Spiritual – Straight From the Heart

The Devil Made Me Do It!

Let’s play the blame game. No rules. No responsibility. No consequences. So easy that a child can play it.

Take my great-grandson, Gideon, for example. He was four at the time, with snow-white hair, baby blue eyes, and as hyper as a squirrel on speed.

One afternoon during a family get-together at our house, I stepped out on the deck to find birdseed scattered everywhere. And I knew, without a shadow of doubt, who did it.

“Gideon! Come here!”

Like a playful puppy, he came running to the deck.

“Did you do this?”

“No. I didn’t do that!”

“Then who did?”

“Big Bird did it!”

“Oh! He did, did he?” Then, pointing to the birdseed scattered on the back porch, I questioned, “Did Big Bird do that, too?”

“Noooo! Little Bird did it!”

The blame game. It begins in childhood and continues throughout our lives. It’s the wife’s fault that her husband beats her half to death. It’s the cops’ fault for stopping someone for driving under the influence. It’s the teacher’s fault that the student got caught cheating. It’s the woman’s fault that she got raped.

On and on it goes. Why should I get in trouble? Why should I take responsibility when I can pin the blame on someone else? Pretty soon, it becomes a destructive habit of lying, cheating, manipulation, and control beyond comprehension.

Even a Godly heart knows how to play the blame game, but never without its consequences: restless, sleepless nights, irritability, and many other forms of conviction that hopefully lead to repentance.

Blaming others is nothing short of a bald-faced lie, a coward’s way out of taking responsibility, regardless of the impact on someone else. Sadly, it’s become an epidemic in the world today. “Why should I pay when I can blame it on someone else? Why should I lose my job? Why should I stand trial and go to jail?”

Blaming others takes us all the way back to Genesis 3: 6-12 where Adam blamed God and Eve. Eve blamed God and the serpent, and surprisingly, the serpent blamed no one. His greatest mission was completed, for which he proudly took all the credit. In his gleaming arrogance, he deniably cut his own throat with God’s deadly curse, “I will put enmity between you and the woman, and between your offspring and hers; he will crush your head, and you will strike his heel (Genesis 3:15).”

Jesus, God’s perfect Son, is the woman’s offspring. Satan struck his heel through his crucifixion, and Jesus crushed his head through his death and triumphant resurrection!

Is it worth destroying someone else to save your own skin? Is it worth the consequences and the penalty for sin? Is it worth destroying your own life? Satan thought so. But in the end, God will wipe that arrogant smile off his face, strip him of all his power, and cast him into the lake of fire and brimstone where he will be tormented day and night forever and ever (Revelation 20:10).

The blame game isn’t a fun game for anyone to play. It offers no rewards and promises only sorrow and pain. Like quicksand, it slowly swallows the soul alive. It’s the game Satan invented and plays, so how can anything good possibly come from it?

Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy (Proverbs 28:13 NIV).

A Time to Walk Away

“I don’t know if I love you or hate you!”

Those words shot out of my mouth like a bullet as I sat confronting my mother, who didn’t even flinch. We hadn’t spoken in months. I never wanted it to come to this, and only God knows how hard I tried to hold the relationship together, to be what she wanted me to be, to make her happy, to fill the craters in her soul. But I failed. I was just a child myself, drowning in my mother’s grief.

I was her protector, her emotional empath child, easily controlled by the guilt and shame she lavishly poured on my head. When I resisted, she used scripture and religion to further shame and punish me. But I was not her golden child. I was a wounded wildcat, fighting for every morsel of my being.

But between the oppressive silent treatments, the glaring eyes, and the fragile china-doll act, I was always the one to break down and apologize. The shunning was too much to bear. Thus, the emotional mold was created. No matter how hard I tried to break it, it became more firmly set in the concrete of manipulation and control. My voice, my rights, and my life were overruled by a drunken puppeteer.

The never-ending, losing battles were as fierce as the raging fire consuming my soul. Like a corpse rising from the ashes of torment, I transformed into a monster of self-destruction.

Gone was the sweet, gentle soul I once was. My spirit was crushed beneath the heavy burden that was never mine to bear. Like falling down a flight of stairs, I spiraled into the depths of depression and despair. I’m a good-for-nothing failure, too damaged and too dangerous for anyone to get too close, lest they arouse the monster within.

It seems my mother was hell-bent on destroying my life. Of course, no one would believe that. She hid it well beneath the cloak of religion and her fragile, china-doll facade. But after two years of weekly cognitive therapy sessions, I faced the unbelievable truth: Someone had to pay for my mother’s pain, and that someone was me. I was the target. The scapegoat chosen to die beneath the corpse of my mother’s abusers.

And yet, the most agonizing thing I have ever done in my life was walking out of hers. And I couldn’t have chosen a worse time. My father had just died. And again, in her twisted mind, I was somehow responsible for her grief. I couldn’t comfort her. I couldn’t please her. I couldn’t whisk her away to another planet where she could live happily ever after. So I left her to wallow in her own pain. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had nothing left to give her but the raging monster she created in me.

Of course, no one understood why or how I could be so cold and calloused. “She’s still your mother,” church people would say. “You picked a bad time,” my sister said. And others would come to me, reporting my mother’s surprising dismay, “I don’t know what I did to make Sandi act this way.”

Through therapy and the unconditional love and support of my husband and my son, I pushed through the anguish and pain of the unconventional choice I made. Walking out on your mother is a cardinal sin. But a mother’s emotional abuse, the bloody wounds no one sees, is commendable?

After six long years, the Holy Spirit tugged at my heartstrings, compelling me to make amends. I was much stronger and wiser. She had no more power over me. I walked through the flames of destruction, empowered and refined. I can see myself more clearly now. Yet, though the monster inside me is more at ease, it refuses to die. And that remains my biggest struggle today. PTSD. It never goes away.

The relationship was as good as it could be. I changed, but my mother didn’t. She was more cautious and more cleverly subtle in her desperate need to control me. Spending too much time with her was like walking on thin ice, never knowing when it would break beneath me. Forgiving her is the glue that really held it together.

Five years later, I not only grieved her death, but also the death of my inner self. I had reached yet another confusing plateau. Who am I, now? What am I? Am I nothing more than a broken vessel, unable to contain anything good? My heart was one big blister of anger, grief, and confusion.

With her death came the ultimate betrayal, the fatal bullet through the heart and soul. In her freezing cold denial, shrouded in the smugness of death, she won. I lost. She snatched the core of my being and took it to the grave with her. The words I longed to hear will never pierce her lips: I’m sorry.

How can I live with the belief that everything wrong in the relationship was my fault? That she, the mother, was always right, and I, the daughter, was always wrong. Does the daughter not deserve respect? Does she not deserve her own voice, her own mind? Is she to remain a toddler, unable to think and choose for herself?

How can I move on from here when I don’t even know who I am anymore? How do I learn to swim through the emotional turmoil without drowning in my grief? I feel naked, stripped to the bone, for all to see my wretchedness. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Like a wild beast searching for shelter and warmth, my spirit shivers in the cold, dark, bleakness of grief.

Even with God’s help, the night can be ever so long, dark, and lonely. Without faith in his love, grace, and forgiveness, I wouldn’t have made it. Even now, I have to remind myself that just because I can’t feel his nearness doesn’t mean that he’s not there. He has walked with me through the darkest, lowest times of my life, and continues healing my recurring, festered wounds. How does anyone get through it without God?

Relationships can be wonderful, and they can be deadly. I have to remind myself that I can’t fix anyone. That’s not my job. God is the only one who can fix a broken soul. By trying the impossible to fix my mother, she ended up crushing me beyond human repair. God is the only one who has the power to restore our broken souls.

I will never remain in a toxic relationship again. I will never allow anyone to crush my spirit again. I will never tolerate anyone making me feel like a worthless piece of trash again. It’s too painful, and recovery is too long and arduous. I’ve learned to value who I am, whether anyone else does or not. I have to live in my own skin, and I choose to live in it in peace.

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9 NIV).

I Dated the Devil

I met him at church. He said he was a Christian. I was a lonely, gullible, single mom who fell for his charming good looks and sugar-coated lies.

I was twenty-three. My son was three. He was thirty-six with a thirteen-year-old son that he had abandoned in an orphanage. Red flags were popping up everywhere, but stupid Cupid shot them all down.

He made me laugh. He made me feel loved. He made me as pliable as clay in his hands, twisting my Christian morals and ripping out pieces of my soul.

The more time I spent with him, the more the devil reared his ugly head. The same devil I’d seen many times throughout my life. Didn’t I see him in the glaring eyes at home? Didn’t I see him in the man who promised to love me till death do us part? Didn’t I see him behind the curtain of witchcraft?

Suddenly, his twisted lies became as transparent as glass, his heart as faithful as a harlot. He didn’t own a house, a vehicle, or even have a job. He pushed his way through life using and abusing the weak and the vulnerable, and lying his conniving head on the pillow of his victims. But I kept closing my eyes and turning the other cheek. I kept going to church, singing the hymns, hiding my shameful heart in the chamber of religion.

But each day became harder to live with the person I had become, the person I said I would never be. I was making it on my own, raising my child without any help from his father, and keeping my standards high. I was a good mother, a good person with a strong determination to do the right thing, but out of sheer weakness and stupidity, I traded my sacred heart for ashes in the wind.

Kicking him out of my life was the smartest thing I had done since I had invited him into it. I made a big mistake. I can’t go back and erase it; it’s forever etched in the shadows of my mind. But I walked away from it. I learned a valuable lesson from it, and I became a better person because of it.

It was a Saturday evening. Robbie and I were sitting on the couch watching The Flintstones when he suddenly barged through the door, waving a gun around and blabbering like a lunatic. Frantically, I pulled Robbie closer to me, watching our lives vanish in the midst of a disastrous storm.

His eyes were as black as coal; his face twisted like a raging monster as he stood in the middle of the room, threatening his way back into my life. When that didn’t work, he held up the gun and said he was going to shoot himself. With a deep sigh of relief, I gasped, “Fine! I think that’s about the best thing you can do for yourself!”

God, despite turning my back on him, in his love, mercy, and forgiveness, protected Robbie and me that day. I can find no other logical explanation why a crazy, life-threatening maniac would suddenly turn around and walk harmlessly out the door.

Being a single mom back in the sixties was as tough as being a single mom today. The challenges and temptations are the same. Human soul snatchers are the same. The need to be loved and valued is the same. And God is the same. He never leaves us. He never betrays us. He never condemns us. He lovingly takes us to the Potter’s house and diligently restores our broken souls.

Dare I Trust My Heart Again?

Dare I trust my resurrected heart?
The flickering candle of hope?
The dimly lit path to freedom?
The trickling water of peace?

Dare I trust the softer voices in my head?
The gentle breezes in my soul?
Dare I trust the raging monster is dead?
That it will never rise again?

My heart was crushed by the hammer of injustice.
Broken by ghosts of the past.
Paying for crimes she did not commit.
Drowning in tears that were never hers to cry.

It trusted the bloody hands of those who claimed to love her.
The freezing tomb of silence.
The glaring eyes of rejection.
The coals of shame poured on her head.

But dare she trust these quiet chambers?
To lay down her sword?
To tear down the walls?
Dare she believe in trust again?

No! I dare not trust my fickle heart.
My fractured mind.
My wild emotions.
My murdered soul.

I dare not trust my destructive self.
My racing thoughts.
My doubts and fears.
I dare not trust my broken self at all.

I dare to trust an unseen God.
I dare to trust His tender love.
I dare to trust His healing touch.
I dare to trust His whispering voice.

I dare to trust His wounded hands.
I dare embrace the blood He shed.
I dare believe the words He speaks.
I dare surrender to the cross.

Father, forgive my wounded heart.
My angry tears. My shattered soul.
I never wanted to hurt you.
But I was afraid to trust your stubborn love.
But I’m not afraid anymore.

The Woman at the Bar

Alone, she sits, glass half empty in her trembling hand. Her occasional visits have become a nightly ritual of total surrender to the toxic, amber liquid numbing her brain. And there, forsaken and forgotten, she sits in the dim light, mopping her tears with a soggy napkin. She’s the talk of the town, an outcast, looking for love in all the wrong places. Every bartender knows her name, but no one knows her gut-wrenching story.

She was orphaned as a young child and taken into foster care, where she was beaten, molested, and worked like a slave on the farm. Her foster mother was a demon from hell and lashed out all her resentment, anger, and rage on her tiny, frail body. She walked miles to school in the freezing cold and rain, and many times, she discovered rocks in her lunch pail instead of food.

When she wet the bed, her foster mother would hang the stained wet sheets out her bedroom window for everyone to see. She had no friends. No voice. No one to dry her tears in the dark and lonely nights.

When she was finally old enough to leave the foster home, she found her estranged family, who lived nearby. But it was not a happy reunion. Again, she met with danger in the filthy, greedy hands of her alcoholic father and one of her ten brothers. Betrayal of the worst kind; unwanted, unprotected, unloved. That’s the badge she wore on her heart that never aged with time.

Barely in her teens, she fell in love with a handsome, blue-eyed Romeo and gave him her body, heart, and soul. But when she got pregnant with his child, he slammed the door in her face. She wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, smart enough. Neither he nor his family wanted anything to do with her or the baby girl she carried.

Months later, she married a man who claimed to love her, and despite having given him two sons, she didn’t love him. He began drinking, sleeping around, and contracted a sexually transmitted disease. So she took her three children and left him. But her troubles were far from over. Her second son was born brain-damaged. When he was three, he became severely ill with encephalitis and suffered extremely high fevers, causing even more brain damage, and was committed to a sanitarium, where he spent the rest of his life.

So each night she pushes open the door, every head turning, every eye rolling, as she shuffles across the floor and slumps heavily on the barstool. Greedily, she gulps down the first glass, and then another.

Suddenly, a man walks through the door and quietly sits on the stool next to her. His smile is warm, mysterious, compelling, drawing her into the depths of his soul. Even before he spoke, she knew he was no ordinary man.

“I’ve never seen you here before,” she said, her voice low and raspy. “Do you come here often?”

His penetrating eyes pierced her soul, exposing the darkness hidden there. What does he see? Why is he sitting here next to me? There are other empty barstools. Why did he pick that one?

Clearing her throat, she presses her arms tightly against her body, as if to shield it from further exposure. He’s so strange, yet so intriguing, his eyes so piercing. What does he want with me?

“So, do you have family around here?” she asks, trying to control her slurring tongue. “What’s your story? I’m sure you have one. Everyone has a story.”

Chuckling softly, he answers, “Yes, I have a story. A story so wild and out of this world that most people don’t believe it. But, right now, I’m interested in your story.”

Seriously? He walks into this dreary, noisy, godforsaken barroom looking like a saint, and wants to hear my life’s story? The story I try to forget? The story that haunts me in my dreams and tortures my days? The once-upon-a-time story with no happy ending?

Gulping down another swallow of the fiery liquid, she squirms on the barstool as a flood of emotions stumbles from her mouth. “I lived with a man once. But he threw my love away. Then I married a man, but never gave him my heart. He gave up on me and found solace in the arms of other women.”

“Yes, I know about your husband, and the man you lived with but never married. I also know about your childhood and the reckless decisions you made as a result. I know everything about you. Nothing can stay hidden in the dark from my all-seeing eyes.”

Slowly, she raised her head and, gazing intently into his soulful eyes, her stone-cold heart began to melt. Feelings she tried to numb, memories she tried to forget, are suddenly revealed in the light of his presence.

“Excuse me, sir,” she stammered. “I heard about a man called Jesus who came to free the world from sin. I even heard that he died on the cross and rose from the dead! You couldn’t possibly be him, could you? I mean, it doesn’t seem likely that you’d come to this godless place, least of all talking to me, a woman, scorned and rejected by society.”

“Yes, I am he, and I’ve come here to set you free. In your blinding grief, you stumbled off and were captured by the jaws of death. Night after night, you come here to quench your thirst, but stagger out the door thirstier than when you arrived. Drink from me, the springs of living water, and you will never thirst again.

Come, see a man who told me everything I ever did. Could this be the Messiah? (John 4:29).

Closing words:
This is a true story about my mother’s abusive childhood and her tumultuous life as a result of it. She sang in the bars for mere pennies to help support herself and her two children. No, she didn’t meet Jesus at a bar in the flesh; she met him at the foot of the cross, where she repented and gave her life to him.

It doesn’t matter where you meet Jesus; it only matters that you do and invite Him into your heart and life ~Sandi

Knock, Knock, Who’s There?

Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me (Revelation 3:20 NIV).

Silently, he stands in the freezing cold, his knuckles raw and bleeding. His knocks are gentle and persistent, barely audible above the noise of the world. He could knock louder. He could pound the door down, barge in, and make his presence known. But he never will.

Trouble lies behind the door, hidden from the outside world: broken hearts, shattered dreams, pillows drenched with tears. Love once built on trust has been betrayed. Forgiveness is consumed in the flames of anger and rage. Peace, joy, and happiness have shriveled and died in the arms of grief. Hope has been swallowed by the darkness of despair.

Knock, knock.

So gentle. So persistent. His tender voice pleading, desperate, his heart broken and crushed by grief. His perfect, blameless body is deeply scarred, bearing the stripes of atonement for a world lost in sin. A world tricked by the evil one, the father of all lies, the prince of darkness, the silent killer of the soul.

Knock, knock.

Who’s There?

Jesus.

Jesus who?

Jesus Christ, the Son of the true and living God.

What do you want?

I want you to open the door and invite me in.

Why?

Because I want to heal your battered, bleeding soul. I want to forgive your wayward, rebellious heart from sin, guilt, and shame. I want to wash your heart clean and fill it with joy, peace, and happiness. I want to show you how much I love you. I want to release Satan’s murderous grip. I want to set you free and give you eternal life.

Knock, knock.

I created you. I breathed into your nostrils the breath of life. You are my masterpiece. You belong to me, but the evil one snatched you from my hands to devour your soul. Unless you open the door and invite me in, I won’t be able to help you. I can’t make you believe in me. I can’t give you everlasting life without the forgiveness of sin. The choice is all yours.

Knock, knock.

The clock is ticking. Don’t delay. Death is crouching at your door. The choice is yours; life and death are in your hands.

For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 6:23).

Trust Me

Trust in the Lord forever, for the Lord, himself, is the Rock eternal (Isaiah 26:4).

“I don’t like going off and leaving you all alone. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Of course, I’ll be okay. I want you to go and spend time with your old Navy buddies. It’ll be good for you. Go and have fun.”

He’s only been gone four hours, and already I feel trapped in an eerie tomb of silence. No TV, no crazy, made-up songs bouncing off the walls, no shouting, “Honey! I love you!” Nothing but the deafening sound of silence.

He’s taken little trips before without me, but this time it feels different. Maybe because I’m older, now, and realize that one day, I may face life without him. And that scares me. I think about that a lot these days. How do you learn to live without your best friend and marriage partner of 53 years? How do you adjust to living alone?

Like shifting sand, life is always changing. Nothing ever stays the same. One day, you wake up young and vibrant, the next day, you can barely drag your old bones out of bed. You don’t see it coming. You don’t even notice the slight changes. It’s like bam! And you find yourself waist-deep in the murky water of old age.

Old age changes your way of thinking. It rips the mask of denial off your face, and the ugly truth appears, like a dark, lifeless shadow dictating the final chapter of your life. Old age. The Phantom of the Opera. That younger, vibrant self, smothered in the cloak of decay.

How do we tell ourselves to stay calm when we visit nursing homes, when we see the struggles, the fear, and the sadness in people’s eyes? How can we feel safe in the hands of a broken health care system? How much money is enough to get the proper care we worked so hard and saved for?

I don’t know because I’m not there yet. But as a believer in Jesus Christ, I know that through the promises in His Word, He will take care of me, that He will walk with me through the shadow of death, and into eternal life with Him. No more sorrow. No more tears. No more old age. No more death.

Old age and I are not friends. It’s an intruder. I’m a fighter. But fighting against old age is fighting against God. Through disobedience, Adam and Eve sinned, and the world was given the death sentence. Who am I to change God’s mind? Who am I to stand before Him with clenched fists, expecting Him to change the rules? To make an exception. To remove the sting of old age.

We all face many challenges throughout our lives, and we either learn to deal with them or we learn to run from them. To stick our heads in the sand and hope they go away. Old age is a challenge that you can’t run from or bury in the sand. If we’re fortunate enough to live a long life, we must be brave enough to accept it as God’s gift to us and trust Him to walk with us through it.

I thank God for my life, for all the challenges, and for being there with me every step of the way. He created me, and He is able and willing to take care of me for the rest of my life.

The world is a scary place with all its vices and distractions. Today, more than ever, we need someone we can trust and rely on. Someone who has our best interests at heart. And God is the One. He proved it in a lowly manger, He shouted it from the cross, from the tomb, and at His glorious resurrection! I love you! I will take care of you! Trust me!

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light (Matthew 11:28).

Then There Was Light

There’s my yard. There’s my house. And there’s me. The control freak. The one who has a place for everything and everything in its place. If it’s broke, I fix it. If it needs painting, I paint it. If it’s out of order, I put it back in order. I am a number one self-inflicted taskmaster. Superwoman and the fairy godmother rolled into one and twisted like a pretzel.

No job was too difficult with energy to spare. Like a mean machine, I mowed the grass, trimmed the shrubs, pruned the trees, and did the weed-eating all in one day. Then I’d go to work and clean the church/school till midnight or after.

Then things began to change. It’s as if I woke up from a long winter’s nap to discover that my energy had dropped dead, and everything in my world was in total disarray. No matter how hard I kicked and screamed against it, old age has me in a death grip and refuses to let go. I can’t control it. I can’t fix it. Like it or not, I’ll have to learn to live with it. But it’s tough, like slowly being eaten alive.

Spring, with its fragrant, cool breezes, was followed by summer’s scorching blaze, dripping like honey from a jar. We could barely breathe sitting on the back porch, and working in the yard was impossible. But like two old dogs digging for a bone, we kept trying.

My husband prefers taking things slow and easy, while I like to get everything done before sundown. But some days, just getting him in the same boat with me was like pulling a stubborn bull by the horns. So, between the weather, yellow jacket attacks, blood, sweat, and tears, and getting nowhere, I was more monster than human. All I wanted was to put everything back in order, but all I got was a head-on collision with reality.

This summer has been one of the toughest seasons of my life. A season of being crushed and broken. A season of surrender. A season of change. And in the midst of our brokenness, anger, tears, and frustration, my husband and I found a church that feels like home. It’s truly a God-thing because I never wanted to set foot in a church again.

But God had other plans. While I was tenaciously working on the yard, He was tenaciously working on me: my stubborn will, my delusions, my idealism, my pride. He revealed to me my insecurities and lofty, unrealistic goals I set for myself and those around me. For me, old age is a slap in the face; a wake-up call I never expected. A bubble-buster of the worst kind.

God never gives up on me. And he never gives up on you. He knows our struggles. He knows our weaknesses. He knows all our dirty little secrets and loves us anyway and takes us just as we are. He is the Mighty Fixer, the Majestic Super Power, the Creator and Ruler of the universe, the crucified Savior of the world. The Devil puts blindfolds over our eyes and leads us to destruction. God removes the blindfolds and leads us to righteousness, peace, joy, and contentment. All we have to do is believe.

Today, I look out my door and windows with a deep sigh of relief. Not because every inch of the yard is perfect, because it isn’t. But because I have a clearer vision without the blindfolds blocking my spiritual and emotional view. Things don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. I’m slowly learning that.

The night was long and hard, and I thought the sun would never shine again. But it did, and continues to shine as I stop following my illusions and follow God. He is my light and my salvation, my solid Rock, the only One who never leaves me stranded on a dark and treacherous road. He always shines his light to brighten my path and to lead me safely home.