I would like to introduce you to Amberly – the youngest of my four children, a sweet-natured darling, a delight to know and have around. At 18-years of age, she is a petite little thing, standing at five-foot-nothing, with long dark hair and soft hazel eyes. Since the day she was born, she has been an easy-going child. Compliant and sweet-natured, I have never witnessed her being deliberately harsh with anyone, not even her siblings. I can count on one hand the number of times I actually had to discipline her, and in those moments when I did, I thought her little heart would break just knowing she had disappointed me. On more than one occasion when she was young and I would accompany her to her friends’ birthday parties and school carnivals, a mother would introduce herself and kindly inquire as to whether Amberly was my child. Upon replying with a smile, the woman would gaze at me with a measure of awe, and might teasingly ask if I might be willing to trade my Amberly for her little trouble-maker. I would smile proudly and offer a definitive “No way.” She was such a remarkable little girl.
Lanterns for Amberly
The Unreachable
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” Anais Nin
In my years in this ministry, I have found that there are some people who seem to be reaching out for help and insight and healing. But, after many months – even years – many who profess to want help refuse to receive it. For whatever reason, they either cannot or will not relinquish their tragic identity as an abuse victim to embrace the promising future that lies before them. These people seem quite stuck, perpetually unreachable.
Initially upon leaving an abusive relationship it makes perfect sense to share the many secrets that have been kept, to receive healthy measures of validation and comfort and direction. Sadly, the unreachable have a difficult time getting beyond that stage. They are continually undone, interminably possessed by their disturbing memories. They can recount their tragic stories forwards and backwards, inside out, upside down and sideways. Even many years after being removed from their suffering, their anguish fairly pours out of them with the slightest nudge. It is heart-breaking – a seemingly impossible scenario. The unreachable ones’ identity is wrapped so tightly around their history that they seem to have become resigned to their identity as victim.
The Heart’s Sweet Lie
“The heart is more deceitful than all else and is desperately sick; who can understand it?” Jeremiah 17:9
I tromped downstairs in my usual stupor one weekday morning to brew a fresh pot of coffee before heading to work and found our black Labrador, Belle, at the foot of the stairs, wagging her tail enthusiastically and prancing about in anticipation of her breakfast. On most days, one of the kids beats me to the task, yet Belle has learned that if she puts on a good show, she might succeed in convincing me or any other unsuspecting family member who ventures downstairs later in the morning that she is famished. Our clever dog has often enjoyed a second meal before one of us realizes that we have been duped by her well-rehearsed antics.
Waiting At the Window
“Hope deferred makes the heart sick…” Proverbs 13:12
From a very young age, my second-born son, Brett, was positively delightful. He had a contagious smile that could light up a room, bright, dancing eyes and a playful, charming, sensitive disposition. That is the image of Brett I prefer to remember.
But as the years passed, and my marriage began to crumble under the weight of abuse, neglect and drug and alcohol abuse, I saw my happy, fun-loving Brett begin to withdraw. The slow progression over time transformed Brett from his lively, fun-loving self into a young boy who was sullen and introverted. Brett struggled in school, spent long hours alone in his room, comforted himself with junk food, or escaped the tension of our home life by immersing himself in movies and video games.
Seven Long Years
“Time, whose tooth gnaws away at everything else, is powerless against truth.” – Thomas Huxley
The above quote has become one of my favorites because I am certain that, in the end, the truth will be revealed. I also know that some lies are served up so consistently and convincingly that it can be difficult to see what is true through the thick fog of deception, and there is no way of knowing how much time may pass before the truth is clearly visible. It was for seven long years that such a fog succeeded in alienating my son from me. My story is not uncommon. I know many parents who have either lost – or fear losing – their children to a lie, and it is for this reason I have chosen to share this story.
After separating from my abusive husband, it was not long before he went on the offensive. He began to offer up a fictitious history about our marriage, to plant seeds of doubt about my character, my commitment and my faith in the minds of those willing to listen. He also used the time he spent with our four children to attempt to undermine my credibility in their young eyes. Though he urged secrecy from them, they would sometimes hesitantly pose questions to me about damning falsehoods about me their father had shared. The woman he described to our kids was someone I did not know, and there were occasions when I was put in the awkward position of having to correct our kids’ understanding. It was heartbreaking to know that our kids had been put into a position where they had to choose whom or what to believe. For the most part, I felt confident that the significant contrast between our former home life and the new life we had come to appreciate was evidence enough.