20 Years Ago
About 10 years ago I started this blog - mostly at the urging of people I was with who would tell me, 'You should write a book!' I heard about what it takes to write a book and chickened out. I couldn't handle that, I reasoned. A blog would suffice. And it did, and has - for me, if not for others. Mostly people wanted to hear the story of how I met Sam, it being such a grand adventure and all. I say that tongue firmly in cheek, because although it does rank up there as truly adventurous, it wasn't exactly all that grand.
I set out to write it all, and it came in bits and pieces, which is relevant to everything about me: I come in bits and pieces - sometimes overly large doses and sometimes small measured ones, if I'm careful to read my audience. And I never did quite finish writing it, which is also very indicative of the kind of person I am: always starting, rarely, if ever, finishing. So to all the pithy little encouraging sayings out there of: Just be yourself! You do you! Be who you are! I say, 'That's great, but if I follow that logic, I'll never finish anything, because, well, that's just not who I am!' Maybe I will have to just not be the non-finishing self I am and move towards completion of things once in a great while. It remains to be seen.
Now that I finished that tangent, I can reflect on the thing I never finished: the telling of my story. I finished the main, eventful part, but I never did fill in the rest of it - how Sam and I went on to be engaged, married and birth 5 beautiful babies in the ensuing years. I'll get to that at some point, I imagine. But today I reflect on that day 20 years ago, when at this point I was not sleeping, and not eating, and completely in a state of shock. I didn't believe I had seen and experienced all that I had. And 20 years on, it still seems somewhat surreal. In fact, in some ways, it feels worse than it did then. The initial shock was protective, I imagine - to feel like nothing was real, life was a dream, fear was ever-present, amazement was mingled with shock and horror. This was my very real experience.
That first night - a night of much needed sleep - I could not sleep for fear of returning invaders. I curled up on the bench at the foot of my parents' bed, as a 22 year-old, and attempted to sleep. Every time I dozed off, I jolted myself awake, to listen for intruders. This was my reality for a number of weeks.
I slowly entered the cloud of fear-warp-numb-nothing. I began to know Sam. I continued my classes. My head continued to heal from the gash, my hair began to regrow where it had been shaved. My crutches had been discarded the previous month - outwardly health and healing were on its way. Inwardly, new challenges were emerging. It is ironic to experience physical healing while at the same time experience inner deterioration. I floated through my days doing the things that needed doing, reveling in new friendship with Sam, marveling at the goodness of God in bringing a life-mate through all the turmoil - and yet I couldn't bring my feet back onto solid ground. My 'self' felt like it was always just a few feet behind or above me. I listened with my ears, I spoke with my voice, but my soul felt caged in a secure holding room, anaesthatized from all of life. When it came time to make life-altering decisions, like about marrying Sam, I prayed at length, and relied on much heady-wisdom to move forward. My heart had frozen, in those moments when I heard Sam screaming for his life, I vowed, 'I will not grieve for one I never knew.' Vows we make hastily in moments we didn't anticipate have a way of sticking - sometimes in grievous ways, much like Jepthah's vow regarding his daughter in Judges 11.
I haven't delved into these experiences as much, because in the telling of my stories, I figured the events were more exciting and meaningful to my readers. But here we are 20 years later, and I find that the effects do linger. My experience is dramatic, but I am sure that many, many others have similar sorrows, griefs, difficulties and numb-inducing experiences. I am not one to hide the reality I experience in a cushion of dramatic tales. I walked, and walk this road, often living life with a limp, and desperately cling to the God of Jacob, Who blesses those who wrestle.
During these anniversaries, I sometimes skirt the memory - evade it and find it almost an entertaining story to revisit. But truth be told, though God intervened to preserve life and safety, I have yet to fully integrate this horrific experience. God kept my feet from stumbling (as referenced in Psalm 56), but I continue to struggle with the walking 'before God in the light of life.'
It is Psalm 56 that I come back to again and again at these remembrances. You will recall, this is the passage Sam read to us after he was stitched up, the morning after the attack. I merely picked up where he had left off the day before. For those who read my stories and do not engage with a personal God as I do, I challenge you to read this one Psalm and marvel with me at the appropriateness of all its words - to be read the day after a life-threatening attack.
Tucked right near the end are these words, that I turn to now:
"Record my misery;
list my tears on your scroll
are they not in your record?
9 Then my enemies will turn back when I call for help.
By this I will know that God is for me."
What is the 'this' he speaks of in this last line? I wonder if there are two meanings for the 'this' - 1) that God records, listens, knows, and attends to our miseries. And 2) That God responds by intervening and turning away enemies when we have called on His help.
Whether or not I face physical threat or enemies, it is a great comfort to me that God is for me - and that this is apparent because He records and notices every misery, distress or burden I face. 20 years ago I had no idea the kinds of challenges life would hurl my way. I had just weathered perhaps the worst storm of my life, and felt shaken to the core, and yet firm in the grip of the God Who shielded and protected me. These are the things I recall, even when the recollections revisit me unexpectedly, or when I wake up 6 times in the night from unusual nightmares.
October 3 will always be an anniversary for me. Maybe not a joyful one - perhaps a sober one. And yet it is filled with thanksgiving. It opens for me the season of Thanksgiving - though it is yet a month away, I begin now, with a reading of Psalm 56, and a turning to the One Who showed up, and continues to show up every day of my life. It is His life in me that sustains me, and enables me to live this limping life, for with each step - faltering or firm, I sense that utter dependence on Him: 'I will not let go until you bless me,' I say. And I almost can hear, 'I will not let you go, because I will never cease to bless you.'
I set out to write it all, and it came in bits and pieces, which is relevant to everything about me: I come in bits and pieces - sometimes overly large doses and sometimes small measured ones, if I'm careful to read my audience. And I never did quite finish writing it, which is also very indicative of the kind of person I am: always starting, rarely, if ever, finishing. So to all the pithy little encouraging sayings out there of: Just be yourself! You do you! Be who you are! I say, 'That's great, but if I follow that logic, I'll never finish anything, because, well, that's just not who I am!' Maybe I will have to just not be the non-finishing self I am and move towards completion of things once in a great while. It remains to be seen.
Now that I finished that tangent, I can reflect on the thing I never finished: the telling of my story. I finished the main, eventful part, but I never did fill in the rest of it - how Sam and I went on to be engaged, married and birth 5 beautiful babies in the ensuing years. I'll get to that at some point, I imagine. But today I reflect on that day 20 years ago, when at this point I was not sleeping, and not eating, and completely in a state of shock. I didn't believe I had seen and experienced all that I had. And 20 years on, it still seems somewhat surreal. In fact, in some ways, it feels worse than it did then. The initial shock was protective, I imagine - to feel like nothing was real, life was a dream, fear was ever-present, amazement was mingled with shock and horror. This was my very real experience.
That first night - a night of much needed sleep - I could not sleep for fear of returning invaders. I curled up on the bench at the foot of my parents' bed, as a 22 year-old, and attempted to sleep. Every time I dozed off, I jolted myself awake, to listen for intruders. This was my reality for a number of weeks.
I slowly entered the cloud of fear-warp-numb-nothing. I began to know Sam. I continued my classes. My head continued to heal from the gash, my hair began to regrow where it had been shaved. My crutches had been discarded the previous month - outwardly health and healing were on its way. Inwardly, new challenges were emerging. It is ironic to experience physical healing while at the same time experience inner deterioration. I floated through my days doing the things that needed doing, reveling in new friendship with Sam, marveling at the goodness of God in bringing a life-mate through all the turmoil - and yet I couldn't bring my feet back onto solid ground. My 'self' felt like it was always just a few feet behind or above me. I listened with my ears, I spoke with my voice, but my soul felt caged in a secure holding room, anaesthatized from all of life. When it came time to make life-altering decisions, like about marrying Sam, I prayed at length, and relied on much heady-wisdom to move forward. My heart had frozen, in those moments when I heard Sam screaming for his life, I vowed, 'I will not grieve for one I never knew.' Vows we make hastily in moments we didn't anticipate have a way of sticking - sometimes in grievous ways, much like Jepthah's vow regarding his daughter in Judges 11.
I haven't delved into these experiences as much, because in the telling of my stories, I figured the events were more exciting and meaningful to my readers. But here we are 20 years later, and I find that the effects do linger. My experience is dramatic, but I am sure that many, many others have similar sorrows, griefs, difficulties and numb-inducing experiences. I am not one to hide the reality I experience in a cushion of dramatic tales. I walked, and walk this road, often living life with a limp, and desperately cling to the God of Jacob, Who blesses those who wrestle.
During these anniversaries, I sometimes skirt the memory - evade it and find it almost an entertaining story to revisit. But truth be told, though God intervened to preserve life and safety, I have yet to fully integrate this horrific experience. God kept my feet from stumbling (as referenced in Psalm 56), but I continue to struggle with the walking 'before God in the light of life.'
It is Psalm 56 that I come back to again and again at these remembrances. You will recall, this is the passage Sam read to us after he was stitched up, the morning after the attack. I merely picked up where he had left off the day before. For those who read my stories and do not engage with a personal God as I do, I challenge you to read this one Psalm and marvel with me at the appropriateness of all its words - to be read the day after a life-threatening attack.
Tucked right near the end are these words, that I turn to now:
"Record my misery;
list my tears on your scroll
are they not in your record?
9 Then my enemies will turn back when I call for help.
By this I will know that God is for me."
What is the 'this' he speaks of in this last line? I wonder if there are two meanings for the 'this' - 1) that God records, listens, knows, and attends to our miseries. And 2) That God responds by intervening and turning away enemies when we have called on His help.
Whether or not I face physical threat or enemies, it is a great comfort to me that God is for me - and that this is apparent because He records and notices every misery, distress or burden I face. 20 years ago I had no idea the kinds of challenges life would hurl my way. I had just weathered perhaps the worst storm of my life, and felt shaken to the core, and yet firm in the grip of the God Who shielded and protected me. These are the things I recall, even when the recollections revisit me unexpectedly, or when I wake up 6 times in the night from unusual nightmares.
October 3 will always be an anniversary for me. Maybe not a joyful one - perhaps a sober one. And yet it is filled with thanksgiving. It opens for me the season of Thanksgiving - though it is yet a month away, I begin now, with a reading of Psalm 56, and a turning to the One Who showed up, and continues to show up every day of my life. It is His life in me that sustains me, and enables me to live this limping life, for with each step - faltering or firm, I sense that utter dependence on Him: 'I will not let go until you bless me,' I say. And I almost can hear, 'I will not let you go, because I will never cease to bless you.'
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