Star Light, Star Bright...

Pale

Flower

Encircled

Entwined

this one is my favorite

Thing Two

Thing Three

Blue Square, Ish

Thing One

A New Synopsis

I did not come to this conclusion with rejoicing. I came to it with fear, with sorrow and tears. I wanted to believe. I wanted to ignore the lies, close my eyes to the failure of my faith. I could not.

I could not go on believing. Some people have the faith, the perseverance to continue through years of doubt, and come out stronger. I am not among their number. I blamed my sorrow on my past, and what remained, on my actions. I earnestly searched for God, and when he was not found, I bore the shame of a failed relationship. For God is perfect, I was told, any fault must be in me. It drove me down deeper into the shame that was my life. My past created the shame (though it should not have); failure to please my Deity drove it deeper. I went to counselor after counselor, my shame too deep for friends to hear. Their advice, though varied and well-meaning, only made the message clearer: if a fault existed between me and my God, I was the only one to blame. I believed them. But I could not find him. I searched. I grew weary and walked away and came back to search some more. Sometimes I convinced myself I had found him, but always I grew discouraged for lack of a response. But then…

I stopped.

I asked why a God who loves had allowed my past. I asked how a God who controls offers free will. I asked all the questions with no answers…and found I had no more faith to cover the flaws. I mourned what happened to me, the loss of faith stripped me of the last of my innocence. I could no longer hide in “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” But what happens now, now that I have no faith to cover me, no Rock to lean my convictions upon? Now I must make my way alone. Now I must make my own standard, now I must choose my own way. People speak of faith being hard; ha! Faith was easy compared to this. What is right? And what is wrong? And why?

So now what? What do I believe now, now that faith has departed? I believe that there is a God; at least, I believe there is a force that either created this world or set evolution in motion. Or perhaps formed our existence another way altogether. I believe the Bible is a work of fiction, written and preserved by man. I do not believe in Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, or any other religion of the world. I make my own way. I pull from Christianity that which I think good. Perhaps I shall do the same for the rest. I live life as I have always done, within the confines of that which my conscience currently calls good. When I carved my own flesh, I thought that good (although now I feel it was wrong. But who can say? I survived when I might have died). When I followed Christ, I thought that right. What I believe is right may change tomorrow, or next year. Few things are constant, and though I live mainly by logic, I would be the first to say that logic changes. What is reasonable now may not be later.

I realize that I have said much of this before. I will probably write something similar in the future. But each new writing reveals (to me as well as to you) a new facet of my beliefs as they evolve. And now I must ask you something. My conscience does not let me stand idle as others are held in a trap of lies. What is your faith based on? How do you answer the unanswerable questions? Do you even know what they are? How do you rejoice in a God who is with you through trials when you believe he created those trials? Why do you believe?

Why I Have Issues with God (In Part)

The reason God and I have issues is not that his children have a stunning inability to live up to their name. While that sucks, they are after all, only human. No, God and I have issues because of his unwillingness or inability to aid me at any point in my life. I can't say I've always been wholehearted in searching for him, but I don't think that matters. If that were a requirement, no one would qualify. Again, that whole human thing. Of course, it isn't a given that anyone does qualify. I know too many people who have deluded themselves (case in point: inlaws) into thinking God is leading them when, if he is who they say he is, he would never do any such thing. Who is to say that those who truly believe that they have a relationship with God are not laboring under a similar delusion?

But as for God...in my view, he is either impotent or at best, a liar. I don't deny that he may have done good things. After all, Earth is a pretty sweet place to live. I too have done good things, however. That doesn't make either one of us actually good. Why should I believe God is good? Because I am yet alive? Because I have a loving family? At times I would rather have been dead. And my husband loves me of his own free will, and my son was born of sin. Should I believe God is good because he let an eight year old girl be sexually violated by her brother? Should I thank him that I bore blame for my innocence? Should I believe that his absence from my entire life was an aspect of his goodness? What do you think I am, crazy?

On a Pastoral Encounter

Pastor Loggans asked a lot of questions today, and sadly, I can't remember them all. But what do I believe about God? Is he powerless? I don't think I believe that because if I did I wouldn't be so mad at him for what happened. But do I believe he even exists? I don't see a reason to. I think my mind has been thinking that because I reject evolution I have to believe there is a God. I am starting to believe he doesn't exist at all. The world is a whole lot easier to understand if you aren't trying to justify some good god. There is no good god. He isn't letting bad things happen, because he doesn't even exist.
But do I really believe that? I think I wish that I did believe it more than anything. But I think my Baptist upbringing has spoiled me for any true atheism. No, here is what I do and do not believe, as of right now anyway:
I believe that God is.
I believe that God created the world, or at least set evolution in motion (my objection to theistic evolution, besides lack of proof, has always been the "death before sin" part).
I do not believe that man is inherently evil.
I do not believe that God is inherently good.
I do not believe that God is worthy of worship because he created any more than I am because I gave birth.
I believe that man acts as he does out of his heart, which is why there is both great evil and great good in the world.
I do not believe God gives strength or power to humans.
I do not believe "for his glory" is an acceptable reason for God to initiate or allow evil to happen to the innocent.
I believe "free will" is a Christian cop-out. According to your Bible, God can and will override free will when it pleases him.
I believe that if God was truly opposed to "sin" and evil he would eradicate them. He allowed and causes them to flourish.
This is not an exhaustive or comprehensive list, and it is subject to change at any moment. It is more of a work in progress. But here it is for now. I am sure there will be more later.

How Dare You?

I have discovered a paradox. It is not a recent discovery, although I am just sitting down to write about it. The paradox is this: people complain about the masks that some of us wear. They want us to open up, to show more of our true selves, to reveal what we truly think. But if or when we do so, we are called emo or whiny or just ignored. Why do you think we were wearing a mask to begin with? The only thing worse than feeling pain is sharing that pain and having it mocked or ignored or belittled. So what are we supposed to do? We desperately want to be known, but if being known only brings more pain, how should we react then?
The worst part of this conundrum? Although heathens do this as well, everything I've said is something Christians engage in frequently. You, who are supposed to share Christ's love, mock and ridicule those who need that love the most. How dare you? How dare you make his love exclusive? How dare you misrepresent his caring? How dare you forget the very meaning of your name? Did Christ come to cure only your pain? Did he come to heal only your broken heart? Is his grace only enough for your need? How dare you do nothing? You have left Christ broken, and friendless, and hurting, in deepest darkness, because you have done it "to the least of these."

Family

Family is a strange and nebulous thing. Recent events have really brought that home to me. For one thing, having to fight for custody of my own son has shown me how much I truly love him. While I was considering giving him up for adoption, having that choice threatened made me think a whole lot harder. And I realized I won't be a perfect mother. I probably won't even be in the high end of the "good" roster. But I am the best person to raise my son because I am his mother and I love him.
There are more family elements to this equation, however. Because the people trying to take my son away are also family. And while they are incredibly stubborn and pigheaded sometimes, I ought to love them. I struggle with that. If anybody else did and said the same things they do, I would hate them forever. I might even take legal action. And no matter that they have taken legal action, I can be better than that. I am better than that.
So, family. Family is forever (or at least until death). So I guess I will do my best to love, even those who don't deserve it.

A Life Wasted in Waiting

I have wasted so much time waiting for a Savior. I believed them when they told me I could not find strength save in Christ. I waited through years of abuse; I searched through years of pain and tears. They told me when I turned to cutting that I needed him instead, that only he could provide relief. When I became enslaved to cutting, they told me only he could free me.

I was deceived. They lied to me.

I have grown. I have matured. They try to tell me this is Christ, but they are wrong. Christ has done nothing for me. I conquered cutting. I have laid to rest my own pain. I am done waiting for a Savior when I have already saved myself. I have wasted too much believing in my own weakness. I am not weak. I have survived. I am strong.

So farewell, O Christ. I do not doubt thy existence, for I have seen thy hand in nature, at least. If thou hast saved me from damnation, I thank thee. I have only thy word that I was damned. But I do not need thee. What good my life has known, I have brought, as I have brought my own pain. I have used thee to excuse my own laziness and weakness, and praised thee for my own strength. No more. Thou hast not helped nor hindered me. Thou hast had nothing to do wth me, and now I will have nothing more to do with thee.

So be it.

The Conqueror Has Come, and It Is I

I have conquered cutting. I alone. No Savior guided my path, no Father lit my steps. I walked alone. I fought alone, and in my own strength prevailed. So if he was absent during the darkest battles, why should I seek him now that combat has ceased? Where in life has he aided me? I endured the One Thing alone, and alone I ended it. I faced the backlash and utter ruin of my life by myself. He was not there when I begged and pleaded for his love, nor when I turned my back and walked away. Spiritually, I am still alone, as I have always been. I used to be weak. I have become strong. I will serve no master. I will be slave to neither cutting nor Christ. What need have I of him? I have faced the deepest darkness and emerged by my own power. When there were only one set of footprints in the sand - then, as always, I walked alone. I will not say that I faced the worst that life has to offer, though I can hope that is so. But what I have faced is great, and I have overcome. So cease to woo me, my Father! I do not desire you. I do not need you. You were not here when my need was greatest; you should not attempt to be here now. In weakness I desired you, in desperation I turned to you - but you closed your eyes, you refused to hear. I stumbled and fell and nearly died, but I survived. In your absence I turned to the blade, and as destructive as that was, it never failed to answer my need as you have failed. I do not need you. Begone.

Hark!

Hark!
Listen!
Strain your ears
Open your senses -
Do you hear?

The siren song has faded
The melody of blood
Lies achingly silent.

When did it cease?
What force could quiet
The haunting melody?

When did revulsion
Replace blind desire?
What broke the chains?

Hark!
Listen!
Strain your ears
Open your senses -
Do you hear?

A few faint strains
Float past, born on the breeze...
No longer seduction -
A hideous cacophony,
It repulses me.

Questions

Why is it, that while I am searching for answers, yearning for meaning, that I neglect, purposefully ignore that which contains the answers, provides the meaning?

Why is it that I search for God but ignore his Word? Why is it that I ignore what he says while I cry for him to speak to me? Why do I shut my eyes tight while I yearn to see him working? Why do I hold out my arms to him and ignore his arms reaching toward me?

So why do I blame him for the struggles I have created? Why do I hold him responsible for my actions? Did he choose to sin? Has he ever held the blade? Was his the yearning for blood? Did he cause my pain?

When will I be honest with myself? When will I realize I am lying to myself? When will I take responsibility for my own life? When will I search for truth in truth's Source? When will I choose to look forward and not back?

When will I choose to stop existing and live?

Once Upon a Time...

Once upon a time...well, I wish it was "once upon a time." But this is no fairy tale, this is reality. My reality. But just as fairy tales disguise deeper, darker meanings, I will use "once upon a time" for you, my friends. I will tell the truth in the form of a story. So let me start once more...
Once upon a time there was a girl. She was a fairly ordinary girl. She lived with her fairly ordinary parents and two of her four fairly ordinary brothers. But she had a secret. And it was no ordinary secret. It was certainly no ordinary secret for a twelve-year-old girl to have. She knew this. She knew, but for four long years she had kept this secret. It was time to let go. It was time to seek help. And so she did. And the aftermath of that telling was terrible nearly beyond words.
But what was this secret? What secret could a twelve-year-old girl have of such terrible proportions so as to rip her very soul to shreds? It had a name, but the girl didn't know it. She didn't call it by that name when she sought help, nor for nearly a decade afterward. Even now, she resists that name and the label it imposes on her. The word? Abuse. Sexual molestation. The girl had been touched. Not in a platonic way, no. He touched her in all those secret places. His mouth followed his fingers, and he invited her to do the same. She was confused. Was this some new sort of game? She did as he asked, though. After all, she was lonely, and prior to this point he'd never seemed much interested in her. Nobody had. So she loved the attention. And so the next time he came to her, and the next, and the next, for months, she did as he asked. They incorporated all the childhood games into their "play," from paper dolls to War to dress-up. For her it was just another game, a way to spend time with her now-favorite friend. For him, well, who knows what it was for him, though one can guess. But as the months passed into years, she began to realize that this wasn't all fun and games. There was something wrong here, something dirty. Perhaps the need for secrecy should have tipped her off sooner, but what eight-year-old doesn't love secrets? By then, too, they'd moved on to more than just touch. She'd grown breasts, an early bloomer. He was fascinated by those breasts. He couldn't get enough of them. She didn't like this. She desired it to stop. It was wrong, she would tell him. But you're so sexy, he'd reply. I can't help it. She knew he was right, it was her fault. Guilt and shame kept her silent.
It was then that he started forcing the girl. Not physically, no. No, he manipulated her. He preyed on her loneliness, he played on her shame. And so it continued for more years. And it wasn't just touching anymore. Now it was all but actual intercourse, including oral sex, at least on her part. And by now the girl blamed most of this on herself. Oh, some small part of her knew that he was responsible as well, but would any of this have happened if she wasn't so sexy? Of course not. So it must be her fault.
She reached her breaking point the summer she was twelve, and he, fifteen. This had gone on long enough, and guilty as she was, she had to tell someone. She wanted help. She was at camp, Christian camp. She told her counselor. She told, and turned her life into living hell. Because when she told her counselor, and then the camp director, and finally her parents, they believed her when she claimed the blame. Not that he escaped condemnation, no, but she still shouldered the lion's share of responsibility.
But her parents' first reactions gave her hope. Her father admitted his shortcomings as a parent and promised to do a lot better. There were many tears. A lot of restrictions were placed on the girl. The girl was okay with that; she understood the need for consequences, and she certainly didn't want anything happening ever again. And when two nights later, her parents called her to their bedroom and informed her that this would never be mentioned again, she was relieved. She thought she was getting off easy. It wasn't until months later that she realized the truth. Not mentioning it meant not speaking of it directly. It didn't stop her parents from referring to it indirectly every time she did something wrong. It came to be a proof of her utter inability to do anything right, and unspoken testimony of her complete worthlessness. Not mentioning it gave her no chance to seek help, but that didn't matter that much since she didn't deserve any anyway. There was no trust left in her family. Her parents started fighting, and she knew it was her fault. Her mom, never the most trusting, started being suspicious of everyone and everything; the girl recognized and accepted the blame for this as well.
As the years passed, the girl learned the fine art of masking. She didn't call it that; she called it "being all things to all men," not for the purpose of evangelism, no; merely to survive. She lost track of the times she wiped away tears in the car and walked into school with a smile on her face. She lost track, too, of who she was. Everything from the times with him stabbed her over and over, leaving her heart open and bleeding. It was too much, and she buried it deeper and deeper. In so doing, she buried all of her other emotions, and was left floating on a sea of emptiness, drowning in nothingness. Those two, the pain and the nothing, were her whole life. She tried killing herself once, but stopped herself before she swallowed the pills. If she died, she would face God, and she hated God. He did nothing to help her, nothing to relieve the pain. Even though she was to blame, she was sorry, she wanted forgiveness. Eventually she reached the conclusion that what she had done was too bad for even God to forgive, and lost all hope. After all, she knew God was supposed to be the reason for living, but he had forsaken her, and life had no point.
She turned to other things for a while, looking for...something. She knew that what she had done with him had given her something, made her accepted. She turned to those things again. Her mind became a dirtier place than the average porn addict's. She fed it when she could, which was rarely. But she knew this was wrong. She sought help, this time from her youth pastor. He brushed her off, told her of a different counselor, a lady. Have your dad call her, he urged. She understood the awkwardness of gender differences, and asked her dad. She knew she was skirting the edge of "not mentioning it," but she didn't care. She was desperate. Her dad refused. You have to do it on your own, he said, no one else can help you. She believed him, but she knew she wasn't strong enough. So she decided to die. She was no longer afraid of God; she just didn't care anymore. Once more camp rescued her. Once more her parents ignored everything. Once more she sank back down into the pit of darkness. And so it continued.
The girl had no close friends, but she didn't deserve any. She had no thought of marriage, even though she wanted desperately for someone (anyone!) to love her; she knew that no one would ever want her if they knew what she had done. So she resigned herself to a lifetime of pain and tears, sorrow, anguish, regret.
College offered an opportunity for change, but she didn't expect much out of it. All her friends (she had a few, none that close) could talk about was boys and marriage. She hid her pain and gave them advice when they asked it; for some reason, they kept asking. She gave what help she could and caught a glimmer of hope: maybe she was good for something after all. But it wasn't enough to live for. Once more she intended to kill herself. Once more she was talked out of it. The pain grew yet more. Nothing would ease, nothing could relieve it.
Nothing, that is, until one desperate day she picked up a piece of sharp plastic and slashed it across her arm. It hurt, but then a strange thing happened. In the midst of the physical pain, all the emotional pain she had carried for so many years just faded away. For a few priceless hours, she tasted freedom. She bought a knife and did it again. Again she tasted that blessed relief. Freedom from the pain! All it took was the willingness to bleed, and she had that in abundance. She hated her body; seeing it bleed was no great hardship. Soon she was cutting not just for that overwhelming pain, but every normal pain and everyday stress. She worshiped the blade and the blood. It didn't take her long to realize that she had become a slave to the cutting, but she didn't mind. It gave her what she wanted from it, and she was content. She was happy. She knew the reckoning would come some day, but for now, she was free.
Her story doesn't end there. But the many things that come after, expulsion, firing, suicide attempt, mental hospital, marriage, baby, etc, are too new for a "once upon a time" story. Maybe someday that story will be told as well. Not today. Storytime is over for today, my friends.
This is my story. This is my reality. This is my life.