As I was thinking this morning of the process Jesus went through to heal us and separate us from sickness and destruction, a time in my life as a child began to come back to me. It was more than five decades ago.
Because of Jesus making me whole, that time has been shared “as needed”, but not often. If telling it will help others, I’ll tell it without shame. After all, it wasn’t my shame.
I was in the fifth grade. I remember the grades by where we lived. My parents weren’t prone to hold steady jobs until much later in their lives, so we were always moving. I didn’t go to the same school two years in a row. My brother attended five high schools in four years.
It was autumn in Illinois. That day was still warm enough to ride my bike, an unusual day for sure. It was close to Thanksgiving.
As my stepmother pulled in the drive, I laid my bike in the yard to help her with groceries, and I saw her drop a bag on her foot.
She began to jump around, yelling, holding her foot. And then I did it. I was nine or ten years old. As I watched her squealing and twisting on one foot, I laughed.
She told my father I laughed. He told me when he came into my bedroom that my laughter had hurt her feelings, and because of that, I would be staying in my bedroom for the next week except for meals and bathroom trips.
Then he told me, “And because you hurt her, for the next week, I will hurt you. ” His leather belt was doubled in his hand. He had me remove my clothes and lay face down on the bed.
From my shoulders to the backs of my knees that belt continued to slap against my skin. I’m not sure where my mind went, except I was determined not to cry. If laughter was getting me hurt like that, what would crying get me?
Finally, my father yelled, “If you will cry, I will stop for today.” I did, and the belt was stilled. I turned to look at him, my skin burning, my muscles aching. He was perspiring profusely. He gave me one final look, ran his fingers through his hair and told me to get dressed.
The next five days were repeats of the first. When he came in, I “got ready” and it got easier to cry and more difficult to move.
The last night of that week, it was my stepmother who came in the room. She rubbed my shoulders and the pain was getting easier to bear as she told me, “If you’ll be good, that won’t need to happen again.”
Then she took my hand and walked me to their bedroom where I began to learn what it meant to “be good”. Another ongoing cycle of a different abuse began that would last until I began to have “female cycles”.
The week I turned 18, I moved. For years, I lived in fear they would find me. As an adult, the fear was no less.
*****
A little more than a decade later, a friend told me, ” I got saved by Jesus tonight.” In my ignorance, even at age 21, I asked her, “From what?” and she told me her testimony. She added, “I got baptized and I feel so clean.”
That was my deepest longing, to no longer feel ashamed. I didn’t remember not feeling dirty whenever I remembered my childhood. God personally reached out to my heart by offering me what I longed for, what He knew I craved and needed.
Her words led me to hope. I would have followed any advice to “feel clean”. I thank God that He was the One I encountered. He was protecting me from the enemy of my soul even then, just as He had as a child.
When I got baptized, I felt clean too. For a while. Without learning the goodness of God, hearing only the judgment of God in the denomination I was in, the “cleanness” didn’t last long.
When people would tell me, “God is a good Father”, without knowing my story, (the story I still kept locked away so the shame didn’t resurface), I didn’t know what being a good Father meant. Did that mean God, who was all powerful, would punish me even more violently than my earthly father had when I messed up?
So I shied away from getting close to God. I lived the best I could, trying my best to earn the clean back. That’s impossible, you know. You can’t earn the clean back…because you never earned the clean.
Jesus did that. As I was talking to Him this morning, I said, “Jesus, yes, I was beaten. I was beaten bad. But never did I experience anything like You did.” He didn’t cry. His ability to remain silent during his torment still amazes me.
As I thanked Him again for going to the whipping post, and the cross, both of which have healed us and delivered us from destruction and curse, I looked into that memory, and it is still graphic, but it is impossible for it to hurt me.
Maybe the memory needed to be shared because there is a woman I know, or even one I do not yet know, that is recalling similar hurts, or perhaps “she” is you. Maybe someone has lost the “clean” that salvation brings. If that is so, please. let’s talk. If you know someone, please share this with her.
Jesus is indeed, absolutely, without fail, the kindest Person you will ever meet. Jesus is the One who knows, better than anyone else, the pain of being unjustly beaten and tormented.
He chose it, though. For me, He became the pain of a child under the authority of a bitter, angry pedophile. Whatever your pain is, and there are many who know the same experience personally that I do, Jesus is Healer. Compassionate, merciful Healer. The Father will never hurt us, because the Son was given for us.
If you can’t make yourself call on Jesus right now, will you call on me? If you’re local, please come by. There’s no virus or fear of virus here. Corona can’t live here.
My heart is a safe place, a sanctuary for women,where shame revealed is shame defeated. There is no condemnation here. If you are saved or not yet saved, let’s kill the shame. Jesus took our shame…and it went into Him so we never need have it. No one else need ever know.
The blood of Jesus heals our wounds. Whether on our bodies or in our minds. The blood of Jesus heals all wounds. I promise. It’s been more than 50 years since it happened, more than 40 since I last felt shame or pain of it. Our Healer, our Father, welcome us. They look with love, and save with power.
Come on. Message me. I’ll give you my number. Don’t carry shame that isn’t yours, or hurts that only have shallow scabs until the enemy rips them off. Be. Healed. Jesus will, and only he can. Your efforts won’t work. It took His blood sacrifice. His blood still heals, and His blood still speaks the Word of love.
For His Glory 