My Story Part 5

I lived a life of partying with intermittent trips to the hospital for kidney infections. I moved out again with my best friend, Marci, while attending college.  I met a young man who seemed to actually really care for me and treated me like a queen.  I began to realize that being treated like a queen equaled love to me.  He would shower me with his love and I ate it up.  He was in a band and had his pilot’s license so we had tons of fun going to bars so he could play in his band and then going on airplane rides to half Moon Bay for dinner.  I was happy and finally felt the love I craved.  This young man was truly a sweet, genuine person who really did love me.  But after 2 years of dating, we began to talk about marriage.  His family was of a different religion and I began to realize that if I married this man, I needed to understand what he believed.  So I went to his church and began to notice differences in what I had been taught in Young Life.  I went to the Christian book store and bought a book about his religion and what he believed.  Even with my limited knowledge, I realized that I couldn’t live with some of his beliefs.  This drew me more and more to God.  My roommate and I decided to go back to South Hills Church, where we attended Young Life meetings, to try out their single’s group.  We went to a small group that met on Wednesday nights.  The first person I met as I walked into the door was a man who had something I had never seen before…..GOD!  I don’t know how I knew, but his eyes lit up when he talked and I just knew this man knew God.  Now, you have to imagine this scene.  Here I am, miss party girl, with big hair (this was the late 80’s) and a tight skirt with an attitude.  And here was this engineer with a dark blue cardigan sweater with short black hair and preppy shoes.  He was SO not my type.  But there was something about him that drew me.  We really liked the bible study and began attending every week.  By this time I knew that I HAD to convert my boyfriend to Christianity.  I was so conflicted because here I found the man of my dreams that had long hair, was in a band and treated me like a queen.  He just HAD to accept Jesus!!!! So what is a young woman to do? I manipulated him to come to the bible study with me.  He came once and had no desire to convert.  My world began to unravel.  If I didn’t stay with my boyfriend, I may never be loved by another man.  Lest you have forgotten, dear reader, that I am ugly, shame filled and completely unworthy.  But yet I knew that I wanted God back in my life. 

One day, while I was reading the Bible, a voice called out to me.  It was not audible, but it was so clear in my heart that it could have been.  The voice said “It’s me or him, make your choice.”  I knew right away that this was God speaking.  And in my heart I knew I had to make a choice.  I couldn’t have my boyfriend and God too. He was forcing me to make a choice out of His great love for me. I chose God.  I broke up with my boyfriend.  It took a while because we kept seeing each other periodically because neither of us could fully let go. At the same time, I was still attending bible study and talking to this new guy that had God in his eyes. I found out his name was Dave Reginato and he was an engineer.  I also found out that he was not dating anyone because he wanted to get right with God and focus only on him.  So we became friends.  We did a lot of activities together with the singles group at church.  Almost every weekend we went to concerts, went on bike rides or hung out at a restaurant.  I was beginning to feel free. And God was growing my faith.  The seed that was planted through Young life was beginning to take root and grow.

After a few months of being “friends”, Dave asked me out to a Lockheed Christmas dinner.  OK….let me set the scene for you.  A huge room full of old men…..old, engineer men!  Enter Dave and Kathi.  Dave in his conservative suit and Kathi in a sexy bright red dress with spiked heels and big, blond hair!  Every head turned when we walked in to that room.  It was a bit uncomfortable and on top of it all, the waiter was hitting on me all night. Every time I got out of my seat, the waiter would slip me a note.  I was so flustered between the old men staring at me and the waiter hitting on me.  It was a complete disaster.  But after the dinner, Dave took me to a coffee house and we talked for hours.  I melted in his presence.  He was so confident and strong and good looking.  He had a true love for God and wanted to follow Him.  I had never met a man like him.  He was dreamy!  OK….I’m done now.

We dated for a year and half and we were both growing in the Lord.  I was getting counseling for my past and Dave was leading in many ways at church and being mentored.  I began to realize that my view of love was skewed.  When Dave didn’t shower me with gift, I felt like he didn’t love me.  He began to teach me what true love is.  That it’s a commitment and a choice.  That it was laying down your life for each other and working as a team.  This took some time to learn about love.  I wanted the gifts and attention.  But was realizing what I really needed was the unconditional love of God.  I was for the first time really falling in love.  Not just to get treated like a queen, but to give of myself for another person who I could trust and deeply commit my life to.  Then, we had the talk!  Let me digress for a moment. I love my husband dearly, so please do not judge him for what I am about to tell you. He was only trying to warn me.  OK.  So he took me to Round Table pizza and gave me this talk…..”I just want to let you know that if we get married we will not have a lot of money. I will never pursue money and if we get married, you have to be Ok with that.”  And in my dreamy state I said… “OK”.  Now that I look back, he could have said “let’s live in a hut” and I would have agreed. 

During this time of dating, I had to have my left kidney removed.  It was causing high blood pressure and I was getting frequent infections.  So I had yet another major surgery.  They made an 8 inch incision and removed my kidney.  The pain was horrible.  But I had Dave to comfort and encourage me.  Poor guy…he had no idea what he would be in for in the future concerning my health.  I really should have given HIM a talk….’My dearest David”, I would say, “I just want you to know that if you marry me you will have to live with having two children premature due to my health, more surgeries and infections and medication and you will someday have to give me injections of antibiotics and tend to my IV with the meds in my fanny pack and…..”   I’m glad I didn’t know what was ahead, he might not have married me.

One day, my roommate and her fiancé were going to look for rings for their wedding. Dave asked me if I wanted to go with them.  He didn’t say, “let’s look at rings” or “maybe we can try some rings on just to see how they look”.  He said nothing (I’m not judging, but…. typical engineer)!  So we went with our friends to look at rings. I was so nervous.  What was he thinking?  Why didn’t he tell me what he was thinking?  We went looking and periodically he would say, “do you like that one?”  Or, “let’s try that one on.”  It was so awkward.  At the end of the day, HE BOUGHT A RING!  Still, all the way home, not a word!  I know what you are thinking…..why the heck are you with this guy? You will never have money and his social skills are retarded.  But wait, it gets better!  So he takes the ring home and hides it.  And doesn’t mention it again.  So here I am waiting.  Is he going to ask me to marry him?  If so, when?  It was torture!

Finally a couple months later, we are driving up to Mt. Shasta to visit his parents and he stops the car.  We get out of the car and he leads me to a vista point on a mountain near his parent’s house.  He takes out the ring and proposes to me with beautiful trees surrounding us.  I was elated!  We went to his parent’s house and told them the news.  I came to find out later that he went to ask my parent’s permission before he proposed to me.  Ok…is he redeeming himself yet?  I told you it would get better.  We had my dream wedding, thanks to my wonderful parents.  There was just one problem.  During this time of dating and engagement, I was tormented with demonic oppression.  I will not share with you the details, but I was fearful almost all the time and could not sleep some nights.  Counseling was helping, but the enemy again became more real to me than God.  During my wedding, while we were saying our vows, I felt the oppression again and almost fainted.  Why was I being tormented again? Why didn’t the enemy just leave me alone?  I was so happy with my new husband, but confused about where God was in my life.

You are not my mom

Oh the words that I hate to hear and yet almost every foster/adopted child has spoken (or yelled) these words and they have stabbed like a dagger, straight through my heart. It happened again a few days ago. One of my kids was adopted at age 3 and before he came to be our child, he experienced so much domestic violence and some of it toward him. He came to us filled with fear and shame. He has healed much in the last 6 years and has grown into an amazing, fun, creative boy. But he still misses his birth mom. For those of you who are not familiar with adopted kids, most of them think about their birth moms every single day. So when I went into his room to talk to him about lying to me and to ask him to pray with me, he turned his back on me and said “you are not my mom”. AS many times as I have heard those words, they never cease to torment me. If I am not his mom, who is? Aren’t I the one who tucks him in at night and kisses him and plays with him? Am I not the one who feeds him healthy meals and drives him to soccer and looks at his creative inventions? The truth is that I AM his mom, but I will never take the place of his birth mom. That bond will never be broken. It will never be totally healed. We have formed a bond that I hope will last a lifetime, but it will never be enough. It reminds me of how God adopts us into His family. We want a new life, but we are bonded to this world. We want to be loved by a Father, but our birth father (the enemy) calls us to be satisfied with being an orphan. God, like a loving and faithful Father, waits for us to bond with Him. We want to come running into His arms, but we hesitate. Even if we came from drug addiction or domestic violence, it is still more familiar than the loving arms of God. As my heart ached from the sound of his words, I quietly left his room. About 15 min later he called me to come back. He said he was ready to pray. So we prayed the prayer of forgiveness and I gave him a big hug. Bonded. A little more today than yesterday. Are you living as an orphan? If you are a follower of Christ, you need not be. Claim your identity as a child of God and embrace the Father’s love for you. Yes, at times it is foreign and uncomfortable. But as you bond with Him you will find life! As much as I long for my son to love and bond with me, I desire even more for him to know my Father, who will kiss him and tuck him snuggly in his bed. And that maybe for the first time in his little life, he can feel wholly and forever loved. He could find rest for his soul. He could find home

My Story Part 4

I couldn’t figure out a way to tell you about how Satan has worked in my life thus far in my story. I really don’t want to talk about Him. But He is a part of my story and I’m hoping and praying that this will be edifying to those who have struggled in similar ways. So I’m going to squeeze it in here. When I was three years old, I fell off a two story building. We lived in an apartment (at this time it was with my mom and birth father) on the second floor. I piled up all my toys on our balcony and saw my mom going into the building beneath me to do laundry. Well, I toppled over the railing as I tried to watch my mom enter the laundry room and fell to the ground. Amazingly, I only broke my femur. But was in traction for a few weeks. I do not remember any of this, but putting this incident together with my illness and almost dying in the hospital, I kinda feel like Satan wanted me dead! You might be wondering how I came to this conclusion. Well, on top of these two incidents, when my mom left my birth dad, we went to live at a friend’s house. The woman of the house watched my brother and me while my mom worked. It just so happens that this woman worshipped Satan. She was into spiritual writing and rituals, which my brother and I were exposed to on a regular basis. She ended up going crazy and was put in a hospital. I’m not sure how long we stayed with them, but it was long enough to make a lasting impression on me. Since that time, I had numerous dreams that Satan was trying to kill me. I will spare you the details, but for much of my life, Satan was more real than God to me. But this plan of his will eventually become his demise in my life. My God did not forget me. My God did not leave me. I will discover that my God can conquer evil with his baby finger. But more about that later because Satan showed his ugly face again later in my life.

I barely graduated high school, but never got to walk at my graduation. You guessed it, I ended up in the hospital again. This time for a major operation. They would try once again to fix my bladder . This would be my 6^th surgery. So as all my friends were having parties and going to Hawaii, I was stuck once again in my bed of pain. This was a very depressing time for me. I was so tired of the pain. My body was the source of that pain and it never left me alone. I felt like I couldn’t look forward to anything anymore. It seemed like my body was my enemy. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t get away from this body that tortured me. I hated it. I hated myself. I never knew when the pain would strike. During this time I began reading books by Joni Erickson Tada. She suffered from an accident and became paralyzed. I could relate to her. Her books were so encouraging to me. She gave me hope that God could use this in my life. That nothing is wasted. Even in this dark time, God was reaching out to me and saying “I’m here”!

Since I was “stupid”, I didn’t feel like I could fit in at college. I was really interested in the medical field and I went to Andon College where I became a medical assistant. I started working at 18yo and loved my job. I was extremely good with my patients. They all loved me. I understood their pain and had compassion for them. As I look back I was always very compassionate. I would constantly bring home stray animals and try to manipulate my parents to let me keep them. Most of the time, they allowed me to keep them. I always had this heart for the broken. The broken were beautiful to me. It’s amazing how I had so much love for the broken, but could not love myself. When my mom got mad at me, I would sit in my room as a child and think to myself “I am so bad. I don’t deserve to live.” Yet, it would bring me great joy to love the unlovable. I was still living in my parent’s house while I worked and it was still a place of tension because my brother was 16yo and in the thick of his rebellion. At this time I felt the need to move out. I had a friend, Brad, who wanted to move out as well. So I embarked on the journey called “living on your own” or as I like to call it, “the biggest mistake I ever made”. Ok, I know. We learn from our mistakes. But instead of making me happy and free, moving brought depression and fear. First of all, moving in with a boy was my first mistake. You, dear reader, probably already figured this out. He was messy and was never home so I was home alone most of the time with his mess all around me. At this same time, I had met a boy at camp over the summer before I turned 18yo and he lived in Southern California, but moved up to San Jose to be with me. He was my dream guy. He wrote poetry, was a musician and was super cute. He came up and rented a room so he could be with me. Then the controlling began. He began telling me where I could and couldn’t go. He would sometimes push me up against walls when I didn’t obey him. But I continued to stay in the relationship because of my shame and he just confirmed what I already knew….I was worth nothing. To be honest, I don’t remember much of this time because I was so lost in depression. We finally broke up and he moved back to his home. But his absence left a huge gap in my heart. He didn’t love me, but he was at least with me and sometimes would be kind and loving. Now I was utterly alone. I sat in my apartment and had a serious talk with myself. My life was going nowhere. I had a job I loved, but other than that I was stuck with little hope for my future. That’s when I decided to go home. I left the apartment of turmoil and went back to my parent’s house. I decided I would work and go to community college. So I enrolled at DeAnza College and started taking the “bonehead” classes for those who can’t even do basic math or English. I will never forget the day my teacher took me aside and told me that she felt I might have a gift for writing. I was shocked! It was the first time the thought ran through my mind that I might be smart. I loved her class and she didn’t know it, but a seed was planted deep in my soul that grew and is still growing to this day. I began taking other classes and I was doing well. I took a communications class where we needed to give a speech in front of the class. I was really nervous, but did really well. And my teacher in that class gave me an “A”. “Well”, I thought, “I think this belief that I’m stupid is actually a lie”. I thrived at school and couldn’t get enough. I then transferred to San Jose State and worked on getting my degree in Psychology. If you are a teacher reading this, please know that just one word from you can change a life.

After high school I fell away from the Lord. My Young Life leader was gone and so were the Bible studies. I was on my own and not sure how to proceed. So I hung out with friends and began to go to parties where there was drugs and alcohol. I have to tell you something weird about this. Although people around me were smoking pot and snorting cocaine, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I realized later that I was always high in the hospital on Morphine so I had no desire to do more drugs. This was a blessing from the Lord that I now see as His protection. Although I didn’t do drugs, I did start drinking alcohol. So I spent most weekends making out with boys and drinking. I was having the time of my life. Fun was my purpose in life. On top of that, the boys I liked had long hair and were in bands. I cannot tell you the places I ended up at listening to my latest “boyfriend” playing in his band. It was a miracle that I was not assaulted or raped. I am shocked now, as I look back at what I would do just to get a guy to pay attention to me. I learned that if I dressed sexy and flaunted it around enough times, a boy would take the bait. And I would reel him in and feel like I was loved for short periods of time. I also learned that beauty equaled power. I had never had power, so I used it with a vengeance. Even in this dark place God had His hand of protection on me. I could have gotten pregnant or a STD. I was looking for love. For worth. For hope. I was grasping for anything that would give my life meaning. But it eluded me.

My Story Part 3

In high school I was only occasionally in the hospital and had a fairly “normal” life. I went out with friends, skipped the occasional class and got my driver’s license. Being a cheerleader the year before opened my eyes to the fact that I was worth hanging out with. That I was a good friend. And that I was fun to be around. I enjoyed school enough to want to be there. But since I had been sick my whole life, I was really bad at school. The school system kind of just let me get by and graduate to the next grade even though I did not learn what I needed to know. So by the time I got to high school, it was apparent that I was stupid. And unfortunately, some of my teachers confirmed this belief. So the cycle of shame continued, just in a different form.

When I was a sophomore, my best friend’s sister invited us to attend a Young Life meeting at a local church near our school. We went together and I heard about God. They sang songs about God, did funny skits and taught us out of the Bible. I had heard about God before, but knew in my heart He must be mad at me because I was sick. The God they were talking about was loving and cared about the world. I continued to attend every week because it was fun. One of leaders, Cindy, took me under her wing and began loving on me. She listened to me. Prayed for me. I began reading a Bible and wanting to learn more about Jesus. I started attending a Bible study and learned more and more about how much God loved me. As you can imagine, this idea went against my belief about myself. But I was feeling accepted and listened to, so I continued pursuing God.

There was a brief moment when I actually felt like my beliefs about myself could possibly be wrong, or at least too harsh. But then reality would kick in as it always does and confirmed my demented beliefs. I would end up in the hospital again and the lies would win….I am bad, I am ugly. Things at home were rough. My parents both worked full time so my brother and I were home alone a lot of the time. A lot of time for him to get into trouble with the law. He began his descent to juvenile hall and would end up there more than once. There were many arguments between my parents as you could understand. They ended up at a Tough Love meeting and very soon, my brother began to run away. So between my illness and his trips to jail, we really never connected. On top of that there was the normal teenage angst with boyfriends and friends talking behind your back. Also, when I took driver’s education, the instructor made a pass at me and it ended up going to trial because apparently he made passes at other girls as well. This was all very traumatic for me and confirmed that there was really no hope for me. But I kept attending Young Life and opening my damaged heart to the Lord. There just HAD to be something more for me.

I was invited to go to a Young Life camp for a week. I was still in and out of the hospital, so this was a bit scary. But when you are a teenager, fun trumps fear! So off I went. I had a blast with friends and fun activities. One night, during the preaching time, we were asked if we wanted to give our lives to the Lord. I wanted it! I wanted it more than anything. So I raised my hand and prayed the prayer of salvation. I don’t remember everything that happened after that, but “Bridge Over Troubled Water” was playing in the background as we all prayed together. I don’t remember feeling anything dramatic. Just happy I made that decision.

After that, I attended more bible studies and Cindy, my leader, started a study for those who gave their lives to the Lord at camp. All my friends were in it so it was super fun. I would go through phases where I would believe the Word of God and feel tremendous peace. But then the lies would come knocking and I would not read my Bible for a time. This cycle continued for years. But God had a firm grip on my life. I am in tears writing this as I see how faithful and loving He has been to me all these years of suffering and turmoil. My heart is so grateful that He gave me new life and a new heart. That He was always there with me, even before I knew who he was. He is the reason I am writing this story. This story, my story, is not even about me. It’s all about what God can do with nothing. How God can do the impossible. How God can love the unlovable. AS I sit here writing all of this my heart is being healed. I told God many years ago that I would tell the world about all the wonderful ways He has miraculously worked in my little life! This book is a fulfillment of that promise. To be honest, I’m not sure that this will ever be published. But I can’t stay silent! I must tell of my amazing God!!

My Story Part 2

There came a time around 9yo that my hospital stays were less, but never entirely gone. Because my mom was a single mom and barely making it, we moved about once a year to a different apartment. Then when I was 9yo, my mom married a man 22 years her senior. This union was to be a blessing in my life as it gave me a stability that I never experienced before. We moved to San Jose, California where my new dad owned a home in a high class area with good schools and friendly neighbors. I could finally settle a bit, although our family life was stressful to say the least. Both of my parents worked as my mom still needed health insurance for me. So my brother and I were on our own after school. He did his own thing and I watched TV from 3:00 to 9:00 taking a break when the news came on. This pattern, which began in the hospital, would become my addiction. There were times my mom hired a “nanny” to watch us. I don’t know if there was a nanny shortage back then, but she seemed to hire overweight women who just sat around all day and did nothing. I remember wanting to shave my legs for the first time and our nanny drilled into my head over and over again that if I shaved my legs, there was no going back. She put the fear of the razor into my head! Of course, I ignored her. By the way, she was right….once you start shaving, you can never stop.

My brother and I had a strained relationship with our new father. He already had a grown son and I think being a dad again was difficult to say the least. He married the woman he loved, but gained a daughter who was sick all the time and a son who was struggling with his own emotions. I can only guess, since my brother has not told me, that his emotional turmoil was due to his anger and frustration surrounded losing his father to divorce and having to deal with a sister that was getting all the attention. I look back and wish I had loved him better. He really did need me. But I was not there…emotionally OR physically. So when he came into teenagerhood, he acted out in many ways which included drugs and criminal activity.

Being at a stable school and not being in the hospital so much gave me the opportunity to make friends. My first best friend was in my class in the 4^th grade and walked the same route home as I did. Because of my shame, I would never think of talking to her. Too scary! One day, she was walking up one side of the street and I was on the other. She yelled across the street, “Hey! Do you wanna come over tomorrow and see my new hamster?” And as any kid knows, that’s all it took. We were fast friends and still connect even today. Stability began to give me a slight confidence that I could manage this thing called life. There was school, friends, sleepovers, many trips to the candy store with my best friend riding on the back of her bike. Could I actually be normal?

Junior High was wonderful for me! I loved changing classes and was known for doing my hair a different way each day. I would use ribbons and flowers in my hair and get really creative. I still only had a few friends, but that is all I needed. The summer before my freshman year, everything changed. My best friend decided to try out for the basketball team. She asked if I wanted to try out too. As you can imagine, a small weakling like myself could get smashed on a basketball court. But I saw that there were also cheerleading tryouts. I do not know what came over me, but I decided to try out for cheerleading. Ugly me. I knew I wouldn’t make the squad, but something in me just pushed me to try. I practiced and practiced and practiced. My parents lived on a golf course and so they had a huge window that faced the golf course that was tinted so the golfers could not see in our house. I could see myself from the outside into the window so I used this as a mirror to get every move precisely right. The day of the tryouts came looming over me as I daily practiced my routines. The day finally arrived and I was so nervous as I walked to the gym. Why was I doing this? How could I be a cheerleader? But I gave it my best shot. I stood by myself in front of the current cheerleading squad with a few teachers. I went for it. I was precise. I was loud. I had spirit. I made two mistakes, but kept my composure through the entire, torturous routine. They thanked me and asked me to sit down. I had to wait for every single girl to try out and then we were told to leave the room so they could make their decision. I knew my mistakes cost me from being picked. I berated myself for making mistakes. Oh well, I thought, maybe next year. We were all asked to come back into the gym and get the results. They called one girl and she jumped up yelling and hugged all the girls around her. They called another. Same reaction. Screaming. Hugging. Then, to my utter amazement, they called me. I just sat there. I must not have heard them right. They called my name again. I stood up and jumped up and down. I think as I was in a daze as a couple of the girls hugged me and congratulated me. The rest of the names were called, but I didn’t hear any of them. It was like the room was moving in slow motion around me. This was the best thing that ever happened to me. I was a cheerleader! I was a cheerleader! Maybe I am worth something after all?

This new elite social position did wonders for my confidence. People started talking about me. They would say that I was cute. That I was pretty. This shocked me! Me, pretty? That’s impossible. But as the year progressed, these comments became more common and I began to entertain the idea that I might be pretty. My freshman year was amazing. It’s the year my peers saw me. It’s the year I began to look at myself…and not hate what I saw. But as you know, dear reader, shame can take many forms and is not easily extinguished.

Laundry

For those of you that know me well, you know that I HATE laundry. Having many kids causes my laundry to pile up unceasingly. If I do not do laundry every day, it becomes the Mt. Everest of clothes and I end up feeling helpless and powerless and will undoubtedly spend the whole weekend washing and folding until the cows come home (whatever that means). But today the laundry slightly redeemed itself. I was taking my 6yo son's laundry out of the dryer and lo and behold there was a name tag sticker on his shirt that somehow made it through the wash cycle AND dry cycle. Of course it was crusted on the shirt, stuck there for eternity. My first thought was to throw it away. Yes, I know, the easy way out. But something within my heart spoke to me. I had been asking God to show me how to love my kids...especially one of my adopted kids who hurts me constantly with words and actions. I have been so mad at myself because what is needed for this child is far beyond a mother's love. It is the love of Christ that is essential for this child to heal. But what do I do when I'm being yelled at? I want to run. I want to get angry. And I want to protect my heart. I know these feelings are normal and need to be felt. But I have a hard time getting over the hurt and rejection. I know I have the love of Christ in me and He can love this child through me. But there is an obstruction keeping the overwhelming flood of love from gushing all over this child. It is more like a trickle. So what does this have to do with laundry? As I looked at my son's shirt, I thought to myself. I can take the time to pick off these tiny pieces of paper and glue. This shirt is worth it and my son loves wearing it. So as I was picking off the gunk, it was if God were speaking to my heart. He said, you are worth it to me. I am willing to pick away at the tiniest pieces of gunk so that you will be free to love. But it will take time. It will take patience on your part. Just like it is taking patience to pick off this sticker (God knows me so well) on Caleb's shirt. So allow me to pick away at these stickers that are keeping you from experiencing the tsunami of my love. You will receive it. You will be free to receive my love. How do I know this was from God? First of all, I felt this peace come over me (which NEVER happens doing laundry). Second, I felt reassurance that I'm not this loser mom who cannot love a tough child. I am in the "picking phase" in God's gentle, but firm hands. I am being washed by the master dry cleaner. All the stains and tears are being healed and repaired. I am so glad that God jut doesn't throw us away when we have gunk stuck all over us. He loves us and we are worth saving to Him. Who knew laundry could be so healing.

My Story Part 1

I stood there in front of the house with the keys in my hand. Was I really doing this? How was I going to do this? Was I crazy? I am just a 43yo house wife with six kids. I didn’t have a lot of money. I didn’t have a lot of time. I didn’t have a lot of experience. But still, there I stood wondering if I should even open the front door. I was scared. I had never taken such a big leap of faith before. All I could see was how this would all fail. But I knew that God had called me to do this. I had to believe that He would come through even with all my weaknesses. I knew in my heart that if this succeeded, it would be 100% Him! I didn’t set out to have a passion for women who are recovering addicts. I was never an addict, nor did I know many growing up. But here I stood, in front of a house that I was planning on filling with women in recovery and their children. I was hoping that if these women and children could experience being loved, feeling worthy and be given dignity, they would change. Not only would they change for themselves, but become the moms they wanted to be, have healthy relationships and contribute to society. Sounds lofty, doesn’t it? The problem was that I did not have the money to sustain a home like this. To pay rent, utilities and household items seemed overwhelming. And where would I find these women? I knew a few social workers, but who in their right mind would trust their clients to me? I am just a mom. But when God calls you to an insurmountable task, He truly is our strength. He meets ALL our needs. But I am getting ahead of myself. I didn’t just wake up one morning and decide to open a home for recovering addicts. So let me go back a bit. Actually, to give you the background to this tale, I need to go WAY back…to a little girl in a hospital bed.

I was five years old and found myself waking up out of anesthesia with tubes coming out of my abdomen and bladder. You see I had a congenital defect where my bladder was deformed and did not work the way it should. Also, both of my kidneys were not working 100%. My mom found out about this while trying to potty train me. It just wasn’t working and when my mom took me to the doctor, she found out about my illness. I had one other surgery when I was 3 years old and it did not work. My mom took me to UCLA hospital and the Urologist wanted to do a new surgery on me that would fix my bladder. All I knew then was the intense pain! The surgery was a bladder reconstruction, which may or may not, the doctor told my mom, fix me. So here I was, a small child, connected to so many tubes and machines that I could not move. They tried to prop pillows all around me so I would stay put. It is difficult for an adult to have to lie still, but for a five year old? Impossible. I was in the hospital for 3 months. I remember being in pain all day, every day. All I wanted was my Morphine. Once I was medicated, I was going to be OK. But much more trauma was to come for this little girl while residing in her luxury suite at UCLA. Because it was a teaching hospital, I was poked and prodded all day and woken up many nights with five interns standing in front of me (in my 5yo mind there were 20 interns, but realistically there were five). My mom was a single mom, so she had to work during the day and had my little brother to take care of at night. She would stop by my hospital room after work each day to find that some days I had been mistreated. She found me one day with all 10 of my fingers pricked for a blood sample. On another day I didn’t get a lunch so I would be hungry. I can remember one time when the nurse wanted to give me my medicine, but I knew it wasn’t the right time for me to take them and the pills were not the right color. I told the nurse they were not my pills and she fought with me. We struggled as she tried to get them down my throat. She finally relented and checked my chart. It was the wrong medicine. I also remember a girl that was in the bed next to me. She had been burned by a vaporizer. Remember this was 40 years ago when they had those boiling water vaporizers for when you had a cough. Well, her and her brother were fighting over changing the TV channel (there were also no remotes back then either) and the vaporizer fell and burned most of her body. I can’t remember ever talking to her. I just remember her screaming in the middle of the night in pain. She was there for many weeks. I did not get much sleep. On top of that the nurses would wake me up every 4 hours. I would get so mad at them. Just when I was comfortable enough to sleep, the nurse would come in and wake me up to take my temperature and blood pressure. What? My little 5yo mind could not comprehend it! If I haven’t had a fever in week, why would I suddenly get one at 2:00am? No stupid nurse was going to wake me up. So the fighting began. The nurse would wake me up and I would not give her my arm to take my blood pressure. After a while I would give in. There were countless times when they would whisk me away for another X-ray or test. I never knew where I was going or when I’d be back in my safe little bed. I remember fighting the hospital staff and X-ray technicians to stop touching me. After a while I stopped fighting all together, stopped eating and fell into a deep depression. I had enough. I was done. Defeated. How does this kind of life affect a child’s heart and mind? What does this little girl think about herself? Where does she go for relief? I shut down. I don’t remember much of that time. Only that my mom and doctor would plead with me to eat. They brought me all kinds of delectable foods to tempt my appetite. Nothing worked. They tried rolling my bed out with other children, but it only made me worse. Many thoughts went through my little brain as I contemplated my life. Two of them stick out in my mind. One, you must have done something really bad to be stuck in this bed. Two, you must be worthless because others kids can play and run and have friends, but you can’t!

After a while, the fight for survival kicked in and when the doctor came in and told me he would bring me anything I wanted to eat I requested green olives. You would think a small child would crave ice cream, candy or pizza. No, not me. It was green olives. Please don’t ask me to explain to you my odd choice of cuisine. I can’t understand it 40 years later! But the jars of green olives came…and came….and came! The whole room was filled with jars of olives. Small jars filled with big olives and large jars filled with small olives. Some of them had bows on them. And I ate them like I would open a present on Christmas morning. I would eat not one or two, but half a jar at a time. And then I would drink the juice! Gross! After a while I was able to go home. But those two thoughts stuck with me and would end up defining me.

I would have many more chances to suffer in that hospital bed again….too many times to count. I would spike a fever and my mom would rush me to my all familiar bed of pain. Many times my fever would be so high they would lay me on a bed of ice naked (thank God they don’t do that anymore!). I remember hallucinating that there were spiders all over the walls and ceiling. I began getting chronic kidney infections and couldn’t wait to get my morphine. This happened over and over just confirming my belief that I was worthless. When I was at home, I had to wear a catheter and bag strapped around my leg because I couldn’t urinate on my own with my new bladder. Kids would see me and stare at me, not want to play with me or make fun of me. This caused a very powerful, insidious, paralyzing chain to wrap itself around my heart…shame!

I believed myself to be ugly and bad. If fact, I thought I was the ugliest child that ever walked the earth. Anyone who was sick all the time, could never have friends over and had a bag strapped to her leg? The only conclusion is….I am bad. And not just bad, but a horrible person who was worth nothing. So this tightly wrapped chain adhered itself to my heart for 35 years. What does trauma do to a five year old brain? How can this little one process what is happening to her? She cannot. So what this little five year old did was to cut off the pain permanently. I emotionally cut this traumatic part of my life out of my conscious mind. I decided to survive the only way a small child could. I would take the pain. I would reject the trauma. And a part of me would slowly fade away.