Family Secrets
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit” (Ps. 34:18).
“Where’s my mother?” my fourteen-year-old yelled down from the top of the stairs. “You’re just some bitch that has come in our house and taken over my mother’s body to make our lives a living hell! I hate you! I want my mother back!”
I looked up at my son from the bottom of our staircase, shaking with rage, my face flaming redder than my hair. I knew without a doubt that if I had had a gun in my hand, I would have shot him. That thought flashed into my mind without any effort. The lie—that peace and quiet would come from the simple pull of a trigger—strongly lured me. A simple pull of the trigger and it would all be over—the yelling, the screaming, all the rage and hate.
Frightened and shocked by my thoughts, I yelled back, “I hate you, too!” I quickly ran from the house and found my way to a local restaurant.
As I sat there, I found it so incredible to believe that all this anger and hate was over a lost shirt. Household fights had become more frequent—and more dangerous—and were usually over little things. How did we ever come to this? I thought. We used to be such a fun-loving family. Church and God had always been high priorities for us. All I had ever wanted was to live a godly life and raise my children to want the same. I’d tried to learn what I needed to help me be a good mom and meet my family’s needs. I’d failed and I didn’t know what else to do. In despair, I sat there in the restaurant until my husband, Steve, finally came and took me home.
Later, after I had calmed down, I asked Adam for forgiveness—again—knowing we’d probably soon get into another fight.
This last fight really scared me. I could no longer trust myself. I feared for Adam’s safety—even his life. I was out of control. But did I go get help? No. To whom could I admit that I behaved like I hated my son? Could I explain how I went ballistic when he yelled at me, three inches from my face? Who could I tell how I threw him against the wall and slugged his arm in rage until blood vessels broke in my hand? What would they think when I explain how he laughed at me and how that made me so angry that I screamed at him, horrible cuss words pouring from my mouth? Would anyone believe I really loved him when it appeared that I hated him at the same time?
Who could I tell—county social services? They would probably throw me in jail. How about the church? They would probably see that Adam was taken away, too. I had already tried two different types of counseling. Those didn’t help. Besides, things like this were best kept . . . a secret.
On that hot July afternoon, I realized we were never going to make it as a family. Knowing that guns for hunting were plentiful in our home kept me in a constant state of fear. For the first time in my life, I didn’t trust myself. For Adam’s protection, I decided I would move into a separate apartment after we returned from our upcoming summer vacation. Steve could stay at the house with Adam. Maybe, I could move back home in four years after he graduated from high school.
Dan, our fifteen-year-old, wanted to move into the apartment with me because he hated his brother. Adam made Dan’s life unbearable at school. Maybe, they could attend separate high schools and survive the next three years until Dan graduated. I saw no other options—I was without hope. Even though all I ever wanted was to be a great wife and a loving stay-at-home mom, I was heartbroken to be a failure at both.
Steve and I had faithfully attended church with our children during all of our seventeen married years. We read many, many books from Christian authors on marriage, child-rearing, and how to deal with different personality types. We attended seven marriage conferences and even led Bible studies. When I was single, I had attended a Bible college in California for two and a half years. My husband, Steve, and I were educated, well informed, and knew the how-tos for building strong marriages and raising godly children.
However, as our children grew older, the challenges of raising young teenagers became overwhelming. Applying all of our training and head knowledge didn’t seem to help at all. Adam just marched to a different drumbeat. He was loud and obnoxious. He was self-centered, selfish, and critical of those around him. He lacked respect for others and was angry most of the time. Adam would often voice his opinion loudly and make everyone around him feel pressured and miserable. Yelling and screaming matches were common occurrences three to six times a week at our house, and these often turned into fisticuffs. Adam often got in trouble at school. Several times a week during junior high, I would find him sitting in the hall or in the principal’s office because he disrupted his classroom.
I could rarely talk to anyone on the phone without Adam starting a screaming match or interrupting. We had stopped having people over for dinner because company seemed to trigger Adam’s misbehavior. Our Christian acquaintances would describe him as a “strong-willed child” with Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD). I knew nothing would ever change until he received some serious professional counseling.
A week after the big blowup on the stairs, we left for our family summer vacation to Washington DC. We actually enjoyed each other’s company as we smiled at friends and relatives along the way, spent money, and saw some of the sites of our great country’s history. All in all, it was a great vacation. After all, no one had to take out the trash, feed pets, pay bills, or mow the lawn. However, life wasn’t all about spending money and having fun, and I wasn’t fooled. The vacation served as nothing more than a big band-aid over our family’s many wounds. And the band-aid had begun to slip near the end of our vacation as we arrived at the family camp in Nebraska.
This was our sixth year attending this particular family camp, and I was happy to hear that the guest speaker would be speaking on marital intimacy. We had heard this taught many times, read about it, and had even taught small group Bible studies on marriage. It was a comfortable subject.
The first evening at camp, I leaned back in my chair to relax and pulled out my crocheting, thinking, This is going to be fun and relaxing. Perhaps, I’ll even learn something new. Was I in for a shock! What I learned over the next five days began a journey in my life that dramatically changed all of our lives and our relationships. I would like to share with you, to the best of my memory, what I learned at camp and how it changed our lives. I will also share what we learned during our subsequent journey over the next ten years, but first I need to introduce myself and tell you about my background.
My Family Background
I was born Sherilyn Kay Gifford at Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana to Jim and Margie Gifford. They called me Sheri.
My father was born and raised in Terry, Montana. When he was only eight years old, he began digging graves at the church cemetery because his father was too drunk to work. My dad brought his earnings home to his mother for food. This caused many fights because Grandpa always wanted the money for liquor. My grandfather was verbally and physically abusive to my dad during these times. My father left home at ten to break this abusive pattern, and he never attended school again.
He became an assistant cook at a Conservation Corps Camp and learned to cook outdoors with cast-iron pots. I don’t know how he was treated as a ten-year-old in the all-male camp, but I do know he became tough and, at seventeen, lied about his age to join the Air Force to fight in World War II.
During training at Barksdale AFB, my father and mother met one Friday at the NCO Club on the base. The following Friday, they were married, even though my mother was already engaged to another man. I can only imagine the pain her fiancé, John, felt in receiving her “Dear John” letter while he was overseas fighting for her and his country.
My parents’ marriage was little more than a strong physical attraction of two complete strangers wanting to be loved. Neither of them knew how to love each other beyond the physical attraction.
Six weeks after their marriage, my father was transferred to the European Front for a year. By the time he was nineteen, he had flown in seventy-three recorded missions. He earned the Distinguished Flying Cross and nine other medals, including thirteen oak-leaf clusters for bravely risking his life for his country and his comrades.
He was the upper-turret gunner of a B-26 Marauder, named “City of Sherman.” His flying war cronies said my father could not stand for anyone to be afraid. He learned to get tough and stay tough as he shot down enemy aircraft, and he expected everyone else around him to toughen up and get the job done as well.
My father took that same approach in raising his three daughters and son. We were never allowed to cry. We were expected to obey orders and were never given the freedom to explain or defend our actions. His rough booming voice was a constant part of him all the time I knew him. I don’t remember my dad ever being gentle. He was a master sergeant when he retired at thirty-seven, and he behaved according to his rank for the rest of his life.
My mother, Margie Mae Jones, was raised near Minden, Louisiana. She never really knew her alcoholic father. Her parents divorced when she was six weeks old and her brother was five. In time, her mom remarried a Mr. Booth. I remember my grandfather as a nice man, but my mother said he also drank.
My grandmother had two children and Grandpa Booth had three of his own when they married. Together, they had my aunt Jean, totaling six children. I can imagine the challenges of raising a yours-mine-and-ours family during the depression with Grandpa’s drinking complicating the home environment.
My grandmother had a temper and was quick to use a switch from a nearby bush for discipline. My mother said she was very thorough in her whippings with those thin branches. Once, my grandmother took off after Grandpa Booth with a butcher knife. In the midst of her rage, she nearly cut off two of her own fingers. The hospital sewed them back on, allowing her partial use of two very crooked fingers.
My mother was pretty, petite, vivacious, creative, and talented. She was the life of the party and loved to dance. In my early years, I remember her canning thousands of apricots from our five trees. She enjoyed sewing lovely dresses for her little girls and entered costume contests that she seemed to always win. She knew how to stretch a dollar.
I never knew a day of hunger or ever walked the streets homeless, but I did live in a home of discord like so many families after the war. I hated my parents. Fighting became a way of life, and “evil for evil” was the language spoken by everyone in our family. Pretty dresses became a thing of the past, replaced by quick thrift-shop purchases and hand-me-downs. During my preteen years, Mom began to look for bargains and deals at garage sales. She began to haul home anything and everything and the house became cluttered and filthy. We felt more and more unloved and unimportant to her. Questions and arguments of infidelity began between my parents.
My mother was an angry woman. She held grudges and sought revenge from anyone who wronged her. She was unforgiving and would hold our mistakes over our heads for years. She would talk about us behind our backs to her friends. She was judgmental and critical of everyone. She was mean and lied every day. She attended church and was very active, but was a hypocrite in every way. She broke promises and screamed a lot. She criticized my father constantly and shamed him whenever possible.
My mother had high expectations of everyone around her. No one could please her. She was a discontented, bitter, and ungrateful woman.
My sisters remember a time when my parents acted like they loved one another, but I don’t have a single memory of my mother uplifting, supporting, or complimenting my father during their entire marriage.
I was the third daughter. My mother often told me how disappointed my dad was that I wasn’t a boy. In an effort to have my father accept me and love me, I became a tomboy through and through. I played Cowboys and Indians while growing up. I didn’t even think of having a doll, much less playing with one.
My oldest sister, Judy, was often beaten. She was pressured daily to use her right hand and not her left. My dad even went so far as to tie her left arm behind her back to force her to obey him. The message was clear—she was unacceptable. She knew she was different and felt totally rejected.
Wanda was four and a half years older than me. Good grades and popularity came easily for her. She was Dad’s pride and joy. Even though she was the apple of his eye, she also felt constant pressure to perform and to measure up.
I was the youngest daughter, and my brother didn’t come along until eight long years later. Because I wasn’t a boy, my mom blamed me for my father’s angry and surly disposition. After me, my mother didn’t want to have any more children and would often tell us she should never have had my brother.
Even though my brother was a cute little toddler, for years my mother took every opportunity to show her resentment and displeasure toward him. When he was only five, Wanda got married. My dad was rewarded with an instant adult son who could hunt and fish.
About that same time, when I was fourteen, I became a Christian when my friend, Jeneva Burns, knelt beside me in a little church and shared the plan of salvation with me. She told me how much Jesus loved me by dying on the cross to pay the price for my sins. She explained the steps of salvation to me, and I accepted Jesus that night as my Lord and Savior. I cried like a baby. In that moment, I felt important to God and finally felt loved and accepted.
For the next few years, my parents allowed me to attend summer church camps. It was wonderful to be away from home for a week. I also realized, the more I worked during the summers, the less I had to be around my parents.
We were poor, so I worked and attended summer school each summer at my high school. I became active in our church youth group. Church and high school sports provided affordable activities and an excuse to be away from home. I became a survivor and learned how to work the system to my advantage.
In the summer just before my senior year, I met a pastor’s son at a junior church camp where we were both counselors. He was the first male to ever show an interest in me. I fell head over heels in love, and for four months, I literally floated on air while we dated. My mother eventually learned to look for things like the dustpan in the refrigerator, where I had put it as I floated by, totally twitterpated. He really was a special young man. I was proud of him and loved him so much. In truth, I was in love with love. I just wanted someone to love me. It felt really good.
My mother tried to make our relationship dirty, accusing me of being a slut, which I denied profusely. She said he was only interested in me because I gave him what he wanted.
When he began to lose interest in me, one night in desperation, I silently, yet clearly, offered my virginity in a plea to hold on to him. He understood my offer and refused. When he dropped me off at home, in my heart I knew our relationship was over and I would have to give his ring back.
I waited day after day over Christmas vacation for the phone to ring. I agonized over what I could have done wrong when he didn’t call. For a young girl who just wanted someone to care, the silent rejection was devastating.
Once again, I felt like I didn’t measure up. I wasn’t good enough for anyone to care about me for any length of time. In the years following, I felt proud of him for standing on his Christian principals and not taking advantage of me. His refusal and rejection of me at the time, however, was a crushing blow.
Over the next few weeks, my mother began to blame me that he no longer called. She accused me of being a tramp and sleeping with him. She told me that he never cared about me, but just wanted sex and now that he got it, I was no good to him.
I became infuriated with all the pent-up anger of a rejected, wrongly accused seventeen-year-old. I yelled back at her, and the fight quickly escalated. Enraged, my mother picked up a butcher knife, pulled me back against her chest, and held the knife to my throat. I could feel her shaking with rage as the knife vibrated against my skin. Seconds felt like hours as my life hung in the balance. Eventually, she growled at me, “Get out of this house, or I will slit your throat.” I don’t remember how we became untangled. I do remember her yelling, “And don’t ever come back, or I’ll slit your throat!” as I shut the front door behind me.
Terrified, I quit school that day and started looking for a place to stay until I could figure out what to do. I felt alone, scared, and very angry. I remember thinking, “A mom is supposed to love her daughter! Aren’t moms supposed to help pick out a dress for prom and attend sports activities and award nights? Now there won’t be anything.” Then I became calm as I realized there never had been any of those things for me. Then I said to myself, “I never want to see them again. My life is going to be different than theirs.” I believed that all a person had to do was want something badly enough and work hard enough and it could be achieved.
When my mother threatened my life, I felt afraid, alone, damaged, and rejected by her and unprotected by my father. It is difficult to express the emotions I felt that day and how deeply this event affected me. Perhaps, a word picture will help to convey it.
On a summer day, while I was walking in a meadow, I came upon a barbed wire fence. I decided to climb through to the other side and run in the green meadow and pick wild flowers.
I stretched two lines of the barbed wire far enough apart to where I could crawl through. Just as I was halfway through the fence, I heard wires popping a hundred feet down the fence line. Snap! Snap! Snap! Tension was released on each line. I heard the wires ripping free from the fence posts and saw barbed wire whirling and crackling toward me.
Fear gripped me, and in seconds, barbed wire wrapped around me with vicious force and its barbs embedded deep into my flesh from head to toe. I fell to the ground in pain, feeling helpless, trapped, and alone. I feared for my life. Through a painful haze, I saw a woman a hundred feet away and hope began to blossom within me. Perhaps, she would care and help me.
As my vision began to clear and I looked down the row of bare fence posts, I saw my mother standing there holding large wire cutters. As I grasped the fact that my mother had cut the barbed wire on purpose, all hope of getting help and of someone ever caring about me vanished and pain and fear flooded my heart.
I felt unloved and hurt by someone who was supposed to love me. I knew in that moment that she had rejected me and even threatened my life. I realized that she was never going to love me and my dad was never going to protect me. All my dreams and hopes were crushed. My emotions began to spin out of control and everything went black around me.
I left home with just the clothes on my back. Pain from many childhood experiences was securely locked away in my heart. I had no desire to think about them or ever talk about them again. I walked away from my childhood with a bitter, angry heart, consumed with hate for my mother.
Deep inside, I harbored resentment for all the abuse and hid the pain far down in my heart.
It was as if I stood up still wrapped in barbed wire, stubbornly gritted my teeth, got tough, and pushed the wires away from my legs and arms enough to move again while ignoring the pain. I covered up the wounds and the barbed wire and went out into the world, determined to grow up and be different.
In time, the barbed wire became completely hidden as it relocated around my heart. My heart locked up and shut down. I entered the adult world making decisions totally from my head. I went from one self-improvement program to another. I made lists to tell me how to talk and interact appropriately with my husband, kids, and friends. I studied books from leading Christian authors that told me how to do things correctly. I learned how to act and react appropriately. I learned intellectually how to have a good marriage.
I never realized the barbed wires—my emotional wounds from childhood—were still there forty years later. I had forgotten them. I not only didn’t know they were there, but I also had absolutely no idea how the enemy was using those wounds to destroy my current life. The external wounds healed eventually, but the real wounds, the ones never dealt with, were inside my heart, and they were festering. I could function in my adult life, but emotionally, I struggled the same way a person would struggle if they were still wrapped up in rusty barbed wire.
When someone came too close to my hidden pain by rejecting me or someone was hurting me in another way, I would say things to myself like, “No one is ever going to hurt me like that again,” or, “I don’t need them.” “I don’t care if I ever see them again.” I withdrew from people, got tough, or consciously chose not to feel at all. To make people back off, I even became mean at times when making a point. I could be downright scary.
I stuffed my feelings because it was the natural way for me to cope. Betrayal, rejection, false accusation, abuse—they all hurt and I didn’t know what to do with the pain. So I stuffed it all in my heart, convincing myself by thinking, “I just won’t let it bother me,” or, “I just won’t let them get to me. I will be my own best friend.” Inside my head, I was screaming, “I never want to be like my parents!”
After leaving home, I eventually moved in with my sister, Wanda. I explained to her why I quit school and never spoke of it again. In fact, within a short amount of time, I had completely blocked the knife incident from my mind and had no memory of it.
For years, I experienced nightmares of someone holding a knife to my throat. I would wake up screaming or just breathing hard and sweating. I never understood those dreams or what caused them until, thirteen years later, my sister casually said, “It’s no wonder you have nightmares, since Mom held that knife to your throat and caused you to quit high school.” Right then, I remembered why I quit school—the horrible fight and my own mother holding the knife to my throat. I had actually blocked it out of my memory for thirteen years.
I survived my young adult life by unconsciously blocking out painful childhood memories and never going there mentally or emotionally. I wanted to just enter my adult life, never thinking again about my first seventeen years. I locked all of my pain in my heart and threw away the key. I had convinced myself that no one would or could ever hurt me again.
I believed my future family would be different. I was going to love my husband, and he was going to love me. We would have time for our children. We would listen to their opinions and love them more than possessions. I resented my mother never being there for me. I wanted to be a stay-at-home Mom and love each person in my family, never showing favoritism.
My first marriage was a mess and ended after nine years when my husband left me. I began attending a large church in Palo Alto, California. I thought it would be easy to get lost in the huge crowd of 450 adults in the singles group. I was a broken person, not looking for a close relationship with anyone. My first week in attendance just happened to be Steve’s first week, also. He remembered that we talked at Bible study Monday night, at volleyball on Wednesday afternoon, and again that same evening while sharing a pizza. But when he came up to talk to me Sunday morning, he was still a complete stranger to me. I didn’t remember his face or talking to him on three other occasions that week. When another person joined our group, I took the opportunity to slip away.
It wasn’t that Steve wasn’t a memorable or nice person—he was. I was just so broken inside that I ran from any new relationship. My mind couldn’t even remember faces and details. I ran, but Steve ran faster and caught me. We dated for nine months and then married on April 9.
While dating, I shared with Steve some of my feelings toward my mother. I told him, “The greatest gift my mother ever gave me was displaying to me a horrible hateful marriage and showing me what becomes of a woman with a rebellious and unforgiving attitude.” I further explained, “My mother is the stupidest woman I have ever met, and I never want to be like her.”
While dating, Steve insisted on maintaining a godly relationship with me. We attended church, learned together, and prayed together. He insisted we wait until our honeymoon for intimacy. Not only could we offer this heritage to our children later, but we were able to develop a deep relationship of trust, friendship, and love because of our decision to wait. I could always trust Steve to be honest, and I knew he wanted the best for us.
Before I married Steve, I had never washed dinner dishes seven nights in a row. Steve came from a home where everything had a place and everything was in its place. I came from a home where kitchen spices were stashed in four different areas. Steve’s mom kept all her spices in one cabinet, and they were alphabetized!
It sounded like we were headed for trouble, but before we were married, we spent fifty hours filling out a book, “Before You Say ‘I Do.’” Not only did it help me ward off a lot of big problems and issues, but it also gave me a greater respect for my husband.
When I was thirty-three, just before our second anniversary, Dan was born. Just one year later, Adam arrived. They were incredible gifts to us from God, because we thought it would be difficult for me to conceive. Now, we had two sons only twelve months apart.
I enjoyed being a stay-at-home Mom and homemaker. I enjoyed raising toddlers, and my homemaking skills became more efficient. After seven years of marriage, I remember the satisfaction of thinking, I never washed dishes for seven days in a row before marriage, and now I have kept a pretty clean kitchen for seven years!
During the period when our boys were little, we were a pretty fun family. We attended church and helped run children’s programs. Steve and I taught junior high Sunday school, led Bible studies, and even started a singles volleyball program.
Our little guys learned archery at the ages of three and four. We attended the Colorado Bowhunter’s Jamboree every summer. They always won the contests in their age group. We thrived as a family, hunting, fishing, camping, and taking annual vacations together.
During these years, we saw my parents as little as possible. I rarely talked to them or about them. After seven years of marriage, on a rare trip to visit my parents, I discovered Steve didn’t even know their first names and our sons barely knew them at all.
In those early years, our sons enjoyed being little boys. They spent many hours on the trampoline, learned to ride their bikes, and snow-skied in Colorado. After I coached their roller-blade hockey team for two years, Adam tried out for ice hockey at nine. We supported him in this expensive sport for years, rarely missing a game.
Dan excelled on the viola, played a wild harmonica, and began to exhibit his fearless nature in junior high when he became a diver on the swimming team. He also did magic tricks, juggled, and learned to ride a unicycle. For the most part, we enjoyed life together and were busy with all of our activities.
Life gradually began to change for us as our boys entered fifth and sixth grade, and they began to demand more control of their lives. I didn’t know why, but this made me very uncomfortable, and we began to struggle within our relationships.
When Adam was ten, one day he shocked me by saying, “I’ll be glad when I’m fourteen because you’ll be dead.” He wasn’t angry and showed no emotion. He just said what he was thinking.
I was hurt by his statement, but didn’t respond in anger.
Also, that same year, Steve and I were watching a movie about a man who was dying of cancer. In the movie, the protagonist realized he had hated his parents since he was eight. I said out loud, “How can anyone hate their parents at eight?” Just then, I literally heard a voice in my head say, “Just the way you hated your parents at eight.”
Later that night, Steve and I prayed and I cried when I acknowledged that I really did hate my dad. I had never realized it until that moment during the movie, and I felt horrible. I always knew I hated my mother, but it upset me when I realized I also hated my dad.
I wanted to go visit my parents right then, but they were just leaving for a long trip. I invited them to come and see us on the way, but that didn’t happen. My father was hospitalized just after they returned in September, and I flew out to see him.
I wanted to speak to my father privately and tell him I loved him, but my mother was always right there and never gave us any freedom to talk. She controlled everything—even deciding when my dad and I could talk.
On my last evening, she told me I could borrow her car to visit my dad at the hospital, but at the last minute changed her mind and wouldn’t lend me her car. In the end, I flew home, never getting to share my heart with my dad.
He came home from the hospital and seemed to be getting better, but I felt compelled to write him a letter and I told him I loved him. I shared how I loved watching Western movies with him along with other memories. My father received my letter and, over the next few days, had my mom read it to him at least four to five times a day. On the fourth day, November 11, he died.
I am so grateful the Holy Spirit spoke to me and told me I hated my dad. I needed time to repent and accept him just the way he was. I needed to tell him I loved him and appreciated him.
Before I had time to deal with my grief, I returned home from his funeral and faced company arriving the next day, preparing a Thanksgiving dinner and dealing with Dan’s dog getting run over on the highway. It was ironic that more tears and concerns were expressed over Dan’s dog than toward the loss of my father. It was a very difficult time for me.
The loss of my father seemed to trigger a need to be more involved in my son’s lives. I tried to help my boys achieve things and experience opportunities I never had growing up. I encouraged Dan to practice the viola and excel with his talent. I tried to help Adam do better in hockey by buying skating videos and pointing out what he did wrong on the ice. None of these efforts on my part were received very well by the boys.
I helped Dan with his homework continuously and checked his assignments to help him get straight A’s. I wanted to be involved in all their activities. I thought this showed how much I loved them, but instead, they felt controlled, pressured, and dominated. Of course, I felt unappreciated and began to resent their ingratitude.
Within a very short time, World War III broke out in our house. I used the word “house,” because a war is not fought in a home. Home is where everyone should feel loved and safe.
It seemed like I was always angry at Adam. It was obvious to everyone, including him, that he was a problem and that he was always in trouble. It seemed that he was doing things just to make me mad and he should just simply stop it! That bit of counseling and help from others made a lot of sense to me. Getting Adam to obey and stop being a problem was a different matter.
I favored Dan because he was easy to get along with, made good grades, and was polite and fun to be with. He didn’t argue with me or push my buttons. He listened to me and allowed me to order his life. This caused resentment between our two sons. Their lives in junior high were horrible for both of them. They hated each other and used their friends to hurt each other.
As arguing and fighting increased in our house, as an escape, I began buying things I didn’t need at garage sales. Our house became more and more cluttered and unorganized and became downright messy. Afternoon headaches were an everyday occurrence. I would bail out of the house just before the boys came home to avoid being involved in their fights. Shopping at flea markets and second-hand shops became more important to me and more fun than spending time with my kids. This caused them to feel unloved and unimportant.
As our relationships unraveled, I sought help from both Christian and secular counselors, but they didn’t help. I lost hope of our relationships ever being restored. I was out of control, and Adam’s life was in danger. My only answer was to move out of our house after we arrived home that summer from vacation.
I remember praying once, “God, if you could just show me what to do to help Adam, I will do it.” God is faithful, and He hears our prayers. A miracle happened at family camp that summer in Nebraska.
Reflections: Chapter 1
In this part of each chapter, I will typically reflect back on what I shared in “My Story.” I will share thoughts and examples with you and introduce related topics to help lead you forward on your journey. In this first chapter, I have begun a foundation for the book and introduced myself and some of my background.
Even though I became a Christian in my early teens, attended church faithfully, and felt committed to Jesus, I often struggled in my life and relationships. My greatest desire was to be a great Mom and wife. I didn’t love God more than I loved my husband—I didn’t know how to do that. Only when my very best efforts failed miserably did I humble myself to ask God for help.
I admitted that I wasn’t loving my sons in a Christlike manner. I also realized I wasn’t able to connect with God in a way that would help me overcome my sinful behaviors. Facing these truths was the beginning of my journey of loving God with all my heart.
In this first “Reflection,” I would like to address the topic of prayer as we begin our journey together.
Prayer
I have read and used written prayers in books before. I usually recite them to God and quickly move on. I encourage you to do it a bit differently here, as we are seeking to find our hearts throughout this book. First, I would like to share that God is big enough to answer your prayers and He will. When you pray, wait for and anticipate His answers in the form of a word picture, a thought, a song, or a verse (Ps. 34:4). You don’t have to be in a hurry. You can choose your own pace.
Will you pray this prayer, Jesus, will you be with me and show me what’s in my heart as I read this book? Wait for His answer.
If you didn’t receive an answer from Jesus, it is very likely that the enemy was blocking the answer. Mark 1:27 says, “The people were all so amazed that they asked each other, ‘What is this? A new teaching—and with authority! He even gives orders to evil spirits and they obey him.’”
I had never realized the power of praying out loud. I don’t want to frighten you by talking about Satan, but my understanding is that he cannot hear our thoughts and he must leave when we ask by Jesus’s authority, especially when we pray out loud asking Jesus to make him leave (1 John 4:4).
If you didn’t get an answer to your prayer, let’s try again. Are these words something you could ask Jesus? Taking your time, pray out loud these words or use your own words: Jesus, make the enemy go away. I invite you to be with me. Will you show me what’s in my heart as I read this book? Will you answer by showing me a word picture or bringing to my mind a song, a verse, or a thought? Relax and wait for His answer. Thank you, Jesus. Amen.
Courageous Hearts: Chapter 1
“Reflections” and “Courageous Hearts” are designed to help you understand and apply the biblical principals taught in the book to your own life.
If you only read this book, you may attain some new knowledge and insight. The result will be that this is just another book teaching you “stuff.” I’m asking you to consider approaching this book in a brand new way. This book is not just about attaining more knowledge and insight or giving the right answers. It’s about taking a journey with Jesus that can forever change your life. I have included exercises throughout this book designed to help you understand and apply the principles being taught. If you choose to read the chapters without completing these exercises, it is like a man who has researched and paid for a vacation, but when it’s time to take the journey, he never leaves the house. Instead, he chooses to stay where he’s comfortable and just settle for some warm feelings about an imaginary trip. All the information gathered has never been used, because the journey has never happened. He misses out on so much! Each exercise in this book has a purpose and is part of your journey to restore your relationships, learn how to love through Christ, and actually experience a growing love for God. Each one is designed to engage your heart and give God the opportunity to speak to you.
No matter who you are or where you are in your Christian walk, I would like to strongly encourage you to complete each exercise in the “Courageous Hearts” section. Each assignment builds on the one before and creates a pathway for a very special journey with Jesus. Reading the book enlightens the mind, but completing the exercises and praying change this book from an intellectual exercise to a personal journey with God that can change your life forever. Be aware that Satan doesn’t want you to take this journey. He will try to use three of your emotions to prevent you from experiencing a special journey with God.
1. Fear
Don’t let your fears stop you from experiencing all that God has for you. The assignments aren’t that difficult, and each chapter builds on the previous chapter. Scripture says that God will never leave us or forsake us (Deut. 31:8).
2. Pride
An attitude of pride will try to convince you that you are doing just fine and really aren’t in need of any help—therefore you don’t need to do the assignments. Look at your relationships and ask Christ if doing the Courageous Hearts assignments would be beneficial to you or your family in any way.
3. Guilt
When a person feels guilty inside, it is easy to believe negative thoughts from the enemy. You might think, God can transform the lives of other people, but not me. That is absolutely false. This journey will help you see how special you are in Christ and that He cares about you. The goal of this book is to free you from guilty feelings so you can live abundantly in Him.
Ask God if He wants you to do the exercises and then ask Jesus to help you as you do each one. Don’t let the enemy use your emotions to defeat you. I would encourage you to go through this book only one chapter at a time. Let God fully speak to your heart before moving on to the next chapter.
Let’s begin the first exercise:
1. Take a few minutes to think about relationships in your life. Are they strained, close, distant, fun, or bitter? In a notebook, list the names of your close relationships. This list should include your parents, grandparents, siblings, and other individuals in your immediate family. Include deceased persons, ex-spouses, stepparents, and close friends. Write the name of each person on the top of individual pages in your notebook. After each name, describe your relationship with that person and add some additional thoughts about them. Write about their good and bad characteristics. Feel free to write as little or as much as you want about each person.
This is an example of what I might have written about my mother and our relationship, ten years ago, before God healed my heart:
I hate my mother. She hates me and has been mean to me most of my life. No one has ever pleased my mother. She is a very critical, angry, and manipulative person.
I can’t trust her. She has always lied and broken promises to me all my life. I actually hate being in the same room with her. My mother hates my father. She has never shown him any respect. She is rebellious, willful, and selfish.
She yells a lot and has publicly embarrassed all of us on numerous occasions. My mother is the most controlling person I have ever known. She is unforgiving and holds grudges for years.
She is talented in sewing and dancing and very creative, but she is too busy to care about any of her children. She is pretty, vivacious, and has an outgoing personality.
My mother goes to church and everyone thinks she is a wonderful servant of God. I know what a hypocrite she is. I never want to be like her.
2. Write about your family background. Relax and share in your own words your story. What were your parents like and what was it like growing up in their home? What was your childhood like? Again, feel free to write as little or as much as you like. The more you write now, however, the more clues we will find later. If there are things in your past that you don’t want to write about, that’s OK. Perhaps, you might consider putting down one or two words to represent the event (e.g., I would just write “January 4,” instead of writing in detail about my mother threatening my life with a knife to my throat).
3. On a separate page titled “Courageous Hearts: Chapter 1,” write down some general thoughts about your immediate family or other current relationships. Include things like the following:
a) What are the problems? Conflicts?
b) Does your family live in a house or a home? A home is where your heart is. It’s where everyone feels loved and safe. A house is a place where people live and battles are fought. If you don’t know, ask the people who live there.
c) Would Jesus like any of your relationships to be better? Which ones? If you don’t know, ask Him.
4. Describe your relationship with God.
Would you be willing to apply God’s principles to your life and let Jesus help you develop close relationships? Would you be willing to journey with Jesus as He speaks to your heart? If yes, please say this prayer: Jesus, will You stay with me and give me courage to face my fears? Will You help me recognize the negative lies the enemy tells me and realize the truth of who I am as a child of the King. Last of all, Jesus, will you humble my spirit and help me see my pride. Will you help me lay it down? I need Your help. I desire a heart that hungers for You. Please help me that I might become pliable in Your hands. Amen.
Now, relax and wait for His answer. In a quiet moment, He can reveal His answer to you in a song, a word picture, a verse, or a thought. God is not elusive and far away. He is up close and personal and wants nothing more than to have an incredibly close relationship with you.
“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand” (Isa. 41:10).