I’m sure you will agree with me when I say life is not always clear-cut? Some days the black clouds hover over our rooftops and we look up to see nothing but trouble. We pull down the blinds, go back to bed, and cover our heads, escaping the darkness.

“God, I can’t take anymore!”– and that’s the end of my prayer, as if I was running low on strength, dependent on the crumbs at the bottom of my barrel.

After the short prayer I do some self-talk: “YOU can do it. YOU can make it through this painful mess.”

Oh my! Thunder. Lightning. My electricity is out. No lights. I plop my body on the couch, hoping to be comforted by the overstuffed pillows that have served my tired soul for years. INSTEAD, tears of anger and fear flood my eyes, fall down my cheeks, and dry on their own. I hear something at my window, get up and look. It’s a hurt bird. I can’t touch it. I would make it worse for the little one. It has to depend on God–like me.

I cry out, “God, please help me– and my little friend. We can’t make it on our own. Please.”

The little bird suddenly takes off, and I smile, and I laugh, and I cry tears of thanksgiving.

“I love you, my child. Tell me where you hurt,” God whispers in my heart.

“God, please forgive me for not coming to You when I fell on my face.”

He filled me with His comfort and strength. Then God stood me on my feet and directed my steps, one at a time, with His feet in my shoes, too.

“Hope fills the afflicted soul with such inward joy and consolation, that it can laugh while tears are in the eye, sigh and sing all in a breath; it is called ‘The rejoicing of hope’” by William Gurnall (1617 – October 12, 1679), an English author and clergyman born at King’s Lynn, Norfolk.

Sometimes I hate writing from the gut. There are enough topical stresses to cope with on a daily basis. However, being real (the theme of this blog) also exposes “unrest in our skin”–or under-the-skin discomforts. So I press on in unwrapping before you some  common and invisible scrapes and bruises that have tormented me (and maybe you). But I promise to not stop there, as that would be like giving you a cup without coffee. Pretty mean.  So I will fill your cup with a special brew of comforts, energizers, and a sidecar of directives for deliverance from oppression.

Today I will describe to you my (and maybe your) enemies and the elements of truth that will make them flee.

Discomfort with the past. Edgy about the present. Worried about the future. I can identify with the person in the photo, looking back, feeling perhaps troubled, and overflowing with pain. How about you? If the person in the above photo, looking back while bracing herself in her present circumstances and anxious about tomorrow remind you of yourself,  you may be interested in reading this article. However, if you are comfortable with your past, calm about your current life (maybe feeling confident in your older chronological age), and not fearful of your future, I welcome you to take a few minutes to read this post and possibly share your encouragement and advice for deliverance from unrest in the skin with others.

As an individual, I have often confronted painful attacks of unrest in my skin, deep and deadly, charged with cyclonic winds driven to unravel the most held-together strands in my soul. Reflecting upon these sharp and heavy attacks, I’ve discovered three properties in my storms (perhaps one or more of these will help you tap into something eating you), three types of damages to my heart (your heart may have been hurt in a like way, leading you to consider if you want to reduce or remove the harmful effects) , and three effective rescue aids that calmed the winds and dried up the rain, leaving me with peace and strength (maybe they will help you. Maybe not).

FIRST, I would like to share with you properties in my storm that have moved me into unrest. This section of the article is the most stressful for me to deal with because it involves undressing myself in front of you, my valued readers. I have to remove my costumes and masks to show you who I have been.

My soul has been whipped by the wind (My faith has been tossed around by negative circumstances), drenched by the rain (My hope has been dampened by the downpour of unpredictable, yet well-meaning situations), and burned by the hot sun (My sense of being loved and loving have been fried to a burning crisp). In sum, my faith, hope, and love have been attacked by the enemy–permitted by God for a season.

SECOND, I’ve discovered three types of damages done to my heart, resulting from the hateful treatment of the wind to my faith, rain to my hope, and sun to love in my life.

The wind has brought me to my knees before God, begging for protection and direction. The gusts have blown off many of my roof’s shingles and the sense of safety I once had has been destroyed. I feel like a puppet, with no arms and no legs, suspended from the endless sky. Trauma!

The rain has also laid me prostrate before my invisible, yet living God, crying out for a life jacket to save me from the drowning flood that’s quickly filling my nostrils and leaving me gasping and gagging. Even my best friends stand back and watch a disaster in the making.  Crisis!

The hot scorching sun throws my face to the ground. I plead for God to transform this burning ball to a dissipating yellow in the horizon. I’m helpless.

Trauma, Crisis, and Helplessness: Unrest in my skin.

THIRD, the experience of unrest in my skin and three effective rescue aids in the treatment of trauma, crisis, and helplessness? There remain an enormous volume of so-called solutions to our problems. Some just work better than others. Quick fixes are just that–laugh-out-loud–quick fixes, and who wants them. They look so inviting and they taste so good, but these quick fixes have a short lifespan and aren’t very faithful. They’re involved for their benefit alone.

I’m going to jump out of my little self-made boat and walk on water, like Jesus teaches me, and share with you what He has taught me about living above my circumstances. For simplicity, I’ve broken the principles God has revealed to me into three parts, as previously mentioned:

(1) Living through my trauma, to me, means to look to God for answers and deliverance. This is not only my opinion, but my conviction. Sometimes in my life God has performed divine intervention, while other times He has sent a person, or a God-orchestrated circumstance. There are times that He permits the pain for a time purposed by Him. The scripture I recall is:  “But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matt 6:33).

(2) Living through my crisis, to me, means to  hold on to God, draw close to Him, and don’t pull away from Him. I’ve read the following Biblical words tons of time and they never grow old. I always need to hear them in my heart: “Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, [therewith] to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me” (Phil 4:11-13)

(3) Living through my helplessness, to me, means to accept my human condition as TOTALLY hopeless without God.  The following verses make me examine myself, for sure: “Let no man deceive himself. If any man among you seemeth to be wise in this world, let him become a fool, that he may be wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God. For it is written, He taketh the wise in their own craftiness. And again, The Lord knoweth the thoughts of the wise, that they are vain.  ” (I Cor 3:18-20).

This article, “Unrest in my Skin,” has defined my personal unrest in my skin, described the results of my turmoil, and addressed treatments I have found helpful in my life. I look forward to hearing from you and learning from you, my dear readers.

The picture above of a person sitting in a wheelchair could be me–or you. Even if you are not wheelchair-dependent for your mobility, you use some type of “device” to get around in the world:  your family name as a forefront identity, a nice looking body that says “I’m desirable,” a motorized turquoise wheelchair with an inaudible ocean spray message whispering”I’m a mermaid at heart.” Anything can be used to identify who we are–or to distract us (and others) from seeing who we really are. Sometimes these selections speak clearly of the real you and the real me, while other times they chip away at our God-given power as children of His, making the enemy of our souls (the enemy can live in the life of anyone who lets him in) shout “YES!” in the midst of our stumbling.

God has blessed me with knowing lots of people from around the world. I talk with people daily: hangout buddies, writer friends, business associates, etc. Being a member of and having led workshops for the International Women’s Writing Guild, I’ve been honored to meet an enormous volume of writers from around the globe. Active in multiple online authors and writers forums, out-and-about almost daily, and being active in my church have connected me with many people. Three specific individuals come to mind this evening. Oddly, all three shared with me that they have lived in silent desperation for years and see no way out. Are they all three women? No. So if you are a gentleman reader, read on, my friend.

These three hurting people live in “emotional” prison with invisible bars. T’ll call them Person A, Person B, and Person C. They each wear different “covers” to deflect the pain from digging deeper in their guts and attempt to camouflage the “crime.”

I knew a woman (Person A) born with a physical handicap (I’m not talking about me, but I will tell you when I am). She never wore lipstick. She wanted to wear it for years, but her mother said, “No!” and “You won’t look right in lipstick.” Her mother also made other decisions for her daughter and the daughter has average intelligence. She just couldn’t walk and take care of her physical needs. A step farther, her mother also told the daughter how much money she could spend from her check. I ill stop here. It just makes me burn inside to think about what her life was like. A point here, even people who claim they love us, like the beloved mother and caregiver (a real security to have, like chocolate tainted with poison), can be used as an enemy of our souls to hurt us, taking advantage of a vulnerable area in our lives to gain control. .

How did this criminal control hurt my friend? Answer: she told me, “I love momma and know she does her best. So what more can I do. I’ve got to love her. Right?” The truth she later admitted to me was that she knew her mother felt better about her own power when she exercised power over her.  My friend didn’t believe she would ever have the right and the power to live any life, except one crippled for life.

It makes me sick to my stomach.

Person B worked almost around the clock. Their spouse was thrilled at all of the money brought in, enjoying spending like there was no tomorrow. The spouse didn’t care about the other person’s decline in health from over-work. All they cared about was being married to a money machine. The appearance of success was all that mattered. Person B actually gave all they had, including their life, to render unto the spouse what-so-ever they desired. Yes, Person B was crippled for life, which led to suicide.

A Tragedy.

Person C is me. Many years ago I was engaged in a relationship that called for my attention twenty-four hours a day. I thought I was to help this person be a success. So I extended myself beyond a full-time job to a full-time job, plus assisting this individual, plus having another part-time job to help them. One day I got sick at my work, as my blood pressure went down to 80–something over 50–something. That’s what the doctor told me, and that I was physically exhausted. She also strongly advised me to stay home and rest for a couple of days. As I turned to roll out of the office the doctor asked me, “Why do you work so much? You must work in a good paying position. So what’s going on with you? Why are you killing yourself?” Then she smiled, put her arm around me, and said, “Mary, you struggle everyday of your life. Why not let them take responsibility for their things and struggle, too? You know, they’re no better than you, dear,” and she gave me one last smile with acknowledgement before my departure.

I’ll never forget those words of advice. If I had kept at that pace I would have worn out my helper apron and lived crippled for life, but I stopped taking up the slack in the other person’s life. I remained connected and helped when I could, but stopped killing myself.

I recently read some material on emotional abuse from Focus on the Family at  http://www.focusonthefamily.com/lifechallenges/abuse_and_addiction/understanding_emotional_abuse.aspx  If you struggle with mental abuse or knows someone who does, please forward them this link.

In summary from the suggested link, emotionally crippling conditions may include some of the following: attempts to be isolated from others, withholding financial resources, contemptuous looks, excessive critical comments, and monitoring their whereabouts and activities.

We all own devices: some visible, some invisible. So if you’re an able-bodied person, you are still living on the same plane of fragility as us folks with what I laugh and call a “disability.” The question for me–and to you–is what device(s) do you and I scoot around in life with? Don’t worry, no one can invade your thoughts. It’s safe to be transparent with yourself.

Crippled for life or primed for victory?

Today I learned that you died. We had just talked, but not really. You forced your pain to remain inside–and I guess I did some of that, too. Odd conversations?! Our sentences seemed to have subjects without predicates.

This month I knew a few people who died in different ways. But you chose to take your life.

You’re gone now and I’m still in shock.

I can remember us talking on the phone and laughing. We even talked some deep stuff. But you’re gone now and I’m sad and angry and almost in disbelief.

A closet must have been a very lonely home. I wish you had come out.

Hours have passed and I must turn in. As I roll my wheelchair back to the bedroom, I whisper, “My friend, you will be missed by me.”

As I lay down I think about my friend in sentences without predicates.  A dark closet. Unknowns.

The  quote grabbed me and shook me. It took my breath. The words “fought, fell, and rose again” got up in my throat, dug in their claws, and refused to leave. The message reminded me of the turmoil that had been boiling through my gut for, what seemed to be, forever. Grappling with decisions to make, desperate to run away with a dark brown paper bag over my head to conceal my real identity was my only aspiration. Digging my heels in the dirt, getting some momentum, and plunging full speed ahead? This was not exactly my version of what I wanted to do. It had been a real ordeal thinking through possible strategies to choose the right one for moving from A to B. All of the strategies had potholes capable of slowing down progress and, if I fell on my face, being laughed at. So what was the problem? Numerous ones.

Just to name a few:

(1) Do I expand my horizon and move to Brooklyn, New York, where I would attend a university with a full scholarship or checkout   a Maryland college less than an hour drive from my hometown?

(2) Do I break up with a longterm boyfriend (who I suspect is selling drugs) or trust his denial as truth?

(3) Do I enter the Miss Wheelchair Maryland contest (lots of fun, but lots of stress) and possibly win (requiring a one year commitment to travel and do guest speaking, lectures, etc.), which would mean going on to the American pageant held in Ohio?

If I chose to cancel the A-to-B goal, what alternatives remained? Would I be settling for life less than the best. Do you know what I mean?

“I’m tired and scared,” is the reason (excuse) I often nurtured in my heart, procrastinating and dodging the goals I really wanted to go for. But did that explanation justify turning my back on what I honestly believed I felt called to do?

In my head I often tightened my fists and banged them on the table a hundred times, sobbing until there were no tears left, angry for letting myself and God down. Sadly, I often forgot that the kingdom of God was within me. Why did I forget? How could I have acted as if God was not here? As if He was not in me?

Several years ago, I was so tired and so scared. It was cold outside. The road was dangerous. A good friend had told me I was crazy for rolling down Northern Parkway, on the corner of McClain Blvd, to catch a bus in a snow storm. Yes, I was unrealistic–and I can still be. But don’t fence me in! I was compelled to go.

I ran into a friend. She tried to persuade me to turn around and go back home. But her “warning” fell on deaf ears. Yes, I was and still have the potential to be a stubborn person.

I rolled on the wheelchair lift of the the Baltimore City Bus, and away I went. After reaching my bus stop destination, I rolled a few blocks, choosing places on the street without snow, and finally arrived at her house.

“Oh, hi! Come in,” Jean yelled from the kitchen. Her voice trembled. I sensed fear.

“Where’s Sharon?” I asked. Sharon was the person I really came to see.

“She can’t come downstairs right now,” Mike (Jean’s husband) answered as he entered the kitchen. He ruled the roost in their house, and always did everything possible to rule anyone crossing his path.

“Mike, Sharon is expecting me,” I said in a calm, but definite tone.

“Don’t matter to me!” Mike responded. A cocky guy.

I rolled from the kitchen to the stairway in the living room and yelled, “Sharon, I’m here! You doing alright?” Sharon had no legs, but she possessed strong arms. To get around she hobbled on her nubs. I loved Sharon. She was intellectually classified as retarded, but don’t believe it for a minute, she was smart as a whip in the things that mattered most.

“Mary?!” She looked into my eyes. A reflection of relief was in her voice.

“Where’s your wheelchair, Sharon?” Somehow I was getting her out of there. I knew in my heart she was just hanging in with them for a season. I could tell. No one told me, but I sensed it deep in my gut.

“It’s behind the stairs.”

Mike must have heard our dialog and walked over to me, pushed his big body against my motorized wheelchair, and blurted out in my face, “She’s not going anywhere!”

Suddenly Mike was called to go outdoors to look at a car his friend was trying to sell to him. I knew I had to call the police NOW!

“Jean, can I use your phone a second?”

“Sure, Mary!” Jean looked scared.

I called 911, told them my friend was being held hostage, and they came. I had been to visit Sharon a few other times and realized her predicament, but did nothing. I was tired and scared and I failed to help Sharon. But this time was different. God blessed my courage to not listen to others, but to press forward to follow through with my conviction and help Sharon. Oh, Mike gave all of us, including the police, a hard time, but it didn’t matter–and I had to smile.

Making decisions and following through to complete the mission may not win us a popularity contest. It could be a dangerous decision that makes us tired and scared, but rising with courage brings valued achievements, including deliverance from the clutch of an evil man.

Are you convinced by God to do something? Tired and scared? Let your weary distress and fear go. Pray. Lean on God.  Move forward. Set yourself free–and maybe a friend.

God is the Potter. We are the clay.

The easiest thing to say is “I love you.” It’s such a common expression, read on billboards, labeled on key chains, and yelled across parking lots to passersby. But what does it mean? Why is it written? What’s the purpose of yelling it across the parking lot?

At times I get sick of seeing the word in multiple print forms, and hearing the love word paraded in audio format can be wearing. But there are exceptions. Those times the love word comes with a sincerity of heart are treasured and unequaled.

The photo above leaped in my face.The beauty and transparency I saw in the two people’s faces penetrated my soul with an unusual warm glow. Their interaction reminded me of what I’ve experienced when I sat quiet with God, who–to me– is a person: trust, safety, openness, vulnerability, a highest of esteem.

Sincerity of heart:Freedom from deceit. A true gift from God. And you don’t need two good working arms and legs to engage in this gift.  All you need are two lives willing to unwrap themselves for each other.

Thick black hair, chocolate brown eyes, and a warm full smile, Frank was the biggest tease I ever knew. He had exceptional skill in hitting my hot buttons, grabbing my attention, and getting me to look at him. At eighteen years of age, we sat in in the same model motorized wheelchairs in the same classes at Woodrow Wilson Business School, part of the Woodrow Wilson Rehabilitation Center in Fishersville, Virginia. However, I worked hard to keep a distance from him. It was my responsibility, remain focused on the academics. But something happened, something that turned my heart and life upside down: love deeper than friendship.

In class, Frank always completed assignments before most students– and got good grades. He was a nice guy, but I sometimes found his distracting behavior irritating (Is that the right word?). I was going to school to learn the nuts and bolts of accounting, not my favorite subject (but an available program at a wheelchair-accessible school), while Frank appeared to be sailing through to attain credentials–and not worry about a thing.

“Mary?” He called my name from several rows away.

I always responded to Frank the same way, twisting around to give him a dirty look and quickly returning to my attentive position, until our relationship changed.

The first week Frank sat in the back row and I sat in the front. The positions we chose to sit made statements about Frank and me. Frank, a confident student, never worried about a thing (on the exterior). He selected a relaxing place to occupy the classroom. But I claimed the second row from the front (on the end), never missing information–and a chance to get acquainted with the instructor.

By the end of the first week I rolled to class, filled the space I had chosen in the second row, and there was Frank. He pulled in next to my desk.

“Hey, aren’t you lost?” I asked him.

“No, I was just moved here. There’s more room. So you mind?” He smiled.

“Well, I don’t mind, as long as you’re quiet.” I issued to him a sarcastic grin.

The next day was Saturday. No class. I got busy doing homework. A girlfriend asked me to go to the movies–and so did an employee. But I didn’t go. I wanted to keep my nose to the grindstone and, yes, I wanted private time to think about Frank. He was so doggone different.

Sunday came. I went to church, bought a salad, and returned to my room.

Knock. Knock.

It was Frank.

“Oh! Hi. Umm, are you lost?” I asked him, with irony on my face and in my voice.

“No, Mary. I asked around, until I found you. I have something for you. It’s not much, but, well, here it is.”

I opened pink tissue paper and there was a beautiful rhinestone heart pin. I was speechless. I sat still and glared at him. Tears filled my eyes. He leaned forward, wiped my eyes with his fingers and placed those tears on his cheeks. Then he attempted to bend forward to kiss me, but lost his balance and fell on top of my upper torso.

I laughed and giggled and laughed some more. Then I helped him sit up straight.

“There. Are you more comfortable now?” I asked in a warm, tender voice.

“Not really.” Frank looked serious and I saw a tear in his eye.

I couldn’t look at him. I just couldn’t. So I gazed down to the floor and whispered, “Thank you for your h–. I mean the heart. Thank you.”

“Mary, please don’t slap me,” and he kissed me, softly, and passionately, and very long.

When we came up for air both of our faces shined brighter than the sun.

Frank and I both lived to the fullest, dating, and graduated in two years. We returned to our hometowns, wrote letters– up to twenty-five handwritten pages long, and visited every three or four months for years–until he died from terminal stage Muscular Dystrophy.

It was a love deeper than friendship.

You may have someone in your life and a love deeper than friendship. Allow it to turn your life and heart upside down, if only for a season.

Enjoy your blessing.

Each evening I take a few moments to roll outside right before sunset, look up to the sky, and think about the  experiences that cross my path when day is done. Times of laughter, serious conversations, and inspirational moments  surface in my mind. Then there’s those trying situations that insist on being acknowledged., too. But this evening is different for me. This day I ask myself, “What in the world is  behind all of these human exchanges? Is there more than meets the eye? Am I too occupied with the tasks at hand to hear God’s quiet, holy voice?

Tonight I’m serious. No laughing. No joking. I grab my sweetened tea and wheel a few yards from the domesticated living space to the great outdoors to join the crickets.

God, I’m listening for You. Please make your presence real to me. I’m dense, Lord, but I don’t have to tell you that. So please make Yourself obvious to me.

Suddenly the sound of a child playing nearby makes me turn my head and watch her play with her darling puppy. Snuggling with the cherished newborn, kissing the baby on his wet little nose, and petting his soft coat warms my heart. The tenderness between the little girl and her new playmate– strong, yet delicate — sweeps through my spirit.

I talk with my special friends. Their bond is too special to not be shared. So I suggest that they visit our next door neighbor.

Day is done, and  I heard from God.

Are you like me?  Do you sometimes hide behind a smile?

Trust me when I tell you I can be a real con artist. Do I get a thrill from the power of tricking other people into believing certain things about me? Absolutely not. In fact, the effects of me hiding behind my smile can be the opposite–negative. Behind the scene, the energy I have sometimes used to develop strategic thinking and put into effective action a smile has been a hardship more rigorous than what I’ve heard is experienced in giving birth without pain medication. Like a pregnant mother, I have carried in my heart a unique life substance that kicked its feet and threw its arms, protesting release from its imprisoned confines, but first checking all directions to make sure the coast was clear–less being chewed up and spit out.

Total transparency? I have never known one soul who is totally open. To me, few people brave it out in the raw, without using some sort of smile as their armor.

“My, you have a beautiful smile!” This is what I used to hear all the time, until I chipped my front tooth’s crown. Now I still smile, but my armor is cracked–and I feel that all the time.

Maybe you don’t see yourself with a pretty smile (like feeling that My smile is ugly). Maybe you use something else as your smile, like your nice shiny car (Thoughts such as What a beauty! People will think I’ve got it together), divorce and available marital status (Feelings may include I’ll have sex with her/him in my head–or maybe mess around, but I don’t dare get tied down, though I really love her/him, because I’m staying safe and never loving again), educational credential (I have a PhD, so someone will certainly hire –desire, want, value me–), or maybe getting into the workaholic mode (My life circumstances are so painful that I have to stay busy–or I will crash, crumble, shatter inside).

What is your smile? Is it your car? Your marital status? Your education? Your time commitments and accomplishments related to your work? Do they serve you well? Do they help you tolerate the things you can’t change and give you the boost you need to address and choose what to do with those issues and elements that rip your insides to pieces? Or does your smile give more space and time to drag out your pain?

I’ve hidden behind my smile more times than I can count. Sometimes my smile has won for me favor from others, and opened doors to new friendships and business relationships. But other times my smile has been a disservice to me, delaying/prolonging the inevitable–issues I needed to face and choose what to do with, so I could move on with my life.

I had a very close friend who chose suicide. I sat beside her open coffin, gazed at her, and held myself back from screaming, “NOOO!” Believe it or not, she smiled more than me. Serious. But her armor lost its effectiveness. She saw no other options, but to “throw in the towel.” Unfortunately, the “towel” was “her.” My wonderful friend who I loved so much chose to throw herself away. A lot to discard.

I still weep about my friend’s violent act against herself–and me.  She was especially close to my heart, because her arms looked like mine–deformed. She had Arthrogryposis, too. And she was brilliant and successful and beautiful, but secretly lonely for love. And now I turn to look at me. My problem? My stress? I had to accept her suicide as her choice. Secondly, I had to accept the fact that I was very angry at her. I was enraged. It occupied my heart and often tormented my waking and sleeping hours for a long time (yes, years–though I’m saddened to admit this truth about me). And maybe I was secretly afraid that I would, one day, do what she did.

Hiding behind a smile? Does your smile serve you well? I hope it does, moving you toward your aspired goal. Do you know why you hide behind your chosen smile? I hope so, empowering you with understanding and personal growth.

Do I hide behind a selected smile today? Yes. Laughter is one of my most used armors.  Do I understand why I hide behind my smile? Yes. It places my pain in the palm of God.

“Here I am, God.”

Whether you’re a big person or a little person, it is likely that you have been abused sometime in your life. Physical, emotional, or spiritual abuse? One can be just as harmful as the other. Ask a victim from each of the three major area which type of abuse is the most painful and damaging. Most will respond that there’s no way to really measure it. Pain is pain, destruction is destruction, and memories are memories.

Several obstacles often face the abused, but three major ones are:

(1) Disbelief in it really being abuse that happened to them.

(2) Determination to keep it a secret.

(3) Willingness to take the blame for the abuse.

Disbelief in it really being abuse that happened to them:

Disbelief that it’s real abuse, but is instead “just part of life”  is a common position taken by the abused individual. The person does not want to admit they have been abused by, perhaps, a person they love–or one they have depended on for either financial support, physical assistance, or whatever is regarded as important to them.

I had a friend many years ago with a disability who desperately needed a home to live. The home owners (a married couple) provided for my friend one blanket to wrap in and sleep on the floor, one meal a day (cheaper food than the couple ate), and sexual favors required by the man.  My friend had nowhere to live, so they put up with the mistreatment for a while. To clarify, my friend NEEDED a home to live and no one wanted her, because she was born with no arms and no legs, and a very, very low Social Security check. Not even her family wanted her.

As her friend, I felt angry, and ready to be her advocate. No one else wanted the job and my friend was not equipped to help herself.

My friend was intellectually challenged and I knew I had to help her. In retrospect, we had had a great day. I coached her to use public accessible transportation in Baltimore City. We had covered a lot of territory, just being slowed down by a set of rail road tracks we had to cross to get to the mall. This super big mall was on the other side of the city. We laughed the whole day. It was so much fun! But when we headed back to her house she teared and tried to hide her tears from me.

I asked her, “What’s wrong?”

She freely told me about her harsh conditions, but constantly said, “But it’s not their fault though.”

I could see she was scared to death. So I asked her if she would like to move in with me (I had a large apartment–two bedroom–two bath– and was single).

“Yes and I’ll sleep on the rug.”

“No, you’re a human being and I love you and there’s a bed with a nice mattress in your bedroom.”

Her eyes gleamed. She readily took me up on the offer.

The next step was to tell her landlords that she was moving out. So all of us gathered in the living room and I waited for my friend to open her mouth.

Suddenly she rolled her motorized wheelchair up close to me, leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You tell them.”

I spilled the beans in a factual manner. The high and mighty landlords became angry and the man told her she had to stay until the end of the month.

I turned, looked straight into his eyes and said, “No! She is coming with me.”

The man grabbed my wheelchair, towered his body over mine and yelled “You shut up, NOW!”

I looked toward the entrance, signaled to my friend to follow me out, and we both left, while the “man” continued to romp and rave. As we left the house, the female landlord bragged, “You’ll miss the hot meals and good treatment you got here.”

My friend and I shared the apartment for months, until she met an older lady who lived on another floor and was retired–home all day. I worked full-time. So her next move was even better for her with a roommate who loved home-cooked stuff, instead of microwave entrees and quick and easy things.

Wow! This story makes me smile.

Determination to keep it a secret:

Every person with a disability, especially women, eventually bring up the topic of abuse sometime in conversation at seminars, workshops, support groups, etc. It’s not a topic that waves its hand a lot, but if a person’s heart carries the subject around in their soul, like a campfire it bursts in more flames each time kindling is thrown in.

The kindling may be discrimination in the workplace, because of a wart on their face,  or whatever the employer deems a legitimate reason to turn them down. This time I’m pointing to myself as a victim. BUT I must tell you that in spite of all of the rejections not making sense, I know God has never left me.

Have I tried to keep the discrimination problem in my life a secret?

Yes, when I believed it would negatively affect the outcome, I said nothing about the pattern I saw.  I earned a PhD –highest honors– 98.7% average–but it didn’t matter. For three reasons I tallied over three-hundred no’s:

(1) Job market is flooded with applicants

(2) The job was fazed out

(3) Discrimination because I am physically “challenged.” They don’t want me around, because they don’t think I can do the job. OR they are not comfortable with me, because my “handicap” is no big deal–except to them. The problem is the handicap is an attitude problem of theirs. My motto is Test-drive me, instead of rejecting me.  This test-drive approach clarifies reality and puts the truth under a bright light.

Willingness to take the blame for the abuse.

Remember my friend in the first section of the story? “She freely told me about her harsh conditions, but constantly said, ‘But it’s not their fault though.’” That says it loud and clear.

A second illustration follows:

“Please, mommy. Please! Stop. Please. It’s my fault. I was clumsy. It was an accident, Mommy, but please,” the little girl screamed.

I heard her from outside the bathroom at a local shopping center and had to use their facilities, but was not exactly excited to enter the lion’s den to go to the bathroom and what would i find in there and what would i do and what could they do to me if the abuser felt the need to wipe me out?

i took a quick moment to ask God for his protection and sailed in to find a little girl picking up puzzle pieces from the floor.

“And you get every piece from the floor, ” the mother watched as her apparent daughter obeyed.

“But mommy, I’m tired,” she cried.

“Stop that crying right this minute. You hear me? You know what, girly, you’re useless!”

The child finished gathering all of the pieces in a puzzle box and the mother emptied the entire box of pieces out on the floor again.

But what is the mother doing? Why is she doing this to her little one? I wondered.

“Now you’re going to pick the pieces up three times, until you learn your lesson to be neat and clean–always, and when we get home you’re going to clean up your toy box, just like you are doing with this puzzle and when you’re all grown up your life will shine like a star, instead of being such a damn slob.”

i was stunned. why would a mother treat her child like this?

i rolled up to the toilet and noticed no toilet paper, but remembered i had kleenex in my purse. so i used them, deciding not to ask the hateful woman for some. if i had spoken with her she would possibly yell at me and find something about me to pick on.

i hurried in the bathroom and flew from the scene, looking for a security officer to tell them what happened.

“Well, you know, we can’t get involved,” the officer said.

Uunless someone is killed, I thought.

Abuse lingers. It can grow, infect, and do serious damage.

The effects of abuse can last a lifetime.

Some things can be done. I know that to be true.

Don’t believe the lie. Stand up.

Don’t give up and don’t give in. But why?  I couldn’t stop thinking these words, words I had heard from God in the past. As I rolled down a long, endless road, with no thought of  where I was or where I was going, a divine meltdown had finally overtaken my heart. After years of pushing some painful realities under the rug–safe and sound, and just concentrating on the good stuff, I had become Humpty Dumpty, having a great fall. The crash wasn’t visible to the naked eye. No one could view me hit the floor and tell me they could understand what I was going through, or stay away from me to avoid contact, since they had no idea what to say.

Every element of support I ever had appeared to dissipate into nothingness, like soft wet snow falling on an area of ground warmed by sunshine. My countenance had wilted. Happy “me” was gone. I had a brand new face, a strange one–not recognized– and a massive renovation had perforated the fiber of my soul. A weather-beaten warrior, I asked myself, ” Who have I been? Who have I become?”

Frozen in time, I still had enough sense to realize I needed divine intervention. No one but God could search my heart and tell me of the deeper truths, those only detected by the Almighty. God–my Best Friend, my Protector, my Teacher, the One who loved me most–was here.

I sat alone, in silence. How long? I don’t know.

A strong, yet warm presence came upon me. It was clear and sweet and tender. I had met this presence before.

Like hallow boards used for the framework in a house standing on borrowed time, my flimsy life was similar in fragility–blistered, torn, and going down into darkness. So I cried out to my Shepherd, “Oh, God! Help me, please. I feel numb and I’m shaking.”

His authoritative voice instructed me, “Don’t give up and don’t give in!”

“But God?” I felt abandoned by God. Those were the only words He had spoken to me. I wanted more details, but that was it.

“But why, God? Why won’t you tell me more? Do I HAVE to ALWAYS live by faith?”

And God remained silent, like He always did when I protested.

Today, nothing has changed. A different year, but the same God with the same message.

Are any among you feeling destitute? Lifeless? Hopeless? I’m not a preacher or an evangelist. I’m actually an author and and artist. But more specifically, I’m Mary and I’m sometimes called Pixie. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in life, yet God continues to bless me with cherished relationships and opportunities to serve Him. As I have shared with you, I have fallen flat on my face, like Humpty Dumpty, and relied on God to raise me up again and again and again.

I can’t promise you that God will make it all better in your life. That’s His choice. But, I do encourage you to do what He told me to do: “Don’t give up and don’t give in.”

I pass this message to you because I believe it’s from the Divine. Why do I believe it’s from the Lord? Because God has made it plain to me that He will honor our lives as we walk in faith.

Don’t give up and don’t give in.

We sat in private (a hospital waiting room years ago), talking. Painful. So painful I couldn’t speak.

Her little girl was visiting the most important person in her life. Tears filled her eyes and flowed down her cheeks. She fell into her stoic mother’s lap, wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, reached for her mother’s hand, and begged her to “Tell them you love me, Mommy.”

I felt so out of place and wished I could have ran away, but I was a patient there (dental surgery at a major university hospital). So no such luck. I had to hear the little girl’s plea, feel her desperation, and want to shake the selfishness and hatred from the mother’s soul.

“Honey, you know I love you. Now get down–and stop it!” Dear mommy’s insincere tone of voice, with its intentional elevation to suggest a righteous emphasis, attempted to downplay the unspoken truth that she didn’t want to be bothered.

I fumed with anger–but it was none of my business. I had no right to butt in, yell at the mother, and carry the little girl home with me. I wasn’t even a relative.

“Mommy? Tell them you love me,” the child asked a second time.

I was feeling pretty rough after sitting from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. in a dental chair while the team of three poked needles in my upper and lower gums, cut back the gum lines, shaved down the bone holding six upper and lower teeth, and poured in permanent glue to anchor brand new crown plates over my teeth. The surgery was finally over. The team had recommended two appointments to get the job done, but I didn’t want to have to look forward to another surgery and pushed for a one-time deal. And now it was over, except for the pain. But I was numb for now, not thinking about the agony ahead. Trust me, your mind would not have been on yourself, if you had seen and heard this poor child.

I left the waiting area and headed for the cafeteria to attempt to sip on some warm (per instructions from the dental department) coffee, realizing I was on liquids for the next day, then soft food for twenty-four hours and finally real food from that point on. I took a detour to the restroom, flipped on the light, and looked in the mirror at myself. Horror! I tried to open my dumb mouth to peek at the results of twelve brand new crowns, but all I could see were black threads, swollen gums, and blood.

Creepy! I looked like a monster.

Then I attempted to join the upper and lower crowns, but, unable to feel, a strong sense of powerlessness and helplessness suddenly ripped through my heart. Someone wanted the bathroom, so I washed my hands, scooted out the door, and decided to stop by the gift shop to buy the little girl a doll. I didn’t know if the child would even be there, but I took a risk, worrying as I raced from the gift shop to the elevator to head one floor up if the mother would even object.

My head was spinning as I got out of the elevator and zoomed into the waiting room. And there they were.

“Excuse me, miss, but I was wondering if I could give your little girl this doll?”

“Oh?! Why–sure.” The mother tried her best to smile, but appeared surprised–and speechless.

The little girl looked at the doll. And then she looked at me. A slow grin came on her face.

I kissed the doll on the forehead–and slowly handed it to her.

She reached out, took the doll, and she, too, kissed it on the forehead. Then she ran to me and kissed me on the forehead, stood close and let me kiss her on her forehead.

“I love you,” I said to her.

“I love you, too,” she responded with a smile, watching her mother turn her back against both of us.

She and the doll sat in the floor out of the way of traffic, embraced.

I rolled by her mother and whispered, “Thank you.”

“Thank you, too,” she responded.

I can’t explain the situation between the mother and daughter, but I’m glad we met– even if it was in painful circumstances.

Every time I pray I’m wrapped in freedom. Not walking doesn’t matter anymore. I can’t hold the laughter in. I’m so delighted! The very act of quiet time with God? Well, it blows the tires right off my wheelchair frame, stands me up straight and tall, and coaches me to fly.

Crazy, huh? Well, you try praying. I’m serious. Maybe you don’t use a wheelchair, like me. Perhaps you lean on education and the things you were given in the program to make you competent to do the work. Or job experience or accumulated lessons gained by much blood, sweat, and tears may award you the right to perform tasks placed before you. Finally,  an inherited position may have zipped you up the ladder, promoting you to a prestigious position. These three examples of support may offer us more choices and increased autonomy, but all of them fall short of the freedom gained in earnest prayer with God.

Freedom gained in earnest prayer?

Yes!

For those of us drawn to “just the facts,” dig this: Among the multitudes of ways freedom is gained in prayer, science has taken a step forward in affirming this truth, as noted in Dr. Debra Williams’ article, “Scientific Research of Prayer: Can the Power of Prayer be Proven?” (http://www.plim.org/PrayerDeb.htm)– “The results of the study are not surprising to those of us who believe in the power of prayer. The patients who had received prayer as a part of the study were healthier than those who had not. The prayed for group had less need of having CPR (cardiopulmonary resuscitation) performed and less need for the use of mechanical ventilators. They had a diminished necessity for diuretics and antibiotics, less occurrences of pulmonary edema, and fewer deaths. Taking all factors into consideration, these results can only be attributed to the power of prayer.”

In I Chronicles 12-14, the Lord sent men to help David, which manifested an impressive army. In God’s wisdom, He had each man serve at different and much needed tasks in the battle. God also shed His grace on the upcoming King by allocating tremendous generosity through Hiram, King of Tyre, with messengers, cedar trees, masons, and carpenters in place to build a house for himself and David. Obviously, God had a single purpose for David. This young man would be King.

Can you think of a time God was preparing you for a purpose? A unique role. A calling. A reason for living. Our Master, in all-wisdom and all-power, knew what it would take to bring His will into physical reality.

As a little girl I had an intense interest in how adults’ minds ticked. At three years of age I could detect the nervousness and tension in big people’s hearts. What I particularly recognized, though I had no words to express my awareness at the time, was their frequent  on-edge feeling, uncertainties, and push to do their best to come across adequate–with a plastic smile. I guess I was aware of where they were, because it seemed to be where I was, too. You see, I also wanted to appear “good enough,” because I wore “inadequacies” on the outside of my being–my physical “handicap.” So I tuned in to others’ feelings and empathized with the big people.In a certain sense, this likeness made us unspoken friends.

Growing into adolescence didn’t change this described position I usually held with adults. I continued to feel their burdens to stand up straight and walk the line. Years passed, I became an adult, and still carried the condition of fragility on my exterior for others to eye at will.

Following my teenage years, I stepped into the exciting stage of young adulthood, which included career identification and development. The people who knew me best declared that I was destined to be a social worker, clinical psychologist, or writer–and I wasn’t sure. I ultimately became a vocational evaluator (for a season), while as time permitted, I wrote short stories, essays, articles, and novellas, getting lots of rejection slips, with a few acceptances here and there.  Some divine direction was taking place, clear to God, but still fuzzy to me. But God wasn’t finished with me, yet.

In my early thirties, I was graced with a loyal friend and writing mentor, who encouraged me when I wrote and stood back and assured me that she would always be there for me when I returned from other work: “Pixie (one of my nicknames), you know your calling and you will do it when you’re ready.”

She was right.

So what holds us back from our callings?

My biggest resistance to serving God as a writer has been twofold– fear of failure and fear of success: God, what if I use the wrong words, say the wrong things, and waste years saying nothing? (Fear of failure.) Lord, what if I actually succeed? What will I be in store for? Will I have to be someone other that who I am familiar with?And God, You never want me to be a bestselling author, DO YOU? (Fear of success.)

Being transparent about my fears have unshackled me from the chains that once held me back. Entrusting my feelings with true friends and associates have strengthened the muscles in my legs, enabling me to jump the hurdles. For example, my blog, “The Opportunity to Be Real,” continues to be a platform for me to be “real” and encourage my readers to grow in their authenticity, too.

God knew exactly what David needed to become King–and He provided it. You may be facing doubts and questions regarding an emotionally haunting and recurring calling on your life. You may be scared, dragging your feet, delaying confrontation and embracing your purpose. If this sounds anything like you? Trust me, I understand, but I also encourage you to press on. God will provide what you need to meet His call on your life.

Just think how exciting it will be for us and King David, when one day God calls us home, wraps His mighty arms around us and shout, “Well-done, my child. Fulfilled!”