving up on the whole writing thing.
"I know so many writers who are a hundred times better than me and have longer, greater ideas than mine, but they gave up; they stopped. The biggest talkent you can have is determination." Chuck Palahniuk Fight Club author
"The writers who succeed are the ones who refuse to buckle under the failures that are heaped upon them; who reject the notion that they aren't as mediocre as industry professionals say they are." Jodi Picoult, NYT Bestselling author
One more thing - on Sunday, a special music was done "Voice of Truth" by Casting Crowns. I've heard this song hundreds of times on the radio. For some reason, on Sunday, I felt I'd never heard the lyrics. Here are some below
Oh,what I would do
To have the kind of faith it takes
To climb out of this boat I'm in
Onto the crashing waves
To step out of my comfort zone
Into the realm of the unknown
Where Jesus is,
And he's holding out his hand
But the waves are calling out my name
and they laugh at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The waves they keep on telling me
time and time again
"Boy, you'll never win,
you'll never win."
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
the voice of truth says "do not be afraid!"
and the voice of truth says "this is for my glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
- Casting Crowns, Facing the Giants
For decades I've been listening to the wrong voice. I know that now. Really, really know it now. So, out of all the voices calling out to me I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth.
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