Where is Your Focus?

Day Seventeen

I am often surprised at how easily I am distracted.  Cleaning house can take several hours as I fly off on this tangent or that, cleaning details or organizing stuff, and in the end, I have to just rush through the job.

It’s the same with running errands, I see the card store and remember that I need something there, then I go into the supermarket because I need to pick up milk, and before I know it, I’ve gone a long way out of my way and still haven’t gotten the essentials done.

At one time I had 7 volunteer jobs.  I think it was a way to distract myself from the pain of an abusive marriage.

During the summer of my divorce, I began sitting at the front of the church.  I desperately needed to hear from God, and there is almost nothing to distract me.  I still like to sit at the front.

After the divorce, I was so mentally distracted that I could only manage to pray by writing my prayers in a journal.

Sometimes I think of the devil as a sleight of hand magician: distracting us with one hand while the other seeks to pick our pockets.

Today I feel like the Lord is telling me that I’ve got to focus on the important Kingdom work that He’s given me to do.  Don’t just do something: stop and pray!

Gotcha!

Part 1

As promised, here is the story of how I came back to God after 8 years of sincere atheism:

After having had a genuine experience of God (that is, born again, baptized in water, baptized in the Holy Spirit), I suffered a series of setbacks.  I was devastated the day my husband announced, “I don’t believe in God any more, and I don’t love you.”  This was only 3 years into our marriage, and we were already parents of a little boy.  He didn’t move out, but things between us had definitely changed.  He was a workaholic, so we settled into a pattern that kept the marriage together for another 30 years: He would usually say something hurtful to me on his way out the door, and I would cry and despair for an hour or so, and by the time he returned home about 12 hours later, I would be over the hurt, and things would be fairly pleasant until the next morning when it usually happened again.

Thus began a slow decline in my Christian walk.  We had recently moved to a suburb of Dallas and every church that I had tried seemed empty and dead.  One preached about money, money, money, and even posted on a bulletin board in the foyer how much money each person had given the previous month.  Outrageous!  It seemed like we had not only left our hometown, but also the Lord.  Finally, I just stopped going to church.

Not coincidentally, I also began to drink—a lot.  Before long, my drinking was really out of control.  So I was already far from God when both my sisters-in-law lost their babies within 6 months of each other.  Then I read in the newspaper about 3 women in New York City who had thrown their babies out the window.  I decided that either God didn’t exist or He was lazy.  I became agnostic because I wasn’t ready to let go of the idea of God, but essentially, I had.

The final blow came when Phillip, my childhood sweetheart, was killed in a highway accident too horrific to describe.  Phillip had been the only person in my life to show me unconditional love.  With Phillip’s death I became a radical militant atheist.  If somebody tried to give me a religious tract, I would respond, “I don’t want that sh**!”

Looking back, I can see God’s hand on my life because just 3 weeks before Phillip died I had quit drinking.  This was God’s timing because when Phillip died I was so depressed that I wanted to crawl inside a bottle and never come out again.  I would have welcomed death except for the feeling of responsibility to my son, who was 7 at the time.  I had quit drinking because of having blacked-out at yet another party, waking the next morning to find my husband so angry with me that he refused to speak.  I knew that I must have embarrassed him, so I told him that I would quit drinking.  He (having grown up with an alcoholic step-father) said, “I’ve heard that before.”  And I’m sure he had, but not from me.  That statement made me so mad that I decided I would make him eat those words.  I didn’t have another drink for 20 years.

So although I was a radical militant angry atheist, I was no longer an alcoholic when Phillip died.  God allowed me to have my stew in my anger for almost 8 years.  It’s hard to sustain anger for that long, so little-by-little I became less angry at God.

Shortly after we moved to Durham, North Carolina, we visited my childhood home in California for the first time since moving away 19 years before.  I had such good memories of that place and my childhood there that returning to real life in an abusive marriage sent me into the worst depression of my life to that point.  For the next several months I avoided the few friends I had made, and cried through my days.

Then I started having suicide hallucinations.  There were 2 of them.  It was always either taking the big kitchen knife and cutting my throat from ear-to-ear or plunging the knife into my heart.  Both were so frighteningly real that I didn’t know that they were not really happening.  In the middle of doing the most ordinary kind of household tasks (putting wet sheets into the dryer, setting the dinner table, bathing the baby) I suddenly had the knife in my hand and I turned it on myself.  I felt the sharpness of the knife, but no pain, and I felt the hot, sticky blood on my skin and smelled the copper-salty smell of it.  Then I would find myself back where I had been, with the wet sheets in my hands or the baby in the bath tub.  I would immediately run and hide in my closet, terrified.

One day in the closet I suddenly realized 2 things: 1. I didn’t want to kill myself (I would never do that to my children) and; 2. If I ever did want to kill myself, I would never do it with a knife.  And those 2 things led me to a 3^rd realization: these hallucinations were coming from someone, and it was not me.  Given that I sincerely did not believe in God, therefore I also didn’t believe in the devil.  But I was very aware that there was some kind of a presence, and it was not a good one.

I went for counseling, and I worked at counseling with all my might.  I wanted to get over this thing.  Every appointment I talked non-stop about everything that had gone wrong for me in my life.  If it hurt, I talked about it—every angle and every nuance.  It was like emotionally disemboweling myself week after week.  And my counselor offered no help, no insight, nothing.  She might have been a bobble-head doll, just nodding and taking notes as I vomited all the pain of my soul.  I told the counselor that I wanted 2 sessions a week because I shook, unable to sleep for 2 days before each session because they were so unpleasant.  So we went to 2 sessions a week, and that was actually better.  After a couple of months of that, I somehow came out of the depression and the hallucinations stopped.  At that time I quit going to counseling and instead started taking a creative writing class.

One day in the car I heard a Bob Dylan song that I had never heard before.  I only just today learned the name of the song: Positively 4^th Street, and it starts out, “You’ve got a lot of nerve to say that you’re my friend . . .”  As I listened to the song, it seemed that Jesus was singing to me, saying things like, “You say you’ve lost your faith, but that’s not where it’s at.  You have no faith to lose, and you know it.”  It was just like receiving a rhema word, only through a song.  And for a few months I started getting rhema words on billboards and in overheard conversation.  I knew that it was supernatural contact, and I knew that it was God, although I still sincerely didn’t believe in Him.  Now I know that He was wooing me, pursuing me, getting me ready to come back to Him.

To be continued, but until then, here are the lyrics to Positively 4^th Street:

You’ve got a lot of nerve
To say you are my friend.
When I was down you just stood there grinning.

You’ve got a lot of nerve
To say you’ve got a helping hand to lend.
You just want to be on the side that’s winning.

You say I let you down,
You know it’s not like that.
If you’re so hurt, why then don’t you show it?

You say you’ve lost your faith,
But that’s not where it’s at.
You have no faith to lose, and you know it.

I know the reason that
You talk behind my back.
I used to be among the crowd you’re in with.

Do you take me for such a fool
To think I’d make contact
With the one who tries to hide what he don’t know to begin with?

You see me on the street.
You always act surprised.
You say, how are you, good luck, but you don’t mean it.
When you know as well as me,
You’d rather see me paralyzed
Why don’t you just come out once and scream it!

Now don’t I feel that good
When I see the heartaches you embrace
If I were a master thief perhaps I’d rob them.

And though I know you’re dissatisfied
With your position and your place,
Don’t you understand, it’s not my problem.

I wish that for just one time,
You could stand inside my shoes,
And just for that one moment I could be you.
Yes, I wish that for just one time
You could stand inside my shoes,
You’d know what a drag it is to see you.

A Divine Appointment

Yesterday was a very full day of travel.  I started from Florence, where I had stayed the night with missionary friends, and went from there to the Abruzzo region on the Adriatic coast.  By choosing the less expensive, regional trains, I had to change trains twice.  The regional trains are less expensive because they are older and they stop in all the stations along the way.  So, travel which could have taken only a few hours, took six instead.  But the nice thing about slower travel is that I can catch a nice nap on the train, which I did.  I have learned not to fight the sleepy feeling if I don’t absolutely have to, and last night was a perfect example why.

When I arrived in Pescara, I went to the bus stop for the bus that would take me to the house of Bob and his family (Bob is the missionary there who I house-sat for during the last 2 summers—which you can read about in my book “Look, Listen, Love”).  I know other missionaries there, but because of the brevity of my visit, I hadn’t planned on visiting for more than a brief coffee or at least a phone call.  But God had other things in mind for me.

Not long ago, while I was still in North Carolina, I was inspired to start praying daily for divine appointments—both for myself and for my fellow missionaries.  As soon as I arrived I got a phone call from Betty, who had heard from Bob that I was arriving.  She and her husband are the other missionaries I had hoped to see, at least briefly.  She said, “Do you know Daisy of Rebirth Ministries?”  I told her that Daisy is a missionary I pray for daily, who I met at my home church in Milan a few years ago.  She told me that Daisy is in town for a women’s conference, and that if I wanted to go, she would come pick me up.  Of course I leapt at the opportunity.  I hadn’t seen Daisy for over a year, and had heard that she had moved to Rome.  This cut short my visit to Bob & his family, but we had a nice meal together and in our brief visit he caught me up on all the things that they are doing and things to be praying about.

Then after dinner, Betty, Daisy, and I went to the women’s conference.  Daisy is the founder of Rebirth Ministries, which helps stop domestic violence.  The focus of Rebirth is not only on educating and caring for women and children, but also on helping the abusers (which are not always men) to overcome rage issues and to find better ways of interacting than using fists.  Although the conference took place in a church, there were also women there, invited by friends, who were not believers.

Daisy shared her vision for Rebirth Ministries, and her personal story.  Daisy is from Argentina, and was twice widowed—one husband was one of the famed Desaparecidos “disappeared” persons, who was arrested and then simply vanished, never to be heard from again.  Alone, she raised two daughters and was called to Italy in 1994.  However, she didn’t immediately come to Italy, but prayed for Italy first, learned the language, and finished university.  During this time, the issue of domestic violence came to her attention.  When she put the call and the issue together, she understood why God wanted her in Italy, and so she came, forming Rebirth Ministries as a non-profit that meets in churches and schools throughout Italy.  The next step will likely be to bring Rebirth to the prisons.

In Italy, the danger of violence from strangers is very low, but domestic violence is unfortunately very high.  The police in bigger cities are beginning to respond to domestic calls, but in the small towns, they are still reluctant to interfere in “family” issues.  And even when the police arrest the abuser, the victim rarely maintains the courage to press charges, preferring to continue to try and make the marriage work.  In Italy, there is still a lot of shame attached to the issue of domestic violence because of the Catholic Church’s stance on divorce.  Italian women are encouraged by their priests to stay in abusive marriages, and often feel like failures if they cannot make the marriage work, make their husband stop drinking or using drugs, or stop seeking the company of other women.  And even among Protestant churches in Italy there is a lot of shame attached to divorce because the vast majority of Protestants in Italy are former Catholics.

One thing that Daisy shared was that many times when she speaks to groups like the one last night, someone invariably says, “But why Italy?  Surely domestic violence is a problem in Argentina, too.”  She admitted that it is, but much headway has been made in Argentina by others, whereas in Italy there is still much work to do.  As she spoke, I realized (not for the first time) that Daisy does have a true call to Italy.  She is being used mightily of God.

After Daisy spoke, Betty suggested that each person from the group give Daisy a brief word of feedback.  The overwhelming response was positive, and one young woman shared her story of abuse for the first time in her life.  It was very moving to see her tears, but also to hear the relief in her voice at finally being free to speak of it.  And the most beautiful thing of all was that this young woman was not a believer, but now that she has seen the love of Jesus in action, I have no doubt that she will make a decision for Christ.  Daisy spoke and prayed with her afterward, and arranged for follow-up counseling and care with the local church.

In a private moment I told Daisy about my personal observation that following Jesus always costs you something (He spoke of it in Matthew 19:29).  I told her that for me the cost is having left my adorable grandson.  But I encouraged her, saying, “But God always compensates me in the sweetest ways.  The first time I saw my grandson, when he was two months old, he laughed for the very first time—with his grandma!  And this visit, at eighteen months, he said ‘Grandma!’ for the very first time.  He sees his other grandma almost every day, but he called me Grandma first!”  Daisy was well able to relate because both of her daughters and all four of her grandchildren are far away in South America—the most recent was born two months premature just a week ago.  He weighs only one kilo—about two and a quarter pounds.  She is going to Brazil to visit Pedro, her newest grandson, next week.

Hanukkah Heaven or Hell

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha-Olam, asher kiddeshanu b’mitzvotav, vitzivanu, lehadlik ner shel Hanukkah.

Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha-Olam, she-asah nissim la-avotaynu bayamim ha-hem bazman hazeh.

Blessed are You, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who has sanctified us with Your commandments, and has commanded us to kindle the lights of Hanukkah.

Blessed are you, Lord our God, Ruler of the universe, who wrought miracles for our fathers in days of old, at this season.

On Wednesday, right in the middle of the eight days of Hanukkah, the retirement home (where I live with Mom) had a traditional Hanukkah feast and celebration during the supper hour.  The two blessings above were recited (in both Hebrew and English) as the candles were lit.  It was beautiful, and I was grateful to have been part of the celebration.  The Jewish people here have been very kind about all the Christmas decorations and music—much of which is of a religious nature.  Nan told me: “I’m surprised that you would want to be here for this,” because she knows I’m a Christian missionary, and she also knows that I usually skip the evening meal.  “Well,” I replied, “Hanukkah is the celebration of a miracle.  I believe that we should always celebrate miracles!”  She smiled her agreement.  Nan and some of the other Jewish ladies had shared their recipes with the chef.  The resulting meal was delicious, though he’d had to prepare kugel instead of latkes because he doesn’t have a frying pan.

However this happy day didn’t have a happy start.  Mom and I returned from shopping to find a fire truck, an ambulance, two police cars, and a police department truck marked “Forensic Investigation” in the driveway.  Ambulances are not an uncommon sight here, nor are fire trucks, but the police vehicles are.  When we asked what the police vehicles were about, Jan, a kitchen worker told us: “One of the residents, a young woman wheelchair-bound by MS, had died in the night of an overdose.  They suspect suicide.”  We hadn’t known her, but we were saddened all the same.  She was young (only 42) and she had a fourteen year old daughter.

MS is a terrible, cruel disease that robs the body of strength and paralyzes, leaving the mind intact, eventually killing the person.  One person here actually applauded her for taking her life, and said that when her end is near, she intends to do the same.

I wrestled with the question: if it is kind to put a suffering animal down, why not a suffering human?  When I took this question to God, however, I felt a holy anger rising up within my spirit.  And with it the thought: God is the Author of Life, so killing (even yourself) puts you in league with the author of death—the devil, himself.  And on further thought, I realized that suicide is the ultimate expression of faithlessness, cowardice, and unbelief.

This was a hard realization for me, having lost two people I love to suicide this year: my ex-father-in-law and a dear lifelong family friend.

The last two years of my marriage I suffered severe depression.  The worst symptom—far worse than only sleeping one hour a night—was constant thoughts of suicide.  From the moment I woke until I finally fell asleep, I was bombarded with suicidal thoughts.  I would be in the bathroom and wonder how much of various medications it would take to overdose.  Or I would be in the kitchen and linger over the choice of knives for chopping onions, thinking about which would be the best for cutting my throat.  Or I would look out the window at the barn and wonder if there was a rope I could hang myself with—or a hose I could duct-tape to the muffler and gas myself with.

On and on and on, all day these thoughts tormented me.  I started reading books about positive thinking, but they didn’t help.  My prayers were stillborn, having died before they even started the long journey from my brain to my mouth.  So I mutely searched for God, finding only more misery.  The most innocent and normal things would start the flow of tears: a bird flying by the window or a pretty sunset.  I read and wrote obsessively just to keep the bad thoughts at bay, but they came anyway.  Our landlady’s dog became my dearest companion.  He would sit with me for hours.  I think he sensed the trouble in my spirit.

Our apartment was over the garage, and one day I went down to the garage and put my key in the ignition of our car.  I was going to kill myself and my husband, too (he was busy working on the computer in the room above me).  But instead of turning the key, I pulled the phone out of my pocket and dialed 911.  I told the operator what I was about to do.  He said to go to the County Mental Health Office immediately, and said that they would be waiting for me.  I did, and the doctor there gave me a prescription for Prozac.

When the Prozac finally kicked in, it helped a lot.  I was still in a lot of pain, but instead of raw pain, it was manageable.  The Prozac gave me back a degree of perspective, which helped me to find the strength to leave my abusive marriage.

These memories are so painful that it has taken me nearly a week to write about all this.  In the meantime there was the shooting of twenty school children in Connecticut.  The rampage ended as many of these do, with the suicide of the shooter—proving the diabolical link with suicide.  This was difficult to write, but now that I’ve done it I feel better.  Although suicide would have instantly ended my misery, it would have just started the misery for all the people who love me.  In the midst of depression it’s difficult to see that people actually love you.

To anyone feeling depressed and/or suicidal I say: be strong and courageous.  Get help.  And no matter how bad today is, tomorrow will be better.  Hang on!  God is good!

Singing in My Dreams

Kudos to Mom for the title!

Greetings from Kalisz, Poland!  I am here for Sukkot, the Feast of Tabernacles, hosted by this really amazing, generous, wonderful church with an unpronounceable Polish name (well, I can’t pronounce it!).  The whole week for twenty-four hours a day over seven days they have continuous worship, dance, praise, prayer, and singing by sixteen different groups from twelve European countries, in their various languages.  Each group performs for two hours in various time periods throughout the day and night.  Twice a day there are also teaching sessions followed by people sharing what the Lord has done or shown them during this time.  It is amazing!  And the church people make these wonderful Polish dishes for lunch and dinner—and it’s all free!  They never ask for a penny from the participants!  I had such a great time, and such intimacy with God during last year’s Feast of Tabernacles that my birthday gift to myself was a return to Kalisz this year.  My birthday is tomorrow, but God gave me an early gift.

I try to go to all the English language worship periods, and the two English language groups had early morning times yesterday (two to four AM) and today (four to six AM).  After their sessions, I returned to the hotel to rest until breakfast.  Sleep was not possible because I have one of those early morning brains that won’t stop talking if it is awake any time after three in the morning, but rest was essential, especially today.

I need to give you some background: I was in a verbally abusive marriage for thirty-three years.  My husband had told me not to sing “Happy Birthday” because he hated the sound of my voice.  In fact, I was so deeply ashamed of my voice that I used to only lip-synch the words at church for fear that God would be displeased with the sound of my voice.  After the divorce, I began to use my voice in church again, and it was incredibly liberating.

So this morning when I returned to the church a German group was singing, and it was wonderful.  The Russian group was supposed to come next, but they were late.  The girl at the keyboards started to play one of my favorites—“The Revelation Song” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ofNBuMdrbcg&feature=related).  I was singing along with everything inside me.  Then she said, “If you know the words, please come up to the stage.”  I looked around, but there was hardly anybody there, and she had been looking right at me.  She motioned for me to come up.  I did, feeling a bit fearful, but when we started to sing, I got completely lost in my love for Jesus.  If you don’t know the song, follow that link, it’s a wonderful song.  Then she continued playing, probably to fill the time while somebody located the Russian team.  And she started to riff (singing whatever came to her heart about Jesus), so I began to riff, too.  We were not following any particular melody, she was just tinkling on the keyboard, and we sang.  I think we went along like that for about 10 minutes, then the Russian team showed up.  When I saw them, and the sound engineer unhooked my microphone, I stepped off the stage.  But the violin player coaxed me back onto the stage.  So I just stood there worshiping Jesus silently.

Afterward, both keyboard and violin players congratulated me, saying, “You’re so brave!  Thank you so much for helping out!”  But they didn’t know about my singing issues until I shared my story a few minutes later in the morning teaching time.

When I was here last year, as the sole representative of Italy, the pastors of the church asked me if I could lead worship in Italian.  I had to say no, but I did ask some of the worship leaders I know in Italy to come.  Nobody was interested at all.  A few days ago I was singing along with a familiar song, but in Italian.  Then the thought came into my head: could I possibly lead a two hour worship session in Italian?  Immediately I dismissed the thought.  But after this morning, I’m wondering.  We’ll see!  Meanwhile, please pray that God will provide a genuine Italian worship group so that I won’t have to do that all by myself.