The recruiter put his hand on a 4-inch pile of papers and said, "These are all women waiting to get into the Air Force. You see, only 22% of the Air Force is allowed to be women and so it's very competitive." As he continued to speak, he held up my test results and placed the paper on top of the stack: "With your test scores, your paper goes to the top." He was good...really good. It was 1985 and at 19 years old, that recruiter knew just the words to say to feed my ego and alleviate my fear. In retrospect, I'm sure I wasn't the first to go to the top of the stack, nor the last.
I had always heard, though, "make sure you get everything in writing" and so I called my father for advice. Being retired Air Force, he would know whether joining without a guaranteed job would be a wise decision. Knowing that the military would be good for me, he assured me I wouldn't end up as a cook or a plumber (not that those jobs aren't good jobs--they're just not for me). I argued that if I joined, I would be in Basic Training for Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's in which he replied that being away for the holidays can't be the deciding factor. In the military, I would be away for many holidays. He was right, by the way. Saddly, I would never share another Christmas with my father in our Tennessee home.
I enlisted that day and four months later headed to Basic Training in Texas. About halfway through the training, the women in my group who enlisted without a guaranteed job were summoned to a classroom. It was time to nail down what we would do for the next four years. I was given a list of jobs that were available and told to list up to eight in order of preference. Following the advise of my dad, I looked for medical jobs. He had told me to get into the medical field, if possible, because I would be able to secure a job in the civilian world. There were seven medical jobs available: x-ray technician, lab assistant, etc. and so I listed all seven. I had one choice left and, as a joke, I jotted down Radio and Television Broadcast Specialist in the last slot. I say "as a joke" because at that time I had an extremely prominent southern accent. In fact, Basic training was where I acquired my nickname "Ginabelle."
There was one other woman in my flight (group) who also listed the broadcasting job, however, she put it as her number one choice. She had worked as a radio D.J. prior to enlisting and her recruiter assured her that, although the broadcasting job wasn't available at the time, it more than likely would be when she arrived at Basic Training. So, she was more than pleased to see it on the list and felt very confident that she would secure it, which was fine with me.
About a week after we made our choices, the two of us who listed broadcasting were instructed to report for a voice audition. I explained to the sargeant administering the test that I had no intentions of being a broadcaster--I just wanted a job in the medical field--broadcasting was my last choice anyway. He informed me that I was on the list for this job until he took me off. The Air Force was looking for someone with a midwestern sound--void of any strong accent, especially a slow southern drawl. Aftering hearing my audition, he told me that I would probably be very happy as a medical assistant.
About three days before completion of Basic Training, everyone in our flight received their orders. There was so much excitement as we floated around with our handful of documents, sharing where our next duty assignment would be. My orders stated that I was assigned to the Defense Information School at Ft. Benjamin Harrison in Indiana to train as a Broadcast Specialist. My D.J. friend was going to Wichita Fall, Kansas to become a diet therapist. Imagine our surprise!
It wasn't until I was well into my second go-around of voice and diction class that my instructor researched my audition paperwork. With such a strong accent, he was curious as to what my audition score was. Needing at least a 65 to pass, Mr. Runda asked me when I had re-auditioned. Confused, I told him that I only auditioned once. He said there had been a grave mistake because my score was a 42. By this time, I was caught up in the glamor and excitement of radio and television. I knew that this would be an adventurous job involving tons of travel and meeting lots of people. I begged Mr. Runda not to report the mistake that he had discovered. Hadn't I come a long way with taming my accent? He saw how badly I wanted to stay and promised to work with me as long as I dedicated everything I had to this training. It took me twice as long as most students to get through the voice class. Overcoming a southern accent was no easy feat! With the end of the course fast approaching, I knew Mr. Runda would have to make his decision. Would I continue my training or be sent next door to the ambulance driving school? He laughed when he told me he was doing the world a favor by keeping me from behind the wheel of an ambulance! I love that man!
I can look back at everything that transpired and see such a God-thing! He placed me in a career that was absolutely life-changing for me. I found my niche in videography and editing and I couldn't wait to go to work everyday! Even when I was leaving active duty to join the civilian sector, God sent someone who would help me transition from broadcasting in Italy to television in California! Our unit in northern Italy had hired a consultant to spice up the look of our television station; to help it look like our civilian counterparts in the United States. During my conversation with him, the subject of me moving to Chico, California came up. Remarkably, he was a consultant for an NBC affiliate there and told me who to contact when I arrived in Chico. Once I was settled, I contacted the station and was practically hired over the phone just by dropping this consultant's name. My new boss said it was karma that I be there--how often does someone from Chico travel to Italy and meet someone who is moving to Chico? I didn't argue with him...but I know now that karma was not a factor.
It's too late to make a long story short, but life stepped in. Children happened. Death happened. There were many barriers that prevented me from continuing a career in the broadcasting field. Eventually, I pursued other interests and put videography behind me, accepting that those days were long gone. Now, it has come full circle and I'm able to tap into my love for editing once more. I get more than my fill of video production through working with Powhatan Community Church. My biggest challenge now is learning to say no and allowing others to participate, too.
In hindsight, my entire journey has been about God getting me from point A (a 19-year-old southern belle) to point B (an experienced videographer who serves at PCC). I understand now why there were so many roadblocks later in my broadcasting career. He didn't want me to continue my career path as an editor--He knew if I worked full-time in video, I would have little left to give to Him. Now, I can't get or give enough!
I never heard from my D.J. friend after Basic Training but I hope this mix-up was a God-thing for her, too.
God is amazing and to think...I just wanted a job in the medical field.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
This Is My Story
Until I was about 8 years old, I thought my family was just like every other family. I can’t say exactly when I discovered just how dysfunctional we were, but my earliest memories are when I was in second grade.
This is my story.
The first child of an Air Force sergeant, I was born in Roswell, N.M.in 1966. Roswell, N.M. is famous for aliens and military cover-ups so, believe me, I’ve heard all the alien jokes. My early years consisted of moving from one Air Force base to another about every two years. Because we moved so often, I learned how to make friends in two days…and say goodbye to them in one. This is an important survival skill for military children—a characteristic that I believe carried over into my adulthood.
My relationship with my parents began as a very secure and happy one. My mother was a stay-at-home mom and because I was an only child, Mom and I were very close. In 1970, my father received orders to go to Greenland, a remote tour in which family members were not permitted. My father set my mother and me up in a small rental house in our hometown of Jackson, TN, where we could be close to family during his year away. My mother was pregnant at the time, due in October. That year of my life remains very vivid to me. I remember how my mother fostered my creativity. She allowed me to take all of the cushions off the couch and build forts, draping blankets from the cushions to the kitchen table, having to maneuver carefully through my fortress just to get around the house. I styled her hair regularly, teasing it and using loads of hairspray. We made mud pies together and she told me stories from the bible. But I missed my Dad, too. He sent me a package every month, and I distinctly remember the anticipation as I waited every 4 weeks for it’s arrival. In Greenland, to pass the time away, he would paint ceramic figures and then send them home to us to pick out what we wanted and then to distribute the rest to other family members. While I loved looking at all of the figurines (that held my interest for about 90 seconds), it was the blocks of Styrofoam that he packed them in that excited me the most. I would spend days, carving these giant blocks into castles and Barbie furniture. Life was good…and then my brother was born. I was 4 years old.
When my brother was about 4 weeks old, he couldn’t hold down any formula. Before any nourishment got into his system, he would throw it up. My mother took him to the doctor, who assured her he would be ok, nothing was wrong. He began to lose weight and so my mother took him back to the doctor and insisted on further tests. X-rays later revealed that there was a muscle mass growing around his stomach, blocking any food from entering. Death was almost inevitable—he was too young for surgery. My father was contacted in Greenland and granted emergency leave basically so that he could come home to see his son for the first time before he died and to be home for the funeral. My mother, however, didn’t accept his death sentence. She was adamant that he be operated on to try to remove the mass. My recollection of this episode in our lives is vague. I was sheltered from most of what was going on with my brother. I just remember spending many nights at my grandparents’ house and my father coming home to visit. I remember wondering why he was so sad to be home. As an adult, my great aunt told me that it was at that time that she realized that my mother had more stamina than anyone ever gave her credit for having. It was her persistence that my brother have surgery, against the doctors’ warnings and against my father’s wishes, that saved my brother’s life.
Now up to this point, you may be wondering what was so dysfunctional about our family. While moving from one place to another so frequently was difficult, I adjusted and learned to look forward to change, to a new adventure. I believe that God used my frequent relocations to shape me into the person I am today. I relied upon my extroverted personality to adapt to the constant changes around me. In retrospect, I realize that moving so much helped my family in another way. We were able to keep our secret; to hide the fact that my mother was plagued with mental illness, a battle our entire family would endure for many years. By the time friends and neighbors began to suspect that something wasn’t right with my mother, it was time to move again.
When I was six months old, my mother was first diagnosed with manic depression, which is now referred to as bipolar disorder. She was later diagnosed with paranoia schizophrenia, too. My great aunt told me later that at first she didn’t believe my mother was mentally ill. She thought it was just a ploy to keep my father from going to Vietnam. It did delay his orders but shortly after my mother’s diagnosis, my grandmother retrieved the two of us from N.M. while my father did his one-year tour in Vietnam. I thank God that he made it out of there alive. It was my father who later gave stability and the sense of security that I so desperately needed in my early adolescence.
I was in the second grade was when I began to realize that my mother wasn’t like other mothers. My mother’s paranoia had a dramatic effect on our lives every day. I remember getting ready for school and going through this regiment with her on whether I was wearing good colors or evil colors. I learned that red, orange, and black were of the devil but that it was ok for me to wear white, pink or blue. I learned which neighbors practiced witch craft and which ones were out to kill us. I recall a time when I was about 8 years old being in the check out line at a grocery store when my mother turned to me and said, “I know what you and your father are trying to do to your brother and me.” Seeing my mother ho longer as eccentric but as peculiar, I whispered quietly, “What?” in hopes that she would whisper back. My tactic didn’t work and she loudly announced that she knew all of the green eyed people (me) and all the brown eyed people (my dad) were trying to kill all the blue eyed people (my mother and my brother). At that point, my understanding of my mother’s behavior had evolved from one of fascination and curiosity to embarrassment and shame.
In the ‘70s, many schools on military bases were without cafeterias. Because they were located in the center of the community, school children were to walk home for lunch. The problem I encountered was I never knew if my mother was going to be home. She would disappear for hours at a time with my baby brother. My father and I never knew where they went. Having been locked out of the apartment several times and missing lunch, I shared this dilemma with my dad. He gave me a spare key to wear around my neck so that I could let myself in and make lunch if my mother wasn’t home. I remember promising him that I wouldn’t let anyone know that I had my own key and that nobody was home to let me in. This key served to let me in after school, too, where I would be alone until my father came home from work.
Most of my elementary school years were filled with my mother being committed to various mental health institutions. Living away from family put my father in uncomfortable situations forcing him to rely on outsiders for help with child care while he juggled his job, sought medical attention for my mother, and strived to maintain our family’s secret. I learned early on that my mother’s disability was something that we kept within our household. My father never told me not to tell people how she behaved but he modeled for me that talking about it, even within the confines of our home, was taboo. When we were in public, he acted as if nothing was wrong. He never explained to me what was happening with her. I don’t know if he knew himself.
Regardless, it was never mentioned and I was left to my own resources to figure out why my mother wasn’t like other mothers. Without realizing it, my father’s struggle to make our family appear normal on the outside only confirmed my feelings of disgrace. Eventually shame turned into resentment and resentment into hatred.
Despite our family struggles, we attended church regularly all through my childhood. I never knew whether Dad told anyone at church about Mom’s condition. I always felt accepted at church. Since social situations were a potential threat to expose our secret, surprisingly, we were always pretty involved in church activities. I think it was one place where my mother strived to be “normal” and so the rest of my family felt a little safer at church. When I was nine years old, we attended Mission Hills Baptist Church in southern California. It was then that I made the decision to follow Christ. Although in years to come I would move about as far away from God as I possibly could, I believe with all my heart that my decision that day was a sincere one. I worshipped God freely then, without the inhibitions we assume as adults.
When I was in junior high school, my father had retired from the Air Force and we had settled among our extended family in TN. One morning my mother entered my room and announced that my father was leaving. I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t. My dad knew that he was the glue that kept our household functioning and he wouldn’t abandon my brother and me. I remember walking into the kitchen to find him with his head bowed down. When I asked if what Mom said was true, he looked up at me with tear-filled eyes and nodded. At that point and time, my world stop spinning.
My teenage years were rough. My brother’s near-death experience when he was an infant, lead to unwavering favoritism on the part of my mother. Living with my mother and brother was a constant battle—my brother could do no wrong and I, as the older child, was expected to be the ‘peacemaker,’ in other words I was supposed to give my brother what ever he wanted. Day after day I endured one dramatic outburst after another while all they while maintaining the façade at school and in the neighborhood that everything was normal. I feared that I would be judged by my friends according to my mom’s radical behavior. I did as much as I possibly could to shield my school life from my home life.
As circumstances escalated at home, I began to contemplate suicide. I didn’t think about suicide to escape the hell I was living in but rather as a means to get even with my mother. I thought that by killing myself I could repay her for all of the pain she had caused me. I would win the battle because she would be so heartbroken and filled with regret for the way she had treated me. The thought that she couldn’t help it never crossed my mind. I just wanted to hurt her…to inflict the final, ultimate pain….then I began to think about the consequences. I had heard on TV that suicide was an unpardonable sin…an automatic ticket to hell. I also wondered what would happen to me after I died. Would my spirit stick around to revel in my mother’s misery? If not, I reasoned, then what was the point in killing myself? Furthermore, with my luck, I would fail at killing myself and just be a vegetable for the rest of my life. I soon began to talk myself out of suicide and settled for just imagining how she would feel without me.
Although my father no longer lived under the same roof, he was very active in my life. He maintained our household, knowing that mom couldn’t work to support us. He paid all of our bills plus the costs he accrued by living in a very low income neighborhood. I begged to live with him but because he worked nights he wouldn’t think of me being alone where he lived while he was at work. As a parent, I now understand his reasoning but back his denial served to reinforce my feelings of rejection and abandonment
Once my parents separated, they stopped going to church—my father out of embarrassment and my mother out of paranoia that all of the church members sided with my father. God knew what I needed back then and He sent people into my life to provide emotional and spiritual support. Neighboring church members made sure that I got to church and youth workers made sure that I went to youth events, whether I had the money to pay for them or not. During junior and high school I was one of the most active youth in our church. Going to church meant not being at home. I began to trust people at church and they helped me to realize that my mother didn’t define who I was. My youth pastor and I became very close and while I couldn’t bring myself to tell him specifics of what was happening at home, he knew…and I knew that he knew. He never pressured me for information—he simply wanted to be my friend.
After graduating from high school, my restlessness lead me to join the Air Force. I believe part of me wanted to be like my dad and to make him proud. Another part of me wanted to escape from Jackson, TN. I’ve never lived in TN since, but over time distance allowed for healing and helped me to develop into an adult who was no longer embarrassed to talk about her mother’s condition. Through the years, I remained very close to my father, writing and calling him regularly. I wrote to my mother, too, but correspondence between us was stilted. My mother acted as if nothing had transpired between us…an elephant in the room so to speak, and so our relationship was strained.
I met my husband, George, while stationed in Italy. I followed him to northern California and we were eventually married one weekend in Reno, NV. The Army soon moved us from California to NC.
Now, I’ve always had a bad taste in my mouth for NC and I believe it was because of the tragedy bestowed upon me while I was there. Two weeks after moving into our new home, I received a phone call from my great aunt, who asked to speak to George. I thought it was strange that she wanted to talk to my husband and as soon as I saw his face, I knew why. My father had had a heart attack that morning and wasn’t strong enough to survive it after having pulled through a previous heart attack six months prior. I can not begin to explain the anguish, the grief. Over the years I had moved away from God…leaving him in TN. I faced my father’s death like that of a non-believer. Unable to comprehend the world without him and unable to imagine a reunion in heaven, I was in complete and total despair. God used that time to reveal himself to me. He took my vulnerability and drew me closer. I knew that no earthly being could comfort me or take away the pain. I turned to God, not completely though, for my return to Him was a slow process. But I cried out to Him, begging for relief from my sorrow. My father’s funeral was a haze. I remember looking at the people around me and wondering why they weren’t as sad as I was—nobody knew how I felt. It was during my darkest hour that God spoke to me. I remember sobbing uncontrollably at the funeral. My aunt approached me and wrapped her arms around me. She whispered the words of hope that I so desperately needed to hear, “This isn’t the end of your father’s life but just the beginning. You two will be reunited again one day.” Unbeknownst to me at the time, It was at that moment that I began my journey back to God.
In retrospect, God put people in my life that gently guided me along the way—my youth pastor, a motherly neighbor, understanding aunts, and the list goes on. While I can’t say I’d want to go through my childhood again I can say that I’m glad that I did. God used it to equip me to handle crisis. This isn’t to say that I take everything in stride—I still get anxious and have many doubting moments, but I’m usually able to look past the here and now and know that God will see me through trials. I have come to appreciate the valleys in my life, because the low points make the mountains even higher. .
While my life is not perfect and my relationship with my mother is still a labored one, I can look back and say that God is always present. He used my experiences to develop me into the person I am today. I believe He equipped me with the skills and the desire to work with students with special needs. God furnished me with the insight that disruptive behavior in a child doesn’t define who the child is but may be a product of what the child is experiencing outside of the classroom.
God is also teaching me that I can be myself. While I struggled to keep my family life a secret, as an adult I know now that my efforts were to no avail. God was there when He provided me with sympathizing neighbors who loved me for who I was and made me a regular part of their family life. He also instilled a sense of security within me so that I didn’t fear being alone or being without a parent at home. I trusted at that time that everything would be o.k. I just didn’t know that I was trusting God, but now I do. I know that God can be counted on to provide hope to the hopeless and rest to the restless.
Movement in my life, my need for constant motion, has given me a restless spirit. God has used my longing to start fresh, instilling within me an ability to face the unknown without fear of being alone. I now see clearly that my turbulent past was a necessary to get me where I am today. God has instilled in me the spiritual gift of apostleship and it’s with that gift, in combination with my desire for change, that I’ve been a part of the planting of PCC. He utilized my experiences, negative as they may have been. I have come full circle to understand that there is hope in all circumstances. Relocating is no longer a regular occurrence in my life but God still satisfies my restless nature in other ways. I no longer need to move to renew my hope for I understand that I, too, can bloom where I am planted.
This is my story.
The first child of an Air Force sergeant, I was born in Roswell, N.M.in 1966. Roswell, N.M. is famous for aliens and military cover-ups so, believe me, I’ve heard all the alien jokes. My early years consisted of moving from one Air Force base to another about every two years. Because we moved so often, I learned how to make friends in two days…and say goodbye to them in one. This is an important survival skill for military children—a characteristic that I believe carried over into my adulthood.
My relationship with my parents began as a very secure and happy one. My mother was a stay-at-home mom and because I was an only child, Mom and I were very close. In 1970, my father received orders to go to Greenland, a remote tour in which family members were not permitted. My father set my mother and me up in a small rental house in our hometown of Jackson, TN, where we could be close to family during his year away. My mother was pregnant at the time, due in October. That year of my life remains very vivid to me. I remember how my mother fostered my creativity. She allowed me to take all of the cushions off the couch and build forts, draping blankets from the cushions to the kitchen table, having to maneuver carefully through my fortress just to get around the house. I styled her hair regularly, teasing it and using loads of hairspray. We made mud pies together and she told me stories from the bible. But I missed my Dad, too. He sent me a package every month, and I distinctly remember the anticipation as I waited every 4 weeks for it’s arrival. In Greenland, to pass the time away, he would paint ceramic figures and then send them home to us to pick out what we wanted and then to distribute the rest to other family members. While I loved looking at all of the figurines (that held my interest for about 90 seconds), it was the blocks of Styrofoam that he packed them in that excited me the most. I would spend days, carving these giant blocks into castles and Barbie furniture. Life was good…and then my brother was born. I was 4 years old.
When my brother was about 4 weeks old, he couldn’t hold down any formula. Before any nourishment got into his system, he would throw it up. My mother took him to the doctor, who assured her he would be ok, nothing was wrong. He began to lose weight and so my mother took him back to the doctor and insisted on further tests. X-rays later revealed that there was a muscle mass growing around his stomach, blocking any food from entering. Death was almost inevitable—he was too young for surgery. My father was contacted in Greenland and granted emergency leave basically so that he could come home to see his son for the first time before he died and to be home for the funeral. My mother, however, didn’t accept his death sentence. She was adamant that he be operated on to try to remove the mass. My recollection of this episode in our lives is vague. I was sheltered from most of what was going on with my brother. I just remember spending many nights at my grandparents’ house and my father coming home to visit. I remember wondering why he was so sad to be home. As an adult, my great aunt told me that it was at that time that she realized that my mother had more stamina than anyone ever gave her credit for having. It was her persistence that my brother have surgery, against the doctors’ warnings and against my father’s wishes, that saved my brother’s life.
Now up to this point, you may be wondering what was so dysfunctional about our family. While moving from one place to another so frequently was difficult, I adjusted and learned to look forward to change, to a new adventure. I believe that God used my frequent relocations to shape me into the person I am today. I relied upon my extroverted personality to adapt to the constant changes around me. In retrospect, I realize that moving so much helped my family in another way. We were able to keep our secret; to hide the fact that my mother was plagued with mental illness, a battle our entire family would endure for many years. By the time friends and neighbors began to suspect that something wasn’t right with my mother, it was time to move again.
When I was six months old, my mother was first diagnosed with manic depression, which is now referred to as bipolar disorder. She was later diagnosed with paranoia schizophrenia, too. My great aunt told me later that at first she didn’t believe my mother was mentally ill. She thought it was just a ploy to keep my father from going to Vietnam. It did delay his orders but shortly after my mother’s diagnosis, my grandmother retrieved the two of us from N.M. while my father did his one-year tour in Vietnam. I thank God that he made it out of there alive. It was my father who later gave stability and the sense of security that I so desperately needed in my early adolescence.
I was in the second grade was when I began to realize that my mother wasn’t like other mothers. My mother’s paranoia had a dramatic effect on our lives every day. I remember getting ready for school and going through this regiment with her on whether I was wearing good colors or evil colors. I learned that red, orange, and black were of the devil but that it was ok for me to wear white, pink or blue. I learned which neighbors practiced witch craft and which ones were out to kill us. I recall a time when I was about 8 years old being in the check out line at a grocery store when my mother turned to me and said, “I know what you and your father are trying to do to your brother and me.” Seeing my mother ho longer as eccentric but as peculiar, I whispered quietly, “What?” in hopes that she would whisper back. My tactic didn’t work and she loudly announced that she knew all of the green eyed people (me) and all the brown eyed people (my dad) were trying to kill all the blue eyed people (my mother and my brother). At that point, my understanding of my mother’s behavior had evolved from one of fascination and curiosity to embarrassment and shame.
In the ‘70s, many schools on military bases were without cafeterias. Because they were located in the center of the community, school children were to walk home for lunch. The problem I encountered was I never knew if my mother was going to be home. She would disappear for hours at a time with my baby brother. My father and I never knew where they went. Having been locked out of the apartment several times and missing lunch, I shared this dilemma with my dad. He gave me a spare key to wear around my neck so that I could let myself in and make lunch if my mother wasn’t home. I remember promising him that I wouldn’t let anyone know that I had my own key and that nobody was home to let me in. This key served to let me in after school, too, where I would be alone until my father came home from work.
Most of my elementary school years were filled with my mother being committed to various mental health institutions. Living away from family put my father in uncomfortable situations forcing him to rely on outsiders for help with child care while he juggled his job, sought medical attention for my mother, and strived to maintain our family’s secret. I learned early on that my mother’s disability was something that we kept within our household. My father never told me not to tell people how she behaved but he modeled for me that talking about it, even within the confines of our home, was taboo. When we were in public, he acted as if nothing was wrong. He never explained to me what was happening with her. I don’t know if he knew himself.
Regardless, it was never mentioned and I was left to my own resources to figure out why my mother wasn’t like other mothers. Without realizing it, my father’s struggle to make our family appear normal on the outside only confirmed my feelings of disgrace. Eventually shame turned into resentment and resentment into hatred.
Despite our family struggles, we attended church regularly all through my childhood. I never knew whether Dad told anyone at church about Mom’s condition. I always felt accepted at church. Since social situations were a potential threat to expose our secret, surprisingly, we were always pretty involved in church activities. I think it was one place where my mother strived to be “normal” and so the rest of my family felt a little safer at church. When I was nine years old, we attended Mission Hills Baptist Church in southern California. It was then that I made the decision to follow Christ. Although in years to come I would move about as far away from God as I possibly could, I believe with all my heart that my decision that day was a sincere one. I worshipped God freely then, without the inhibitions we assume as adults.
When I was in junior high school, my father had retired from the Air Force and we had settled among our extended family in TN. One morning my mother entered my room and announced that my father was leaving. I didn’t believe her. I couldn’t. My dad knew that he was the glue that kept our household functioning and he wouldn’t abandon my brother and me. I remember walking into the kitchen to find him with his head bowed down. When I asked if what Mom said was true, he looked up at me with tear-filled eyes and nodded. At that point and time, my world stop spinning.
My teenage years were rough. My brother’s near-death experience when he was an infant, lead to unwavering favoritism on the part of my mother. Living with my mother and brother was a constant battle—my brother could do no wrong and I, as the older child, was expected to be the ‘peacemaker,’ in other words I was supposed to give my brother what ever he wanted. Day after day I endured one dramatic outburst after another while all they while maintaining the façade at school and in the neighborhood that everything was normal. I feared that I would be judged by my friends according to my mom’s radical behavior. I did as much as I possibly could to shield my school life from my home life.
As circumstances escalated at home, I began to contemplate suicide. I didn’t think about suicide to escape the hell I was living in but rather as a means to get even with my mother. I thought that by killing myself I could repay her for all of the pain she had caused me. I would win the battle because she would be so heartbroken and filled with regret for the way she had treated me. The thought that she couldn’t help it never crossed my mind. I just wanted to hurt her…to inflict the final, ultimate pain….then I began to think about the consequences. I had heard on TV that suicide was an unpardonable sin…an automatic ticket to hell. I also wondered what would happen to me after I died. Would my spirit stick around to revel in my mother’s misery? If not, I reasoned, then what was the point in killing myself? Furthermore, with my luck, I would fail at killing myself and just be a vegetable for the rest of my life. I soon began to talk myself out of suicide and settled for just imagining how she would feel without me.
Although my father no longer lived under the same roof, he was very active in my life. He maintained our household, knowing that mom couldn’t work to support us. He paid all of our bills plus the costs he accrued by living in a very low income neighborhood. I begged to live with him but because he worked nights he wouldn’t think of me being alone where he lived while he was at work. As a parent, I now understand his reasoning but back his denial served to reinforce my feelings of rejection and abandonment
Once my parents separated, they stopped going to church—my father out of embarrassment and my mother out of paranoia that all of the church members sided with my father. God knew what I needed back then and He sent people into my life to provide emotional and spiritual support. Neighboring church members made sure that I got to church and youth workers made sure that I went to youth events, whether I had the money to pay for them or not. During junior and high school I was one of the most active youth in our church. Going to church meant not being at home. I began to trust people at church and they helped me to realize that my mother didn’t define who I was. My youth pastor and I became very close and while I couldn’t bring myself to tell him specifics of what was happening at home, he knew…and I knew that he knew. He never pressured me for information—he simply wanted to be my friend.
After graduating from high school, my restlessness lead me to join the Air Force. I believe part of me wanted to be like my dad and to make him proud. Another part of me wanted to escape from Jackson, TN. I’ve never lived in TN since, but over time distance allowed for healing and helped me to develop into an adult who was no longer embarrassed to talk about her mother’s condition. Through the years, I remained very close to my father, writing and calling him regularly. I wrote to my mother, too, but correspondence between us was stilted. My mother acted as if nothing had transpired between us…an elephant in the room so to speak, and so our relationship was strained.
I met my husband, George, while stationed in Italy. I followed him to northern California and we were eventually married one weekend in Reno, NV. The Army soon moved us from California to NC.
Now, I’ve always had a bad taste in my mouth for NC and I believe it was because of the tragedy bestowed upon me while I was there. Two weeks after moving into our new home, I received a phone call from my great aunt, who asked to speak to George. I thought it was strange that she wanted to talk to my husband and as soon as I saw his face, I knew why. My father had had a heart attack that morning and wasn’t strong enough to survive it after having pulled through a previous heart attack six months prior. I can not begin to explain the anguish, the grief. Over the years I had moved away from God…leaving him in TN. I faced my father’s death like that of a non-believer. Unable to comprehend the world without him and unable to imagine a reunion in heaven, I was in complete and total despair. God used that time to reveal himself to me. He took my vulnerability and drew me closer. I knew that no earthly being could comfort me or take away the pain. I turned to God, not completely though, for my return to Him was a slow process. But I cried out to Him, begging for relief from my sorrow. My father’s funeral was a haze. I remember looking at the people around me and wondering why they weren’t as sad as I was—nobody knew how I felt. It was during my darkest hour that God spoke to me. I remember sobbing uncontrollably at the funeral. My aunt approached me and wrapped her arms around me. She whispered the words of hope that I so desperately needed to hear, “This isn’t the end of your father’s life but just the beginning. You two will be reunited again one day.” Unbeknownst to me at the time, It was at that moment that I began my journey back to God.
In retrospect, God put people in my life that gently guided me along the way—my youth pastor, a motherly neighbor, understanding aunts, and the list goes on. While I can’t say I’d want to go through my childhood again I can say that I’m glad that I did. God used it to equip me to handle crisis. This isn’t to say that I take everything in stride—I still get anxious and have many doubting moments, but I’m usually able to look past the here and now and know that God will see me through trials. I have come to appreciate the valleys in my life, because the low points make the mountains even higher. .
While my life is not perfect and my relationship with my mother is still a labored one, I can look back and say that God is always present. He used my experiences to develop me into the person I am today. I believe He equipped me with the skills and the desire to work with students with special needs. God furnished me with the insight that disruptive behavior in a child doesn’t define who the child is but may be a product of what the child is experiencing outside of the classroom.
God is also teaching me that I can be myself. While I struggled to keep my family life a secret, as an adult I know now that my efforts were to no avail. God was there when He provided me with sympathizing neighbors who loved me for who I was and made me a regular part of their family life. He also instilled a sense of security within me so that I didn’t fear being alone or being without a parent at home. I trusted at that time that everything would be o.k. I just didn’t know that I was trusting God, but now I do. I know that God can be counted on to provide hope to the hopeless and rest to the restless.
Movement in my life, my need for constant motion, has given me a restless spirit. God has used my longing to start fresh, instilling within me an ability to face the unknown without fear of being alone. I now see clearly that my turbulent past was a necessary to get me where I am today. God has instilled in me the spiritual gift of apostleship and it’s with that gift, in combination with my desire for change, that I’ve been a part of the planting of PCC. He utilized my experiences, negative as they may have been. I have come full circle to understand that there is hope in all circumstances. Relocating is no longer a regular occurrence in my life but God still satisfies my restless nature in other ways. I no longer need to move to renew my hope for I understand that I, too, can bloom where I am planted.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
One-Up
Have you ever come across someone who is an authority on everything? Come on, you know you have. No matter how knowledgeable you may be or how much experience you may have, that person will always pipe in with information, as trivial as it may be, that exceeds whatever point you're trying to make--you know, one-up you! I don't consider myself a one-upper however, I have discovered that one-upping is contagious! Yes, when I am one-upped I find myself searching for ways to up that. Does that make me a two-upper or just a double one-upper? Nevertheless, from now on I vow to stand firm when confronted with a one-upper. Rather than search for ways to interject or demonstrate my expertise, I will surround the one-upper with sympathy and love for I understand that a one-upper needs reassurance and security. So, here's to you, one-upper! I will strive to re-evaluate how I relate to people and hopefully, with a little practice, I will find myself immuned to one-upping!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Last Letter to Santa
My family and I spent much of last night going through keepsakes in my old cedar chest. I was amazed at the things I had managed to save: school report cards, my children's artwork from early elementary school, homemade Mother's Day cards, all the letters my father had written to me while I was in the military, and the list goes on...With each object retrieved from the chest, there was a story to accompany it. One item we came across was a letter Rachel had written to Santa in December 2001.
The story: Rachel was nine years old when she wrote that letter and, although most of her friends had told her that Santa didn't exist, she wanted so desperately to hold onto that belief. One day after school, Rachel asked, "Mom, are you and Dad really Santa Claus? My friends say that you are." I asked, "Do you really want to know?" and she replied, "Yes." I told her to come into my bedroom, that I didn't want Morgan to hear, and then I said, "Yes, your dad and I are Santa." She looked at me, tears filling her eyes, and yelled, "You're lying! There is a Santa!" I did what any other loving, nurturing mother would do. I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Yes, you're right. There IS a Santa." From that day on, we never spoke another word about the existence of Santa. The Christmas holiday in the Revels household proceded as normal. The exchange between Rachel and I did, however, sparke a letter to Santa. This would be the last letter she would ever write to Santa. Here it is, errors and all, a letter from a nine-year-old:
Dear Santa Claus,
Are you real? My mom said she is santa. It is me remember Rachel ______. I have a lot of things on my list already. I don't trust my mom. My sister is a pain in the neck. Last year you wrote to me after I wrote to you. The things down below are the things I want for Christmas. You don't have to get me every thing just a few things. Please write to me if you are real. The thing I want the most is a best friend that only I can see and they can live with me. My real best friend is not in my class and she never comes over. November 18, 2001 my best friend was sopposed to come over but my mom would not let her she promisd she could come over but she would not let her. I know this is along letter but I have a lot of things to tell you about. November 21, 2001 I brought a bug to school I showed it to my Principal she thought it was cool. I showed it to my teacher and she was scared of it. This is the list.
List of toys
1. Harry Potter doll
2. Barbie volys wagon
3. A big jeep
4. A piano that can fit in my room
5. Harry Potter
6. A couple of hip hop cds
7. A flexible chair
8. Some movies
9. Air snare
Love,
Rachel
The story: Rachel was nine years old when she wrote that letter and, although most of her friends had told her that Santa didn't exist, she wanted so desperately to hold onto that belief. One day after school, Rachel asked, "Mom, are you and Dad really Santa Claus? My friends say that you are." I asked, "Do you really want to know?" and she replied, "Yes." I told her to come into my bedroom, that I didn't want Morgan to hear, and then I said, "Yes, your dad and I are Santa." She looked at me, tears filling her eyes, and yelled, "You're lying! There is a Santa!" I did what any other loving, nurturing mother would do. I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Yes, you're right. There IS a Santa." From that day on, we never spoke another word about the existence of Santa. The Christmas holiday in the Revels household proceded as normal. The exchange between Rachel and I did, however, sparke a letter to Santa. This would be the last letter she would ever write to Santa. Here it is, errors and all, a letter from a nine-year-old:
Dear Santa Claus,
Are you real? My mom said she is santa. It is me remember Rachel ______. I have a lot of things on my list already. I don't trust my mom. My sister is a pain in the neck. Last year you wrote to me after I wrote to you. The things down below are the things I want for Christmas. You don't have to get me every thing just a few things. Please write to me if you are real. The thing I want the most is a best friend that only I can see and they can live with me. My real best friend is not in my class and she never comes over. November 18, 2001 my best friend was sopposed to come over but my mom would not let her she promisd she could come over but she would not let her. I know this is along letter but I have a lot of things to tell you about. November 21, 2001 I brought a bug to school I showed it to my Principal she thought it was cool. I showed it to my teacher and she was scared of it. This is the list.
List of toys
1. Harry Potter doll
2. Barbie volys wagon
3. A big jeep
4. A piano that can fit in my room
5. Harry Potter
6. A couple of hip hop cds
7. A flexible chair
8. Some movies
9. Air snare
Love,
Rachel
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Same Kind of Different As Me
I just finished reading one of the best non-fiction books I have ever read--SAME KIND OF DIFFERENT AS ME by Ron Hall and Denver Moore. I happened upon this book by complete accident, strolling through Barnes and Noble while looking for another book in specific. As I was leaving the store, the cover of this book jumped out at me and being a special education teacher, the title gave me the impression that the book was about diversity, disabilities, and tolerance, or the lack thereof. In a way, I was right but the story was not at all what I expected. The producers of the movie "Pursuit of Happyness" are working on translating this book to film. It's a definite must-read! In addition, there's a website to visit but only AFTER you've read the book: http://www.samekindofdifferentasme.com/.
"A dangerous, homeless drifter who grew up picking cotton in virtual slavery. An upscale art dealer accustomed to the world of Armani and Chanel. A gutsy woman with a stubborn dream. A story so incredible no novelist would dare dream it."
"A dangerous, homeless drifter who grew up picking cotton in virtual slavery. An upscale art dealer accustomed to the world of Armani and Chanel. A gutsy woman with a stubborn dream. A story so incredible no novelist would dare dream it."
Monday, September 1, 2008
Summer Highlights
.jpg)
.jpg)
My summer days come to an end and so I reflect on the activities as this season passes. Softball prevailed in July.
Camping with family and friends took place in the latter part of the summer. My neice, Shannon, left for Ft. Pickett on August 19th and will head on to Iraq October.
Then, of course, there is Rachel's sweet 16 birthday party!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
A Force to Reckon With
Featured in today's local paper: 12U Fastpitch Softball
This team of girls won the gold in their last two tournaments of the season!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
