Reflections

I had two things I needed to have written for this morning: a sermon for today, and a meditation for an upcoming Wednesday evening Lenten service. I was really procrastinating on them, and I finally figured out why. The Wednesday evening meditation was closely connected to what I've been going through with Daughter. Once I finally did it, I found it helpful. I'm still processing the implications of what I read and wrote, but I want to share my reflections up until now.

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During Lent, our Wednesday evening services are based on Max Lucado's book Fearless. I was working on the meditation on The Fear of Disappointing God. As he talked about how our shame causes us to be afraid and leads to more sin which leads to more shame and fear, I recognized Daughter's downward spiral. Lucado points out that when Jesus heals the paralytic, he tells him not to be afraid, his sins are forgiven. He talks about how Jesus came to seek the lost sheep. He talks about the light of God's love.

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I began to reflect on light. We've all seen the old movies where the cops put the suspects in a chair and then shine a bright light on his face. The cops stand in the shadow and push the suspect, asking lots of questions. The suspect is supposed to be afraid, supposed to feel threatened. Too often I think this is what we fear it will be like to come into the light and stand before God.

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I was trying to think of a time when light is comforting. I began to think of a young child who has awakened from a nightmare, or is frightened of the dark. When the child cries out, a parent comes and turns on the light and offers comfort and reassurance. The child is soothed and feels safe. I remember one night being terrified of shadows in my room. My parents came in and showed me what was causing the shadows and that it was nothing to fear. I was able to sleep peacefully.

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I contrasted that to what I know of Daughter's early childhood. In the termination of parental rights case her brother testified that when Daughter would cry at night, their father would go in and back hand her. When she first came to me, she didn't make noise when she cried. I remember one night she'd fallen asleep in my office and I woke her up to go home. When I told her I was taking her home, tears began to roll down her face. She wasn't making a sound. It was chilling. I told her we were going home to see the kitty cat, and she brightened up. I realized she thought I had been talking about returning her to her family. From then on, I always talked about going home to the cat.

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Daughter's earliest memories of fear and the light coming on are not memories of comfort, they are memories of pain. I find myself pondering if this is why it is so frightening for her to face her sins. Daughter didn't learn that she could find comfort in her fear. Another memory: I was accompanying Daughter and her birth mother for a doctor's appointment. Birth mother took Daughter back to have her blood drawn. They had trouble finding a vein, and Daughter, who was 3, came out crying. Birth mother came out crowing about how Daughter was just like her, and they had trouble finding her veins, too. She wasn't touching Daughter. She wasn't comforting her. I was the one who offered Daughter comfort.

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Does Daughter remember these things? She couldn't tell you about them. But she learned on the most basic level that light during the night brings danger, not comfort. She learned that parents can't be trusted to provide her comfort. That parents can't be trusted. We were talking about it again yesterday. Something came up where it was obvious that she didn't trust me. She was apologetic. "It's hard to trust, I just can't do it." She's been with me for almost 20 years. The damage done in those first three years can never be completely healed.