The last article I wrote with excerpts from my life was really meant to illustrate a life without freedom in a different way to get us to realize sometimes we don’t appreciate freedom until it’s gone or we’re desperate for it.  I really didn’t mean the story to be about me or my life.  I just draw from my experiences.

So many wrote to offer sympathy or condolences for my difficult childhood. Thank you.  But I really didn’t want that to be the focus.  Because we’re all coming from our own set of experiences and worldviews, I can see how that could be the thing that stood out for some.  I don’t mean to write about myself, because I don’t want my writing to be about me.  I just have some life lessons that have helped me along the way, and I try to pass some of my gleaned wisdom along.

Because my childhood was painful, it draws attention.  I’d like to offer part of the other half to keep things in perspective and because I think some are curious.

My parents did disown me.  I did try to reconcile a few times.  It never really worked.  My mother died tragically in a freak farming accident sixteen years ago, without ever reconciling.  It was heartbreaking for me.  I had been hoping we would eventually reconcile, so the finality of death was bitter for me. 

She was a harsh mom, and my childhood was devoid of love and affection.  This greatly impacted me, as it would anyone.  My mother’s father, my grandfather, was sexually abusive to my sister.  I picked up the vibes and steered clear of him, so I was spared that anguish (from him).  However, in my efforts to try to understand my mother, I surmised she had her own difficult childhood.  I grew up in an era when families who had skeletons in their closet removed the closet doors and walled them over.  No one talked about abuse, dysfunction, etc.  Honoring family at all costs was the norm.  I may never know what my mom lived with in her childhood.  

I lived two years with my biological mother, and two years in a foster home, before I was adopted.  I encountered a significant amount of abuse in those early years, so I am sure I brought “issues” into my adopted parents’ home.  Topics like this were not talked about in that era, and I doubt my parents were given any instructions.  I’m guessing my own dysfunctions coupled with whatever was going on with my mom, was just fuel for the devil’s fires of destruction. 

My mother died a slow, painful death.  She suffocated to death slowly, and it probably took an hour or two.  She was suffocated by a piece of equipment that crushed her, and no one was there to rescue her.  My only prayer was that she came to know her Creator and receive our Savior’s gift of salvation.  Taking that long to die would have given her time to get her soul right with God, which I pray she did.  Anyone who thinks I was happy or relieved that my mom died, or died in that manner, would be mistaken.  I was grieved.  I wanted reconciliation and I wanted my mom’s peace.  She was conflicted.  I loved my mom.

Four years ago my dad re-entered my life.  He has since remarried and his wife is a kind and lovely soul.  With her encouragement he reached out to me.  He apologized to me, owned some of his actions, and repented.  He had spent the last thirty years thinking I just didn’t come home.  He didn’t realize my mother had locked me out.  I can’t imagine the shock to him when he realized he had believed that lie for three decades.  He has come to walk with God, and he has been a demonstration of true repentance to me.  I am grateful for him and I love him.

I am not angry with my parents.  I forgave them long ago, and longed for reconciliation and healing in our relationship.  Half of that has happened.  Without doubt my life has been kept by my Creator.  I’ve had hard things, yes, but God has been good.  I was a precocious child, strong and independent.  I’m sure I wasn’t the easiest to parent.  I think my mom, without the governance of the Holy Spirit, thought her iron fist was the way to parent.  (The book of) James speaks of the conception of sin, its growth and ultimate leading to death.  My mom’s strict discipline led to abuse because she didn’t have the guidance of her Creator.  My mother, without the Holy Spirit, was a pawn in the devil’s hand for destruction and death.  We quite simply need God. 

I lived with and was trained by a religious spirit.  I readily identify it today in our culture, our churches, our government, and our world.  I spent over fifteen years pursuing deliverance and healing – deliverance from the destructive patterns, habits, cycles and emotions of abuse, neglect and abandonment, and healing from the damage and pain done.  These are things I can now help other people overcome.  It came at a high cost.  I paid it, my husband paid it, and my children have paid it.  If I can help others from that same treacherous and destructive path, it would be an honor and I would feel my life wasn’t for nothing.

Please don’t hold offense toward my parents for my childhood.  I do not.  I appreciate your love and concern, your compassion and your desire for justice.  But I have learned that God is able to manage each and every place of affliction.  He has bought my freedom.  He has procured my healing.  He has been both father and mother to me.  I owe all that I am to Him.