The Whole Truth Part I

 This post is part of a series of posts that will be coming to you from other women. Some of them will share their names and some of them will choose not to introduce themselves. These posts will be the Whole Truth. Not the Polite Truth or the Warm and Fuzzy Truth. The Whole, sometimes Ugly, Truth. These brave women have decided to come out into the light and talk about the assaults and crimes they have endured and I am so very honored that they would choose to do it here.

Trigger Warning: All of these posts will likely include graphic imagery. Most of the time we can't hear other's stories until we are no longer enslaved by our own, so if you are still on a journey of healing with your own story, these stories may be difficult for you to read.

And without further ado, this is  a friend who has chosen to tell you her Whole Truth without telling you her name.
                                                                                                            

Where to start? Well, let's say I've never had a good male role model growing up. Until I married my wonderful husband, most men around me have been jerk offs.

My birth father used to beat up and abuse my mother and she ended up leaving him when I was eleven years old, my sister was seven and my brother was one. Then, came my stepfather. At first, he was wonderful and everything I could've asked for in a dad, but once I turned 14, everything changed-the way he rubbed me, the way he touched me and the way he hugged me and how he always tried to find a way to be alone with me. I remember one time when I was sick in bed and my mom wasn't home, he snuck into bed with me and started to stick his hands in my underwear. I told him to stop and he did. He would always come up from behind and hug me but also squeeze my breasts at the same time. I was 15 and very confused. I did not like it. I didn't like that feeling and I knew it was wrong but I did not know how to tell my mom; she seemed so happy, content and full of life with him and I didn't want to ruin her happiness.

When I was 16, I remember hanging out with my mom in her bedroom and mentioning something about it. I don't remember my exact wording but I do remember saying something like "he has been grabbing me or touching me." I was in shock when all she told me was that next time it happened to tell him that I didn't like it when he touched me like that. I never brought it up again until two years ago, she said that she had understood me wrong and that she thought that what I meant was that he was a very aggressive hugger, (which he is) and she didn't think much of it. She said I had not expressed to her exactly what was going on. Needless to say, he turned out like my real dad; cheated on my mom several times and beat her up. She ended up leaving him as well.

By then I was already here in the United States living with an aunt, then came jerk number two and three. Oh yeah and four...geez, so many at once. Maybe it was because I was so young and vulnerable and a virgin and knew nothing about sex and relationships.

When I moved in with my aunt, she was married to my uncle and we also had another uncle living with us who was about five years older than me. I had started college because I was advanced for my age and believe it or not, Mexico’s education is actually more advanced. Anywho, I had also started dating someone in college. He was a wonderful boyfriend; loving, caring, thoughtful. He always brought me home on time and he drove a motorcycle. He had his own place that he shared with a roommate but sometimes we would go there and hang out and watch TV. We had no sexual relationship at the time because I didn't want it, I was too scared. He probably grew frustrated, I'm not sure. I don't know, but one day he decided that we were going to have sex and I repeatedly said no. I got to the point that I was literally wrestling him off of me and we fell to the floor. He suddenly lay completely on top of me. I wasn't able to move because of his bodyweight. He grabbed my wrists and tied them to the foot of a heavy metal table and right then and there he took my virginity. He kept telling me that he loved me the whole time while I was crying and bleeding. After that I didn't want to see him ever again. I avoided him even though he kept looking for me and when my aunt asked about him, I told her we had broken up. I never told anyone about it because I felt guilty about the fact that I had disobeyed my aunt when she had previously told me not to go with him to his place and also the fact that he had mentioned to me that losing your virginity wasn't a big deal and no reason to create such a big fuss. I didn't want to feel like I was overreacting so I just left it alone.

Uncle number one, or my aunt’s husband, was a different type of jerk. He never actually touched me but he did harass me a lot. He would tell me that he had sexual dreams about me and when my aunt wasn't around. he would walk around the house in his underwear. When he would drop me off to school, he would talk to me about different ways and proper ways of giving a blow job. When I finally got the strength and courage to mention it to my aunt we ended up getting into an argument about other things, including her daughter, who I used to babysit and she ended up kicking me out of her house. I was so upset I never mentioned it to her; my thought was "Fuck it. It's her husband; she's going to have to live with him." She ended up divorcing him a couple years later because she caught him cheating with some teenager. 

Uncle number two, the one who was about five years older than me, was around 23 years old. He and I used to hang out a lot because we were both young so we would go to concerts and parties together. Me, being the naïve, innocent little Mexican, had never tried anything involving drugs or alcohol. Well one day we decided to go to the Bob Marley festival in Long Beach, California. If you know reggae music you know it involves a lot of pot. Lots of it, clouds everywhere. He kept blowing smoke my way even though I had never tried pot in my life. He also decided to give me alcohol, which again, I had never tried before and I was under age but I thought I was being cool. I got to a point where I was literally stumbling and could barely walk. We ended up grabbing a cab and going home. Now, let me remind you that this is the uncle that also lived with my aunt, at the same time that I was living there so this happened while I was still living there. I was stumbling to my room when he decided to follow me and told me that he wanted to continue hanging out and to listen to some music. By this time I was completely dazed. The only thing I can tell you that I do remember is the song "One" from U2 playing in the background and him telling me that he wanted to slow dance with me. I remember laughing at him and then he threw me on the bed and had sex with me. I kept telling him to stop and "you're my uncle!!" His response was "half uncle! Your mom and I don't have the same dad." Even in my daze, I remember thinking that it was the stupidest thing I've ever heard. He was also under the impression that he was taking my virginity because he kept telling me that it was better for me to do it for the first time with somebody that I knew well. But that had already been taken care of by my ex-boyfriend, Jerk-off Number Two.  This time I didn't say anything to anyone because I felt like there was no point. The first time I tried, my mom didn't understand me. The second time, I felt guilty and the third time I tried, my aunt didn't want to listen to me.

I've usually tried not to make a big deal out of it. I never really told my whole story to anybody just little bits and pieces here and there. I felt that it wasn't that big of a deal-that I would get over it. But now, writing and reading it all, I guess it is a lot.

 All of these men are now out of my life. I have not seen any of them in years, but I do know that each and every single one of them has somehow been paid back because they are all miserable.

 I’m okay. I've moved on and now I'm just enjoying my husband and my beautiful baby boy. And I'll make damn sure that along with his daddy's help, he becomes a great guy and a man that I will definitely be proud to call my son. Thanks for reading and being there to listen to each and every one of our stories. I needed this. 

Lessons in Grace

Easter hit me pretty hard this year. For the first time in my entire life, Easter was more than a chance to finally wear white pants (I've been wearing them for months now. My fashionable friend says that rule is old school) and it was more than the chance to buy a new dress (I didn't buy anything new this year).

This year, Easter was a glorious day that celebrated the time a homeless, brown man, who was the son of God, came down here and without knowing me, for I would not be born for many more centuries, hung on a cross while his mother wept at his feet just so that I could know grace.

You should all read that run on sentence above as though you had written it. Because He came down here to give all of us grace. So, you, who would not be born for many more centuries, have grace because of a homeless guy who loved you more than words.

The fact that He wept in the garden and prayed that this would not go down, that He would not be humiliated and in excruciating pain and mocked, really got to me this year. Because I'm not a terrible person, but I'm not a great one either and yet, He did that for me. For us He watched his friend betray him, for us He gave his life, for us He died so that we may have grace without making a sacrifice, without having to ask for it. And so now, that I know what Easter is really about, I'm disturbed by how little grace exists in the world. Grace is the greatest gift any of us have ever been given and none of us ever deserved it, for one reason or another.

I never deserved it because I didn't believe in it for a long time, because I often catch myself judging a book by its cover, because sometimes I delight in other people's struggles when I think they deserve it, because I don't always give the grace I've been given. I'm sure if you thought about it, you would find you have reasons like mine. But they're really hard to admit. No one likes to admit that they are an asshole.

Sometimes I take up "personal enrichment projects" where I try to work on one particular thing that I've noticed I suck at in life. Sometimes the projects are "successful" but most of the time I fail because I need more help than my own willingness and willpower can give. About 6 months ago, my personal enrichment project was to not buy clothes for a year. I recognized in myself that I was chasing my value through the way that I clothed myself. And I also noticed that even though I thought my value was tied to my clothing, I was never happy with how much my clothes told me I was worth. I failed at that project. I have bought clothes. I still think about clothes. I have, however, stopped buying clothes just because they're trendy or because they look good on someone else. And I have started to really think about what I like and what I feel good in. I've also given away most of my wardrobe and am down to a few key pieces. I can fit my wardrobe in a suitcase if I needed to and that's not a bad ending to a failure of a project.

On Good Friday, which wasn't actually good at all for Jesus, I decided to make my personal enrichment project Grace. To give it freely and without reason.

Hours into this project, I learned a lesson: Grace gives Blessings. I was driving Fifi to school on a curvy back road that I really enjoy speeding on. Stop judging. I like to go fast. From the backseat, she asked if I would open her granola bar because she didn't have breakfast at home. We were running late. We're always running late so she routinely eats granola bars on the way to school. I never claimed to be a a good mama in the morning. My good mothering only comes out between the hours of 10am and 7pm and that's a long enough work day for me. The other times of day that I am called to mother are not good.

Anyway, back to grace. I slowed way, way down so that I could open her granola bar because we were going around a very sharp curve. As we rounded the curve, there were two baby deer standing in the middle of each lane on the road. Had I been speeding or if I had said "Wait until I get to a stop sign" we would have plowed right into those deer and who knows what would have happened. That was the only affirmation I needed that giving grace is a really good thing.

I've been given many opportunities since then to give grace freely and lavishly. I've experienced a lot of growing pains in trying to become a person who gives grace freely instead of giving judgement and bad thoughts freely. But I am convinced this is a personal enrichment project that has a lot of lessons to be learned and a lot of blessings to be had. It is a project worth my commitment, it is worth my persistence even when I suck at giving grace.

The world needs a whole lot more grace. If we all got together and decided to give grace freely to whomever exists in our own lives, just think of how much extra grace there would be to go around!

Please join me in giving free grace, grace without a price, grace without the expectation of reciprocity. We could all use a little more. And just think of the blessings you might find!

Coming Home

I have been saying for a year now that I didn't think church was a necessary part of faith and that I might never set foot in one again. I still believe that first half; I do not for one second believe that God intended for us to go inside our steepled buildings and shut the world out with stained glass windows. But that last half is where I'm eating crow. God loves to challenge my comfort zone and my assumptions; I think He enjoys doing that to all of us if we're willing to listen.

I'm not sure what made me decide to try church again for Easter Sunday. Don't know when I decided to try Trinity United Church of Christ but when I called to find out what time the service would be, I was already in. The person who answered the phone said it started at 10:30am. Not even a second after we hung up, it occurred to me that she may have given me the time for Sunday School and I am just not there yet. I don't want to be in a small room full of people where class participation might be expected. I just want to sit in a large sanctuary and have one person do all the talking. I called back and said "Was that the time for Sunday School? Because I don't want to come to Sunday School. I just want to come for the service and I don't want anyone to talk to me. I have so much church baggage its not even funny, so I'll be the one in the back pew crying like a complete moron." And she said "You won't be the only one. And you won't be a moron. The actual service doesn't start until just before 11am."

So, I went today and I prayed that I would hold it together. And I did. Mostly. Until everyone welcomed me so warmly. Until I looked around and saw a black woman at the front, a gay couple to my left and a lesbian couple behind me. Before the service started, everyone was just chatting and they weren't even whispering. I even heard someone say "shit."

This is it.
The place I was meant to be my entire life.
These people, in their irreverence, their acceptance of everyone, are being the hands and feet of Jesus.
They have a homeless ministry.
They have a ministry for troubled youth.
These.
Are my people.

The pastor said they would be passing out communion today. He gave detailed instructions for how it would go down for anyone who had never done it before. He said it didn't matter where you were in your life, on your faith journey, who you loved or what you'd done, you could take communion. And I think that's exactly how Jesus would have it. Jesus always knew that the way to draw people in was with a shared meal. I don't believe that he would exclude anyone from partaking in the body of Christ because of any of the things that usually excludes people before they even get started. Jesus never asked us to be perfect before we could follow Him around and try to emulate Him and He certainly never expected anyone to be perfect before they could sit down and eat with him.

Now that I have found a home, I know why God sent me to that tiny church just before Christmas. I finally know a few things. One: God did not allow that horrible thing to happen to me in church so long ago. But He is using it to His advantage, since it did happen. God uses all of us-the good, the bad and the ugly. Two: He told me to go to that tiny church where I felt free, not because it was the place for me, but because He wanted to show me that all of the things that kept me bound and kept me from achieving my purpose, my bliss and my freedom, were just that: THINGS. It was just a small church, just wooden pews, just a musty church smell, just maroon carpet. He sent me to that church to finally let it all go and to show me that I was being enslaved by someone I had not seen in 20 years by allowing what he did to me to define me.

I am free.
I will no longer be enslaved by the bad things that have happened to me.
I am not defined by the wreckage.
I am not defined by the things that I have done.
I am free.
Liberated.
Just like Jesus meant for all of us to be.

Easter

Growing up evangelical, I heard lots of people say "What is this world coming to? Please, Lord, come back soon." It always seemed so odd to me and I didn't really know why until I started reflecting recently.

As a child, everyone in my faith community focused on Heaven and how to get there. Getting there had nothing to do with how you treated people or how much you loved anyone other than yourself. God was an omniscient authoritarian and I also heard quite often "The Lord giveth and The Lord taketh away." I'm pretty sure that's a made up thing and doesn't actually appear in the Bible, which is kind of ironic when you think about it because the evangelicals take the Bible literally and yet, they quote verses that don't exist.

My very favorite uncle has struggled with demons as long as I've known him and even before I came along. His demons looked like drugs when he was much younger, but the effects have haunted him his whole life. The demon that has gripped him for as long as I've been alive is alcohol. Alcohol has become his personality. Awhile back he was sober and sick; so, so sick. Now, he's courting Alcohol again and he's the uncle I remember as a kid. But he has always told me that he doesn't care if I'm right or wrong, he is always on MY side. And that has been 100% true, always.

I think of him as God with skin on in my life. I think of Jesus and God as saying those exact words to me: "I don't care if you're right or wrong, I am always on your side." Doesn't he say that to all of us? If you're in doubt, let me remind you why we celebrate Easter.

Jesus, the only perfect human being to ever live, was a religious revolutionary of his time. People loved him because they weren't excluded from faith anymore. People hated him because they were no longer the religious elite.

 He came here knowing that one day the hate would win. He came here knowing that one day one of his closest friends would betray him. Came here knowing that one day, he would hang on a cross with nails in his hands and feet. He would hang with criminals, He would be taunted by the thief on his left, He would watch his mama cry at His feet.He came here knowing that one day the world would be full of people who never deserved His sacrifice. That we would kill one another with RPG's or that girls would be terrorized into staying home from school. One day we would make our faith an exclusive club for the religious elite of our time and use his name to elevate ourselves. One day children would take their own lives rather than face one more day of torture and pain at school. One day we would stand on sidewalks and condemn other people with huge signs written in red ink, for choices they've made or for loving the wrong person. He came here knowing that one day we would ignore the least of us, we would make our worship a song on one day of the week and nothing more.

And why would he agree to that?
 Because He doesn't care if we're right or wrong, He is always on our side.
He only asked us to do one thing in exchange for that monumental sacrifice-He asked us to be kind, love Him and love each other.
And even when we don't love Him or love each other, He loves us anyway.
Always.

This brings me to the point I was trying to make in the beginning. When we say to God "What is this world coming to? Please, Lord, come back soon and take us home" we spit in the face of the things He has done for us. It is the cry of a spoiled, exclusionary people. We say to Him "I don't care that you made the Heavens and the Earth, that you spoke the grass, sky, trees, clouds, rain and snow into being. I don't care that you made birds that sing on lovely spring mornings or that you gave us flowers that bloom in vibrant colors when the weather turns warm. I don't care that you sent us a son to be the Savior of the world or that He agreed to die an agonizing death so that we may always know how much you love us. I don't care that three days later, He arose and sent a woman out to the community to tell them He IS Risen. None of that matters because this place might as well be the pits of Hell. All I see when I look around is horrendous crimes, atrocities and hate."

And I imagine Him saying "Look a little harder. There are people working to change all that. There are people quietly loving. There are people silently joyful. Follow them. I'll meet you there."

Isn't that just the best news?
We often don't make it seem like it's the best news ever because we make it seem like following Jesus comes with lots of rules. But it really doesn't. It just comes with one: Say, be, do Love.

Resurrection:My Messy, Beautiful

I have written so many versions of this essay. I have typed and deleted. I have sat down and only written whatever I felt and left it all there to be edited and made cohesive later. I have cried. I have quit. I have rejoiced in my truth. But the for real truth about me is that it’s complicated.

My earliest, most vivid memory is being molested by the preacher’s son in the fellowship hall/basement of my very tiny childhood church. I can still smell him and I remember he had cold hands. I was probably about three years old.

My other very early memory, that is a little more fuzzy around the edges, is standing between my mother and biological father and begging them to stop screaming at each other. I don’t remember much of him. The only mark he left on my life was his absence.

My life is a series of deaths and resurrections, just like the Jesus that I denied for so very long. When I was seven years old, my mama remarried the man I will always call Dad. And out of that union, I got a stepbrother and later a half sister, a few extra sets of grandparents and aunts and uncles. We moved an hour away and to a different state than the one that I grew up in so that our new family could live united. It was death of what I’d always known and resurrection of what I’d come to know, all in one.

My feelings about my mama are so complicated I’m not even sure I understand them and I’ve been living with them for almost 29 years. My mama is my champion in a crisis, when my heart is broken, for the important things of my childhood, like skinned knees, dance recitals, prom, graduation, my wedding day, the birth of my daughter, my initiation into motherhood. But for the mundane days in between, she’s less of a champion, less of a friend. She’s consumed by her own demons, her own life, her own failures, her own triumphs. Every word she utters is loaded with feelings of unworthiness and depression. It’s exhausting.

I’ve struggled with body image my entire life because my mama struggled with her body image. Now that I’m a mother, I still struggle but I wish so desperately for my own daughter not to suffer the way I have so I put a smile on, I admire myself in the mirror, I don’t make disparaging comments about my weight, my thighs, the gray hairs that miraculously multiply overnight, my wrinkles and stretch marks. Its death of my self-loathing and resurrection of self love, even if sometimes most of the time I’m only pretending.

In high school I died a little inside by choosing to give my love away to someone who didn’t deserve it and consistently proved his unworthiness. I kept choosing it until after my first year in college. My love was resurrected by a boy who came into the retail store I worked at in the mall and tried on women’s sunglasses because he was funny and unconcerned with appearances if the outcome was humor. He’s still that funny. And almost nine years later, I still feel resurrected on the days that he puts his dirty socks in the hamper or washes the dishes while I put our daughter to bed.

When I became a mother I saw the death of a life full of naps, blessed silence, late nights with friends and solo trips to the grocery store. But I was resurrected the minute I gave birth to the most perfect girl to ever live.  She’s fire and light, sunshine and thunder all in one tiny little body. Suddenly I became incredibly sleep deprived and hormonal but also powerful and ferocious, stopping at nothing to give my girl all the best parts of me.

But then she became a toddler.  She learned to negotiate, she learned to defy boundaries, to ask an endless stream of questions that I tire of answering by 9am. On the day of her very first full on tantrum, I saw the death of what I thought were my perfect parenting skills. The death of my perception that I would be so good at this, my kid would NEVER act like all the little beesters I saw screaming in the cereal aisle of Wal-Mart. I was resurrected on the day that I dropped her off at preschool for the first time and she didn’t even cry. I was free. Free at last!

This is resurrection. This is revival.

As a child growing up in a Southern evangelical home, I died a lot when I heard constant judgments of others, myself, and when I heard the name of God used to justify it all. When I moved out of my parents’ home, I also stopped going to church. For awhile that felt like a resurrection but it was more like a purgatory where I could pretend I was in control of my life.

About the time my discontent with a life without faith collided with the shine wearing off of motherhood, I picked up a new friend, who had never outgrown her evangelicalism.  That period was a resurrection of my faith. When it became clear that our differences and disagreements about faith and religion could no longer be handled carefully and with love, I saw the death of a friendship. In exchange, I found the resurrection of a friendship I have carried with me for half a lifetime.

I continue to see deaths and resurrections in my life on a daily basis. Sometimes within the same hour. 

Everyday my opinions and assumptions are challenged by this new found faith I have. I hear God whispering in my ear and pushing me farther than I’m ever willing to go alone. Pushing me past my boundaries and out of my comfort zone. I’ve only promised to be open on this journey and it has taken me to places I never would have imagined.

A few months ago I found myself on the steps of a tiny church that had maroon carpet and wooden pews just like my childhood church. All because of that whisper I heard. When I almost chickened out, the whisper sounded more like thunder.

That same whisper takes me to a women’s homeless shelter once a month. It keeps me going back because I find so much joy there. I also see a lot of Jesus there. I see Him in their faces. The faces of women who are victims of circumstance, sometimes of their own making, forgotten or condemned by a society that values possessions over people. But just like God doesn’t forget or forsake me, He doesn’t forget them either and He won’t let me forget to have a look around.

All of the deaths I survived when I heard judgments of the homeless or the poor, the downtrodden, the forgotten,  fade away when I remember to look beyond the labels. I am resurrected over and over again when I remember to look, really take a hard look, at the faces of people I meet. Their eyes tell a story much like mine. Of deaths and resurrections. Of peaks and valleys. Of struggles and celebrations.

We are all renewed.

Sometimes multiple times a day.

This essay and I are part of the Messy, Beautiful Warrior Project — To learn more and join us, CLICK HERE! And to learn about the New York Times Bestselling Memoir Carry On Warrior: The Power of Embracing Your Messy, Beautiful Life, just released in paperback, CLICK HERE!

Gifts

I have been giving a lot of thought lately to gifts and how we use them. It all started with this blog post by one of my very favorite women, who I wish I could pay to be my best friend, Jen Hatmaker. Then, one of my real life friends posted this entry on her own blog. And last but not least, my very good friend posted the nicest, most insightful thing anyone has ever said about me here. That's a lot of extra reading so I'll make this short.

When we talk about using our gifts to be the hands and feet of Jesus, we often don't know where to start. The problems of this world seem so big. The bureaucracy and red tape and money it takes to solve them all are so daunting. It seems like we couldn't possibly make a difference or be a blessing and so we decide to just leave it up to someone else who has more time or money or drive. Or so we think. But the truth is, if you find your purpose, find your race, the rest just falls into place somehow.

I bet now you're saying "But how do I find my purpose?"

Think about all of the injustices of this world. There are many so take your time.

Now, think about the one that grips you in the gut. The one that you find the most repulsive.

And then, think about one thing that you do better than anyone else or think about what your true passions are.

It is at the intersection of those two things, your disgust over the inequality and your enthusiasm for something you do better than anyone else, that you find your purpose. In that very place you will also find ecstasy, joy, and delight. It won’t always be easy. Sometimes it will be easier to quit. But it will always, always make you feel alive.