My Testimony

The rain is gone, and so is the pain

My church-raised, impoverished, Dustbowl and Depression-era father met and fell in love with an unchurched, silver-spoon, cultured, petite, and pretty 19-year-old. My parents' posh 1948 wedding occurred in mom’s backyard, and 4 years later they had their first of 6 children. They lived happily ever after. Well, not quite. Their unequally yoked marriage created simmering differences of opinion. I suspect those differences included opposing ideas about child-rearing, bringing upheaval in our home. Instead of level-headed discussions, my hard-working lawyer dad turned to alcohol while stay-at-home "trophy-wife" (mom) became distant and depressed. 

I was a middle child and invisible. I’d say I was raised, but actually I floated unsupervised through childhood. Neglect, semi-isolation, and dietary lack stunted my development and awareness, like being on the autistic spectrum. A border wall around our tight 2-story home kept secrets in and people out, protecting dad’s professional career and image in the community. 

During my high school years, mom finally turned to Jesus; and 18 months later, the summer I was preparing to leave for college, dad followed suit. We never met together as a family for closure. We lived in denial. From dad’s perspective, 11 years of alcoholic uproars never happened. From my perspective, 11 years of formative childhood never happened either.

 At age 20 while attending Illinois State University (one of only a few times that I felt a genuine connection with someone prior to meeting my church-raised husband), I was keenly aware of God’s presence in one of my random visits to church. I decided to move closer to Jesus and went to the altar. A strong force broke through my veneer. I cried. I bawled. I lost control, in a good way. Jesus came alive inside me. I was saved. But asking for forgiveness was something I couldn’t grasp.

I thought I was a pretty good person. I didn’t have the addictions of my father. I taught Sunday school. I was emotionally present for my husband and children. I was good! But was I? I was queen of justifying selfish reactions and omitting the step of closure. Sadly, when I was 35, Mom died quickly and prematurely. Over the next decade a sharing aunt combined with the Light of Jesus began revealing both of my parents’ unresolved heritage stories to open my eyes. 

Seeing my parents and their sketchy and mega-tarnished heritages better helped me finally begin to identify with the odd lyrics, “…for such a worm as I.” Worms don’t see underground. I was living in denial. In many ways, I was just like my heritage. The nut doesn't fall far from the tree. By age 65 during isolated Zoom-connecting COVID times and learning even more family stories from sisters and aunts, I really realize how very true that nut statement is.

I have a softer heart for the challenges my parents faced. I wish dad's legal risk management and mom's overly defensive state of depression could have met somewhere in the middle to communicate; I wish I had asked questions and done something to lighten their loads. Even more, I regret not thinking about and caring for my 3 younger siblings during the scary nighttime hours of our childhood.  🎵 I can see clearly now; the pain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind. 🎵 I am not alone. God loves me and understands. Jesus saves. He forgives my oversights. And Jesus solves.

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And then there is the longer testimony...

I was an empty shell of a child, raised the middle of six free-spirted kids. I felt invisible and painfully alone. We attended "Two-square church" (meaning we were there Christmas, Easter, and maybe two other times a year). My alcoholic father was a Dustbowl and Depression-era striving, Impostor Syndrome-perpetuating, church-raised sensitive kid. In other words, proper image equals goodness. It collided like bumper cars with stay-at-home mom’s laissez-faire, semi-depressed, unchurched mindset and her opinions about lax child-rearing. In church terms, they were unequally yoked. It created upheaval in our 1960s middle-class suburban home. 

Aged 65, I finally became aware of key elements--neglect, semi-isolation, and dietary lack--that as an infant and child stunted my development, like being half aware or on the autistic spectrum. My meticulous maternal grandmother, the person with whom I could have most identified and other key outsiders were rarely invited into the main floor of our tight two-story home. Besides close quarters and narrow square footage, our family and our house carried secrets that we were told couldn't be revealed. An invisible border wall kept people out and dad’s legal career and reputation intact.

At the searching age of 17, confused and living with a high school friend during my parents’ 6-month separation before they reunited, I was invited to a Baptist youth service. I viewed what I call a religious horror film. Like a deer in the path of a semi-truck's headlights, my response was more fight-or-flight than being aware that I needed Jesus! My initial religious experience wasn't futile or empty. Instead, it was the spiritual kickstart I needed before heading to college. God wouldn’t let go.

Mom’s "baby Christian" prayers were answered in 1973 when 49-year-old dad made a 360-degree U-turn spiritually. It occurred a few months after his nagging religious mother's death and the idea of mortality hit close to home; he turned to Jesus and away from alcohol. Martha and Don were their new church friends. Dad bought a big Bible with a fancy leather cover and a cross necklace. We resembled a squeaky-clean Christian family. But were we?

In my sophomore year at Illinois State University, I was keenly aware of God’s presence during one of my random visits to church (one of only a few times that I felt a genuine connection with anyone prior to meeting my church-raised husband). I decided to walk the scary aisle to the altar. A strong force broke through my veneer. I cried. I bawled. I lost control, and in hindsight if I had been more self-aware, it was an embarrassing sight. Jesus came alive inside me. My heart opened to Him. But understanding the need for forgiveness was another matter. I thought I was good. But was I really?

The idea of having Jesus as a close friend was comforting. I needed a friend and wasn’t afraid for Him to see every moment of my day. I wasn’t hiding. I thought I was a pretty good person. Shame wasn’t a part of my story. I didn’t have the addictions or drama of my parents. I taught Sunday school. I tried to be emotionally present for my husband and 2 children. I was good! But was I? 

My parents (and probably their parents, too) did not understand that genuine connection meant honest sharing. We never met together in a family meeting kumbaya sort of way, to duke out dad's alcoholic years and ask for our forgiveness; to seek closure and end denial. There was an 11-year gap in my childhood; ages 6-17 never happened. In 1990, sadly, when I was just 35, I became motherless. Mom died quickly and prematurely in a car wreck. To their graves, mom and dad carried heavy emotional baggage and secrets I wasn't mature enough to hear about but needed to know. 

Around year 2000 at age 45 I finally identified with the odd church lyrics, “…for such a worm as I.” Worms are blind; they mostly live in the dark. It was just the beginning phases of Jesus shining light to both reveal my parents’ unresolved and tarnished heritage baggage and open my eyes... to me. I was queen of justifying selfish motives and reactions and omitting the step of closure. In many ways, I was just like my parents. The nut doesn't fall far from the tree.

Years later in 2020, after moving states away and trapped during long isolated COVID days, 2 of my sisters and 2 maternal aunts took time to “spill-the-beans” to help me solve century(s)-old cold-cases. Finally, I was given a birds-eye view to piece together previous generations’ severe what I call “marr-itage” flaws. God helped me embrace my parents’ stern upbringings and speculate why hushed histories, family secrets, and role-playing were required. 

I have a softer heart for the challenges my parents faced. I wish I could have shown them more love, asked questions, and done something to lighten their loads. And I regret not nurturing my 3 younger siblings during the scary nighttime hours of our childhood. 🎵 I can see clearly now; the pain is gone. I can see all obstacles in my way. Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind.🎵  I am not alone. God loves me and understands. Jesus saves. He forgives. And Jesus solves.