Who Am I? Pt 1 The story of abuse continues…
So life began anew for my mom and me. Within a year she had married a Baptist minister, and we moved to a little town, where we settled into a parsonage prepared to begin a new life. My mind was ablaze with the opportunity to start fresh and no longer live in the uncertainty and pain that the prior years had brought.
Unfortunately, it didn’t take long before the new reality kicked in and my hopes and dreams were extinguished. While my step-father was not physically abusive, he was very verbally abusive and morally demeaning toward my mom and me. While living in the parsonage next to the church, my step-father would often treat us like his personal slaves, demanding that we cater to his every need. He would often berate us with his words saying things like, “You are too much trouble to have around.” When not being wait upon hand and foot he, would vacillate between totally ignoring us and critizing us in front of other people for any action or word that was done that was not up to his standard.
Again this was quite a different message from the one that we would hear him preach and teach from the pulpit on Sundays. He, too, proclaimed to the people how caring, kind and compassionate God is, and how we are to mirror those same qualities in our lives. For me as a freshman in high school the hypocrisy of this situation, coupled with my past experiences, was just unbearable. Any thoughts of God’s grace, peace, and mercy toward His children switched back to that of being good for others and brought with it some serious doubt as to whether God even cared at all. My mother was not immune to this pattern of thinking either as we had a few occasions where we would be able to share our feelings and frustrations in a rare moment of privacy.
While this new reality and cycle of abuse began to affect our lives, it lasted only eighteen months. Upon returning from school one day, again holding my breath as I entered the door, I encountered my mom who was obviously distraught and crying. Earlier in the day she had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor; she was given less than a year to live. I will never forget the raw emotion that came from both of us that day as we sat in each other’s arms crying and begging God for His mercy. Upon his arrival home, after hearing of this diagnosis, my step-father – the pastor – demanded that we pack up all of our belongings and get out of his house because, “he didn’t have time to deal with this sort of thing.”
The police were eventually called as I lunged at him, swinging my fists erratically and cursing him with every ounce of my strength. We were escorted away from that home, only with what possessions we could pack in ten minutes, to begin yet again but now with new and frightening realities in our lives. At this point God was truly nothing more than a fictional character that only existed for a small few who had never experienced life to the extent that I had.
Picking up and moving on, coupled with the diagnosis of cancer and chemotherapy, brought with it numerous challenges and frustrations. At the age of sixteen my new reality had become: trying to maintain all of my school work, caring for a chemo patient, maintaining a steady income flow, and still trying to find time to be a teenager. My daily routine typically consisted of getting up to fix breakfast, scheduling appointments, going to school, coming home to relieve the caregiver, going to work at a movie theater or gas station, coming home to do homework and finally passing out on the couch from sheer exhaustion.
As medical insurance began to run out and my graduation from high school was approaching, I was left with little choice but to join the military to help support my mother and provide the care that she needed. Again, not learning from the past, I stood with eager anticipation and hope as to what this new change would bring. All of my pay was sent home to provide care for her. I was granted special leaves of absence so that I might continue to support and care for my mother. In basic training, I began to attend the worship services and hear those messages of God’s grace peace and mercy, and although I was still hardened in the heart the appeal to the call of such things tugged at my heart.
Was this the turning point? Not at all…