Clouds roll dark over Wisconsin sky. Late spring breathes its way through the cracks of our front porch, nipping at my skin. My son enters the room and tells me plainly- “It’s raining today. And the birds aren’t singing." April days have breezed their way into May, but he’s right, the dawn seems to have brought no melody. The “drip, drip, drip” of water is the only chorus we hear. As the firmament’s tears continue to fall, I remember-April marked awareness for child abuse and sexual abuse. Gardens of broken beauty are hidden in more places than we know. There are fragile flowers entangled in thorns of torment, their roots being slashed by all the pain. Their blossoms lay dormant yet longing to grow. The heavens mourn this morning, as children wander, longing to be found. All the while, their souls are drifting to a far-off place called stolen innocence. If we walk carefully, their small cries might gust us towards the wasteland of their souls. We might catch a glimpse of them emerging from the shadows as they tiptoe towards the light…searching trepidatiously for something to make them feel alright.
Broken children with hearts battered, beat down black and blue…Broken children whose words are caught vulnerable behind cracked and crippled lips. Broken children who are imprisoned to the memories and shackled by the fear. Broken children who have touches, comments, pressures, unwanted interactions that are now a part of you. Broken children unprotected. Broken children who think their Father stands off in cold indifference, wondering if He could love the used. Broken children who are doubting and confused. Broken children who think they are to blame. Broken children who push it all away as if it wasn’t a big deal, in the hopes it will disappear. Broken children who have tried to speak, only to be shut down. Broken children who were told to just forgive. Broken children who drown in waves of guilt for all that they still grieve. Broken children who see their abuser minimize and deflect responsibility. Broken children who see the wrongs covered with false apologies. Broken children scarred by disturbing shame. Broken children whose faces have grown older, but inside their child remains. Broken children-these thoughts I pen-they bleed for each of you.
Who I am
-Sometimes someone hurts you so bad that you stop hurting at all. That is, until the smallest thing reminds you. And before you know it you are drifting back into all the pain, wishing you could vanish into thin air. A heavy sadness fills my soul. I am lost in that sorrow, unable to see the light. I am unseen and unloved…if I am anything at all.
-I am a child. I just turned 8. You don’t know it, but my heart is sad. I close my eyes tightly each night, hoping, pretending, that if he finds me sleeping, his touches won’t hurt as bad. I sing Jesus loves me here at school…but His love is not something I really know. My tummy hurts most days…it’s all tied in knots. I race my brother off the school bus, trying to flee, but still his touches come find me…I wish someone else would come find me.
-I’m a child just stepping into teen. Dad yells at mom and mom cries a lot. School is the only place things seem ok because my teacher makes me feel special-like for once someone else cares. He tells me I’m doing great in his class and that he likes my long hair. He shares dreams he has about me that are confusing to hear. Sometimes I feel dirty with how he talks. The ways he sees me makes me feel both ashamed and adored…both found and lost.
-I’m in high school. People tell me these are the best years of my life-that I get to live them carefree. I won’t admit it, but I feel like a child, with no clue how to explain the weight inside me. It took just one interaction with an immature boy. He told me I was pretty, that he “wanted to have fun.” I don’t know how it happened, but with those four words, dark memories rushed back. Coming in fragments and covered by grays, I remember the night my cousin grasped my arm, beckoning me to have fun. How am I supposed to share how tainted I feel when I don’t know why his pressure back then makes me feel stained still?
-I’m a wife, but my husband treats me in ways that make me feel less. I never imagined that this is what marriage would be. But he tells me this is what I must do as a submissive wife. When I don’t meet his expectations, the porn is just one click away. I can’t share this because it’s too dark and deep. And if anyone found out he would blame me.
-I came to my pastor for help. Sharing doesn’t come easy to me, but he has a way of making me feel safe. Sometimes he rubs my hand in tender ways. His smiling eyes reveal he is just being compassionate. He sends me texts with words of affection. It seems a little weird, but I tell myself it’s nice that he cares. I feel swallowed up in a sea of confusion with no clue how to explain. He’s helping me, yet there are times he makes me feel unclean.
-My dad says he loves me, but if this is how dads love children, I don’t want any part. Every time I shower, I try to scrub off all the dirt. I must be bad because my Father in heaven punishes me a lot.
-I went to church today. All of me felt dead inside as I met my abuser’s stare. He tells me I look nice and touches my arm soft. Just a little sweep of his fingers and I know I will never be able to talk. I’m in a place that is supposed to provide safety, but I can hardly breathe.
-I’m a child, but I know I’m not really a child. I look in the mirror and I see a woman full grown. Time has brought changes, but my heart…how it still aches. I put one foot in front of the other pretending I’m ok. Sometimes I am, but the truth is-sometimes I’m not.
-I hurt myself. It’s something you call “self-harm.” You don’t seem to get it because you don’t really ask. I tried once to tell you what happened, but you acted like what I said didn’t make any sense. It made me feel both crazy and condemned. We don’t talk about these things because they are taboo, but if we did you would see that this is one pain I can at least control, see, and feel.
-I step on the scale at least 10 times a day. When I was forced to give myself, I could do nothing, but I can choose what I eat. I starve my body because it has betrayed me.
-The clock turned back today without my consent. It came back in a name, a sight, a scent. It’s been years, but still I must sift through the damage abuse has carved on me. I’m the male who sits beside you in the pew. I'm the child crumbling in hidden terror. I’m the wife who doesn’t know how to explain the things my husband does to me. I’m the aged saint in the nursing home. I’m the one you would least expect. We are all just children deep down inside…lost, but longing to be found.
My penning ceases as the sound of little footsteps draws near. “Momma! Black birds are near the robin’s nest!” I’m up in an instant. Sure enough, two crows are hovering over the nest, pecking for eggs. I am furious. I hate crows. They gang up on the vulnerable in groups called murder… “not much different than those who prey on the weak,” I think. When I hear they are swarming the helpless nest perched on our outside light, I’m suddenly a crazy woman, running at them with arms flailing, not caring if I’m causing a scene. The black dressed fowls fly off, cawing maliciously as I step up on a ladder, surveying the damage done. Three little eggs rest safe. Don’t robins usually lay in sets of at least 4? I could kick myself for not checking sooner to see how many there were. It’s probably better I don’t know. I grab the life jacket with the ladybug face and snap it around the ladder. I plaster a neon pink helmet on the highest step, wrap what tinfoil I have around the frame, and throw some boots below. My makeshift scare crow will have to do. Rain is bucketing down, and call me nuts, but I feel slightly paranoid that crows have their eyes on me. I dart inside and wait for the momma bird to return.
The truth is I don’t know why I have such a desperation for these birds to grow. The few experiences we have had with nests have left me feeling slightly nauseated. Once, a crow carried one of the chicks away, never to be seen again. Another time one of the hatchlings was crippled at the neck, stunting its growth. And I’ll never forget when there was an egg splattered on our cement, exposing the embryo. And honestly-the birds aren’t very cute-they start out bare and big eyed, looking rather gross. Yet, there is something about their utter dependence that has a way with me. I love the way the father and mother robin work together to prepare the home that will nurture their brood. They collect twig after twig, and even when storms wash away what they have built-they start over anew. Sometimes when the mother flies off, the father pops in to check on the susceptible nest. When the hatchlings finally appear, with tiny heads bopping to and fro-their parents are there, diligently collecting the worms that will help their young grow. My favorite memory is that of a momma robin clutching her talons on our fence next to her baby. It was as if she was waiting, just patiently waiting, for her child to take flight. It takes time for the nestlings' to fly vulnerable from the nest. But it happened. Its small wings extended and then it took flight. So why do I like them? …Maybe it sounds a little silly, but something about them makes me feel like they are just like me and you.
Singing suddenly breaks through the rain, interrupting my thoughts. It’s as if this concert was fashioned just for me. I close my eyes, letting the chords hit my ears. Close my eyes trying to take in the earthy scent dug up by rain mingling with soil. My infirmity had seen only the lament, but the fowls’ songs had remained faithful and true. Like God…faithful and true. I wonder-Does some of that singing belong to fallows that have been raised on my property? And I remember-If God so cares for the sparrow, how much more does He not care for you and me?…
Dear broken children-young and old…You matter. You always mattered. You will never stop mattering. I’m so sorry. It’s not your fault. Everything that has happened to you… it’s not because of you. Some days all you can do is weep at all the rain falling down. Take your time sweet child. It’s good to lament-the Lord doesn’t spite you. All those tears that are a precious prelude to heavens complete comfort…they bring forth praise too. You are not damaged or unknown. Jesus understands. The wounds He bore are with Him still today too. His wrists are marred from the blood-stained nails of Calvary. His scars highlight the deepest, most breathtaking love He has for you. I pray His vast love will rain gentle hope and healing where you can begin to confess, “God has me-so maybe I can fly broken and beautiful from this nest.”
Bare trees are budding green. Fullness is enveloping what was naked and exposed. It’s the start of something new…the promise of new awakening.
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