To be heard...

I want to rewind a bit in my story…the world’s recent events here in Mozambique and America have brought to remembrance wounds in my own life and as I struggle some days to parent my boys well I realize more and more the importance of being heard, having a voice. I think that is why I have always had a deep desire to write and have found blogging to be therapeutic at times because I can tell my story and have a voice in some way.

In the last few months I have really struggled with knowing how to come along side Tobiah as he is going through so many physical, emotional, mental and spiritual changes at 12 years old. I am also seeing it in Jaidan at 9 and Gideon at 7. They were not born in Moz and they have only lived here a bit over a year. We live in a community with mostly singles, we live an area where most families have raised their children in Africa, but the reality that I struggled with the most this past week was that my sons are being raised in a country with no voice.  They are being raised around the vulnerable that want to have a voice but when they speak they are not heard. Children will sit at our fence for hours yelling Tobiah’s name until someone hears them. Some days they will continue to yell until someone actually acknowledges them, has a short conversation with them…hears them.

The ongoing lesson for me this past couple months as a parent is that when you are around a dinner table, in a community, after 5pm, after hours of work and ministry and many days death, when fatigue begins to set into not only your body but your mind, your emotions, your heart…the reality still is my own 12 year old boy needs to be heard. He has had his own struggle lately with what is appropriate to discuss at the table with others, what tone to use, what volume to use and when to just sit in silence. I, out of what I think is protection, try to silence him too often. I give him the look only a frustrated mom can give, have a tone that cuts like a knife, and project my own insecurity and fear of…oh my they will never want us to eat dinner with them again! After many tears, prayers and discussions with Ian this week, I realized I had failed at truly protecting Tobiah and even my other two boys. I decided I needed to own my own junk, let the Lord burn it off as the dross it was and ask Tobiah a simple question…why are you having such a hard time? A question many failed to ask me in my own childhood, a question I failed to ask many even in recent years, a question many fail to ask each other day after day because it requires vulnerability.

Tobiah was not slow to communicate his feelings, his frustrations…he now had a voice and it was my choice to let him be heard. He said…”Mama, it is difficult to say what I am feeling or say it the right way and with the right tone. I am trying but sometimes I do not know how to say what I am thinking when others bring up things…they bring it up and I am just trying to say what I feel about it. I don’t mean to be rude or sound bad.”  Wow…that was it, pretty simple, huh?! Days, weeks, months of not being able to communicate in your own language with your own friends and then add not being able to communicate well to parents and adults that many times expect “more of you”.  I really heard him thankfully to Holy Spirit for giving me the deeper understanding in his emotions and words. When children are not heard they will act in a way that will get attention even if it is negative and yes they will become overwhelmingly annoying, loud and eventually defiant. Sad thing is that will carry into their adulthood if parents, caregivers or others do not take the time to stop and hear them…to let them have a voice.

What I have seen many times with parenting is when there is an issue that your child is struggling with that makes you more frustrated, angry, helpless, defensive, and some days just plain irritated…it is because there is something in what your child is struggling with that is penetrating a wound in your own soul as a parent. You feel irritated and defensive as that “something” begins to rub against a scar and irritate the unhealed tissue under it. You become defensive as you go into self-protection thinking you are protecting your own child when really you are harming him and empowering those around you to harm your child as well. The enemy wants you to feel it is easier to continue to ignore the real issue and be a peace keeper instead of being a peace maker by exposing the deep root of your own wound as it may be uncomfortable for more than just you, it may be uncomfortable for those around you. I often wonder if many people just cannot believe what Jesus did for them because after all it was just too uncomfortable…the isolation, the anguish, the names he was called and ultimately the torture and crucifixion. But the truth is if we were always going to be comfortable why did He send Holy Spirit, the Great Comforter?

 

I am choosing to be vulnerable and have peace that this is the right time to share…I believe healing comes in many different ways, different times, whether spoken out loud or quietly to our Heavenly Father. I want to go back to the time when I was 9 years old. A time when I was struggling in my childhood. Struggling in many ways…was not the most beautiful little girl (so I thought), had a horrible gap between my teeth (which if I still had would be a sign of amazing beauty here in Africa), and my foundation in life was broken. My parents were divorced, my mom entered the work force when I was 4 years old and from that day on I was under the care of a babysitter…whether with my older brother or someone my mom thought she could trust with me and my other brother. It was difficult to have a voice during this time as most days there was no one around that really cared to hear me. My mom was working, my dad was living his life elsewhere, my brother got to an age where he did not need a babysitter, and my friends were home safe with their own families after school. I found it difficult to communicate what I was feeling, experiencing. I remember at one time after my dad left we tried family counseling and we were sent home with a punching bag to take out our aggressions on as my brother and I would fight constantly and violently. Of course, that bag broke in the first couple weeks as it was hit so hard and often! We yelled to try to be heard and at the end of the day there was lots of tears, bruises, broken hearts and unresolved issues as not one of us could put words to anything that was going on. My mom was at a loss as her own childhood was engulfed with alcoholic parents sleeping in separate rooms, hurtful words from a mom that could not express love well and a loving dad that was broken in many ways himself. We were a hurting, broken family wanting to be heard, to be loved and to love each other but did not know how to begin all of that in a healthy way. The way we see, experience and engage in communication as children carries over into our adulthood and that is not always a healthy aspect of our relationships. My wounded heart was only beaten more as the unspeakable happened at my babysitter’s house which was only two doors down from my home…I became a victim of sexual abuse. My babysitter was an amazing, loving lady but her husband was not and what he had his son do to me was a manifestation and manipulation of his own sin and evil. After what seemed like years…although it was only months I was told by a friend a block away that the same thing happened to her. I was sad for her but in some way relieved as the trauma made me feel like I was in a bad dream and some days I just wished it was and I would just wake up! But the dream was real… I am an introvert so even at that age it took me a long time to figure out how I would talk to my mom, what would I say, would she believe me, did she even have the time to listen? One day I had the courage and I wrote it in a note…even today I communicate better in writing. J My mom called my dad and they talked…there were phone calls and discussions even with others. At the end of all the talks my mom told me I was no longer going to the babysitter and there would be another plan. From what I could see through my 9 year old perspective…there was no justice and it was not discussed ever again. I spent years struggling in relationships with guys, struggling in communication in relationships with friends and even struggling in communication with my aging parents.

I moved forward and in later years I chose to forgive my parents for whatever had happened…my abuse as a result of their own sin and divorce. Also, I forgave them as I felt I had not really been heard…that I spoke out but not much was done. Some days I struggled to speak up when I saw injustice as I felt I would not be heard. God continued to speak to me throughout the years…He reminded me that He heard me, my cries and that I had a voice. After immense healing I was able to interact with my parents at a much deeper level, able to discuss the deep things of life, of death and because of this vulnerability and healing was able to journey with them both as they took their last breaths…the exchange was life changing.

When I was 39…yes, just two years ago, the Lord woke me in the middle of the night and brought to remembrance the abusers in my childhood.  He said there was no way I would go into the mission field overseas until I really understood forgiveness and what being heard was really about.  I questioned why as I felt I had forgiven…He pointed out a few things and I realized there was more to it all. I went to my computer and looked up the name of my old babysitter’s now ex-husband…I lost my breath and began to weep as I read the news story from years before…man arrested and convicted of sexual abuse…the worst child predator in Arizona history. During police interviews he could not even count the number of victims her had abused, prostituted. His forever home on earth would be a prison cell separated from others. Remind you, this man was not my abuser but his son was; however, I was able to look with a compassion only the Lord can give to realize this son was a victim of abuse in a much more twisted way then I could ever imagine. That did not excuse what his son chose to do under such pressure but I chose to forgive him and pray for his healing that he would someday realize he needed. I struggled instantly with the feelings of I could have done more, my parents could have done more…why wasn’t I really heard?! If I was really heard then why did all of these other children have to suffer and most at an even higher cost then myself!? I prayed, I listened, I leaned into my Father’s chest. I knew He was with me…yes, He was even with me during those times. I knew He was for me, He has always been for me. Sometimes healing comes in part and in later years in full. Sometimes it comes slowly and sometimes in an instant. The Lord showed me again that Jesus died for not only my sins…but He died for the shame I carried because of others sin against me. In that instant I realized I was carrying shame for the sin that was done to me and in the moment the shame was immense for what the enemy wanted me to embrace…he wanted me to embrace the idea that all those children were abused because my voice was not enough…my story was not enough. That lasted for all but a moment as the presence of God just consumed me, my heart, my soul, my spirit.

Yes, I have a voice and I was heard. Yes, I have a story. What is the point of all this? Parents, slow down and listen to your children, hear their stories, their frustrations. Respectfully quit worrying about what others think and please stop projecting the expectations of others on your children. Everyone, slow down and listen to your friends, listen to the man you stop for on the street. I am living in a third world country where injustice and abuse are daily events. Where children are sold for sex and body parts. Where you are forced into the military at a young age. I am living in a country that once looked like America did before it “developed”. If people live years and years without being heard, without having a voice, without being able to share their story without offense or fear of rejection and shame…those people will soon self-implode…that nation will soon self-destruct.

 

“The righteous cry out, and the Lord hears them; he delivers them from all their troubles. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:17-18

 

“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen: to loose the chains of injustice and untie the cords of the yoke, to set the oppressed free and break every yoke? Is it not to share your food with the hungry and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter--when you see the naked, to clothe them,  and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood? Then your light will break forth like the dawn, and your healing will quickly appear; then your righteousness will go before you, and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard. Then you will call, and the Lord will answer; you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I. If you do away with the yoke of oppression, with the pointing finger and malicious talk, and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry, and satisfy the needs of the oppressed, then your light will rise in the darkness, and your night will become like the noonday. The Lord will guide you always; he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land and will strengthen your frame. You will be like a well-watered garden, like a spring whose waters never fail. Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins and will raise up the age-old foundations; you will be called a Repairer of Broken Walls, Restorer of Streets with Dwellings. 

We must cry out when others cannot, will not or do not even know what I mean by cry out! We must not only speak justice but live it out each day. There is action that comes with faith and prayer. If we as individuals do not seek righteousness, justice, mercy, love and forgiveness while allowing each other to be heard…well, we can see the results today on the news. We have a foundation to repair and restore for a new generation that is on a journey to their future, to live out their story. Will you let them have a voice, will you let them be heard?