My story seems to be a flip flopped version of most. I
remember sitting in church services and hearing all kinds of people share their
stories of how they came to know God as their personal Lord and Savior. The story usually went like this: They did
all kinds of things that wouldn’t make God happy, then they decided to believe
in God and now they don’t do those things and life is full of wonder and joy.
That is meant in no way to discount those stories or those people. It just seemed to be the traditional make up
of the testimonies I heard growing up.
My story is a complete reversal of that.
I grew up in Memphis, Tennessee with two parents who loved
the stuffing out of me. My mom and dad
are still married to this day. They
moved Heaven and Earth to provide a stable, loving, God honoring home for my
sister, brother and I. Sundays were full
of church services and Sunday school lessons.
The work week was balanced out with Bible studies and prayer
meetings. Up until the fourth grade, I
attended our church’s private Christian school. I remember having dinner as a family and as
the dishes were cleared away, Dad would lead us in a family devotional. We’d close the evening out with prayer and
spend time playing music or games or working on school projects together.
When I got into junior high I remember my friends at school
commenting on how different my home was compared to theirs. Most of my friends had split families,
working moms and distant dads. I was
proud to say that wasn’t the case for me.
My mom worked a part time job, but she made sure to be home about the
same time my school bus showed up. Dad
worked hard at his job, I know, but he was home just about every night to have
dinner with us.
I had a tight knit family.
My sister and I shared a room for the better part of our childhood. Even when our family moved to a bigger home
and we each had our own room, my sister would still come sleep in my bed at
night. One of our favorite things to do
on the weekends was to grab our sleeping bags and pillows and camp out in the
living room, my sister, my brother and I, and watch movies all night. The three of us were close. And we all grew up in a Christian home,
knowing what was right and what was wrong.
We were encouraged, applauded, prodded to do our best, forgiven when we
made mistakes and of course punished when we chose to break the rules. There was never any question as to what home
would be like from day to day. I never
feared that my home would be a stomping ground or a battle zone. It was practically idealic.
But inspite of all the things my parents tried to instill in
me as a child, I struggled with an overwhelming fear of disappointing
them. I can remember hiding homework and
tests in my closet so that my parents wouldn’t see my mistakes and poor
grades. I forged signatures on my third
grade report card because I was ashamed to show Mom and Dad the bad grades I
received. Terrified to admit I had done
something wrong, I went to great lengths to hide the evidence and lie to cover
it up. As I got older, the lies grew
more creative and I became more deceitful.
Most of the time my parents knew I had lied before I could even try to
make up another story. And even though I
knew the punishment would be worse because I had lied than if I had just owned
up to the crime in the first place, I still was under the belief that it was
better to handle things my way. No amount
of punishment swayed my thinking….and believe me, there was plenty of
punishment.
I specifically remember walking in our neighborhood one
afternoon with my sister. A boy about
our age came out of his yard and started taunting us. I, being the oldest, jumped to defend my
sister and called the boy a bad name. By
the time we returned back home, the mother of that boy had called our house and
shared with my parents the name I had called her son. I knew I had been caught as soon as I got in
the house. Sure, I had a good excuse for
calling the kid that horrible name.
Honestly, I can’t remember what I called him, but to that kid’s mom, it
warranted a phone call. If I had
explained the circumstances to my Dad he probably would have sternly told me to
not call anyone that name again and that would had been the end of it. But I was fearful of admiting that I was
wrong and in turn disappointing them so I lied and said I never called that boy
anything. I tried to pawn the guilt onto
the kid by saying that he had made it all up.
Dad kept telling me that he knew what I had said. He emphatically urged me to just tell him the
truth. But I couldn’t. Even knowing that the punishment was going to
be greater by lieing to him, I still stuck to my story.
That marked a pattern of toxic behavior. I worked so hard to
be exactly what Mom and Dad wanted out of a daughter. But I couldn’t be perfect. So when I would mess up or fail, I would do
everything in my power to deny it, fix it or manipulate the circumstances to be
in my favor. As I got older, I got
better at it.
Eventually I swallowed any personal opinion or desires and
became compliant to whatever my parents would have me to do. I didn’t make a decision without first
thinking what would my parents want. As
a high school student, I stayed plugged in to my church and the youth group
there because that was the expectation of my parents. That is not to say that I didn’t enjoy it,
but I made great strides in being the group’s leader, volunteering for
everything, always the zealous and eager participant and standing out as the
shining star amongst our church community because I knew it made my parents
proud. There approval was the pool that
I swam in. I became content living
within the expectations I thought they had of me and proving to be a my
parents’ joy…..by doing, saying, being all the things I thought they wanted.
This pattern of behavior didn’t come out of my strong upbringing. I believe it came out of a fearful
heart. One sliver of fear took root and twisted
its way through my heart and soul, tainting every aspect of my life. The fear was a lie. A lie that said if I failed, I was a
failure. A weed that grew to a
flourishing belief that if I wasn’t perfect, if I let Mom and Dad down, I would
be less, diminished and put aside. It
twisted around to breed insecurity, low self esteem and a desperation to be
noticed, to matter, to be significant.
It didn’t take very long for that fear to be an enormous forest of
polluted, noxious beliefs that took over any small seed of truth.
As this disease was spreading, I still attended church. I still read and studied my Bible. I hung out with fellow church teens and kept
a pretty squeaky clean persona, according to most. But the fragile façade would soon be put to
the test.
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