Where There's a Will...

Dear George Will,

Hope you don’t mind if I call you George. Phew, what a crazy couple weeks. Of course yours has been so very public; mine private, contemplative, as I’ve processed your article published in The Washington Post. I must tell you I’ve come a long way, I’ve noticed, because a few years ago - heck even a year ago - I would’ve immediately fired off a response, quite hostile I’ll admit, one I’d regret later.

During these couple weeks I’ve narrowed my focus specifically to your phrase “coveted status that confers privileges.” Thank you, George. You’ve ignited serious soul-searching, and I’ve come to some epiphanies and deepened my spirituality as I’ve thought about forgiveness and redemption. Something in me has even come to believe that if my stepfather were alive today, I think I’d be able to stand strong before him and forgive him.

I was sexually assaulted (molested they called it back in the day) by a neighbor boy; and when I told some kids, they didn’t believe me. The seeds of being doubted and ashamed were planted. A year later, my new stepfather began wooing me with gifts I readily accepted, which led to a summer of molestation. His threats of killing me and my family if I told, and my fear no one would believe me, as well as the shame that I’d enjoyed the gifts and attention he showered on me before that first assault, kept my lips sealed. It wasn’t until that silver-haired Phil Donahue turned to the camera during an episode of his show, looked me in the eyes and said don’t believe the abuser. Tell. And keep telling until someone believes you. I did that very day, and my mother sent me to safety while she dealt with the fallout.

Here’s the rub: She didn’t prosecute. He was a respected man in the community, and she didn’t want to put me through facing her soon-to-be ex-husband in court. In her mind she was protecting me; in my 11-year-old mind I felt she doubted me, I was partly to blame, and I feared he’d continue preying on other girls.

So those seeds of doubt and shame sprouted. The advice of “forget it and it will go away” was conveyed. A series of choices starting in my teens developed as I looked for ways to cope. I turned to alcohol, drugs, and promiscuity. I was looking for comfort in all the wrong places.

Here’s the profound part: What began flowering in me was a heart filling with mercy. In my 20s, after making mistake after mistake, I developed a deep love for the downtrodden, for single moms, for the bullied, for people who feel no one cares. In my 30s, I zoned into a passion of seeking out ways to help teens, especially in that critical junior high age when drugs and alcohol are easily attainable and those hormones are flaring – the same age at which I chose my destructive path.

So while mulling over your phrase “coveted status that confers privileges,” I came to the realization that ten or so years ago I was given opportunities to share my story, to bring to light the darkness that consumed me. And each chance lifted a layer of shame in which I wallowed.

George, I’ve had the “privilege” to work with youth, to walk alongside teen girls as they hit that pivotal age. I’ve had the “privilege” to mentor a young lady - who’s experienced much trauma in her life - beginning in her seventh-grade year and continuing through her senior year. I’ve had the “privilege” to share my story in front of a group of women ranging in age from teens to elderly in Nicaragua, some who’ve experienced similar journeys. I have to tell you, I cried as this group surrounded me after I spoke, laid their hands on me and prayed for me. I thought I was there to minister to them, but no, these strong women were loving on me.

The last I’ll share – I hope I haven’t lost your attention – is I’ve had the “privilege” to share my story with groups of women at a handful of retreats. I am not comfortable speaking in front of groups, but when I lean on my faith, I wish you could see the power my God injects. I blossom when He helps me conquer my discomfort. And I treasure the moments when other women who’ve experienced abuse share their stories.

So in the phrase “coveted status that confers privileges” on which I’ve meditated, while I disagree with “coveted” - because please search your heart and understand no sexual assault victim “wishes for, especially eagerly,” (dictionary def.) that experience – I will agree, in my own experience, that your words “status that confers privilege” describes me because I am given opportunities to redeem my choices and make peace with my past.

George, I look forward to how you’ll redeem your experience of a couple weeks ago and the fallout. Hoping to witness redemption at its finest. I wish you all my best. Grace and peace.

Forgiveness at Its Finest

We were enjoying what had become our weekly talkfests, Mom in the blue vinyl recliner hooked up to the chemo cocktail, Aunt Cinda and I in the rolling stools huddled close. We were pleased to end up in the left corner spot which gave a bit of privacy in a room lined with others receiving their meds. In what turned out to be her last weekly treatment, aided by my aunt who’s a brilliant psychotherapist, Mom and I had one of the most significant breakthroughs in our rocky past.

“I just wanted you to listen. I’d yell and sling hurtful comments and you wouldn’t react, didn’t flinch. I felt you didn’t care,” I shared.

Cinda, who’d facilitated many healing conversations in the last 11 months, asked her sister, “How’d her actions make you feel? What does that stir up in you?”

Mom replied, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I felt growing up I was to be seen, not heard. I wanted you to have a voice.” Ah-ha dawning. Burden lifting. Definitive forgiveness on both sides in her final days. Eyes shining. Tender smiles shared.

We’d been on a journey toward harmony for about a decade. Seeds were planted as I witnessed my son’s full-onslaught adoration of her. She was the dream grandma. Not only would she listen intently to my son’s recounting of a half-hour show in 45 minutes, but she’d take dictation in her spiral notebook on each Pokemon character and their powers. She’d talk knowledgeably when he brought his pack of cards next time. We’d overhear little Josh complain “Oh, man” and beg for a couple more hours when we’d call saying we were on our way to pick him up from overnighters. Grandma would negotiate, “We were just fixing some mac ‘n cheese. Can you wait?” “We just started a game of Sorry. A couple more hours?”

Mom’s and my relationship grew from weary to wary to friendly to loving. The seeds turned to sprouts when she wrote me a letter as part of a 72-hour retreat. In it she shared how much I’m loved and thought of. She listed “some of the things you do that I’m especially impressed by.” And the theme I make out as I read it today, her birthday, and on the eve of Mother’s Day, is that she was listening to the details (my son inherited his sharing of details) I’d share about my life. She ended by saying, “You’re a lovely and accomplished woman and I’m very proud you’re my daughter.” Seeing her words on stationery – she could’ve said this many times before – helped me to hear.

My son’s working on his driving time, and he’s a cautious kid. I’ve had so few moments of fear on the road with him; a couple incidents of pressing an imaginary brake, mind you, but otherwise a calm experience. I shared with him the couple times Mom took me out driving before my license. I’d back out of the driveway in her brown ‘70s Chevy Impala with the V8 engine, shift to drive, and gun down the road. I’d accelerate through turns, my periphery catching Mom’s petite frame slide across the bench, press against the door, seize the handle. She never said a word. My aunt asked, when I relayed this to her the other day, “Did that settle your urge for her to react?” I reflected, “No, just spurred me on more, took those turns a little faster.” My son’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “I told you, Josh, I could be a pistol,” I said.

I redirected my energy, after receiving her letter, to search for the positive memories. I see examples of unconditional love, grace, forgiveness. She wasn’t perfect, but she loved me the best she knew how. And she is my earthly example – Lordy, she’s set the bar high – for how Jesus loves, how He wants us to love.

Christmas 2011 was our last trip together, her stage IV cancer diagnosed the previous July. We relished our moments, aware this would be our last time at the beach. We walked slowly, her still-present sashay as we meandered down the beach. Learning to catch with Josh and me, she’d curtsy as she picked up the ball. Ah, her dainty nature. Dave, who adored her, and I chuckle at the recall.

We spent our last 11 months together crying, laughing, loving. Crazy in love with her. May 25 she died in my arms, her back against my chest, my legs along hers, my hand stroking her downy short hair, as I whispered, “I love you, Mommy, I love you.”

Dave, Josh and I crazy miss you, Mom. You are one of God’s finest.

TMI? I Think Not

To paraphrase Rapunzel from the movie Shrek the Third, “Everyone toots, Beauty,” and I’m going there with my blog today.

As some of you know, I was a court reporter for many years. I was setting up my equipment for a deposition one morning. There were two men in the room, an attorney and a witness. It was quiet except for the rustle of setting up my equipment. My case was on the floor, so I would bend down to get an accessory, stand back up, down and up.

Well, on one of the rotations it squeaked out - yes, I’ll say it, I farted. Oh how I was mortified. In my quick thinking I contemplated my options: Could I blame it on the squeaky chair next to me or maybe that I kicked my case? No. I saw they had looked up, and I decided to acknowledge my shame. I said it. “Excuse me.” I turned beet red, flaming red. My armpits immediately began to perspire. I still turn red to this day.

I tend to take myself a bit too seriously, take things too personally. Let me tell you, this event inspired my journey to lighten up, to try to laugh at myself more. If I don’t get the joke, I’m going to tell you I don’t get the joke. (Eeek, the “ohhh” moment years later when I figured out “what’s black and white and red/read all over.) The joke’s on me, baby. Bring it.