Before I Became #NotConsumed

Every Saturday morning she made pancakes. In her nightgown and purple slippers, my mom would breakdance on the kitchen floor as we waited for the pancakes to bubble. It’s a memory that often brings a smile to my face.

Growing up, my mom was fun. She knew how to laugh and have a good time…even when life was really busy. She would always crank up the radio on full blast and jam as we drove to school. She ate bowls of cereal for dinner and would sing some kind of crazy song to wake us up in the morning. She vacuumed incessantly and could often be found chasing us down to smother us with kisses. Her most favorite activity? Yardwork!

Even though she worked day and night, somehow my mom still made every day seem like a good day. But her specialty was holidays. I remember countless pictures of me, surrounded by friends, blowing out candles on a birthday cake. Skating rinks, pool parties, twister parties…it was always a memorable event. She also had a love of gift-giving, especially Christmas gifts. She spent so much time planning and picking out the perfect gift. She would lie about it, hide it, and even disguise it on the big day. Her joy made Christmas amazing, no matter what was under the tree.

Of course my childhood wasn’t one big party, I’ve just purposed to focus more on the ways that God took care of me even when times were tough. Sometimes I think it’s easy to look back on life and remember the tragedy, focusing on the hard things, the broken hearts, and the times I felt alone. But these aren’t the only memories. They are just the loudest. For most of my life, I have allowed the destruction of our family through divorce to define me. I allowed those circumstances to determine the color of the lens through which I viewed life.

I lived a life full of fear. It began with the black racer that slithered its way under the gate while my 7-year-old body clung for dear life. But it didn’t end there. I’ve been afraid of nearly everything, from darkness to being alone. Fear so crippling that I didn’t function as a normal adult. Fear that destroyed nearly every relationship I have ever had.

I spent years making up lies and stories that would make my life better than it really was, afraid no one would love me given my life situation. By the time I graduated from college, I was so lost in lies I wasn’t even sure what was true anymore. Somehow it became my escape from who I thought I was: a girl never good enough to be truly loved. If I could just make things all right in my head, then things would be all right in my life.

The Scarlet Letter

The year is 1642. A young woman is led from the town prison of a small Puritan village. In her arms, she carries an infant and on her heart she wears a scarlet letter “A.” Her head hangs low in disgrace.

I clearly remember reading this tale in high school. Hawthorne’s words danced in my soul, causing great conflict between deep feelings of compassion and the great need for justice. Part of me wanted the people to forgive Hester and part of me knew that rules must be followed. I wasn’t alive in 1642 and I had never seen anyone wearing a scarlet letter, but I was highly motivated by its implications. I walked the halls of high school looking for ways to do that which was right. I listened to youth leaders, I drew lines, and I carefully orchestrated my relationships. But somewhere between senior prom and the freshly painted walls of a dorm room, the lines began to fade. All I really wanted was to be loved.

By my senior year, I had met a guy who cared enough to talk about marriage. I jumped at the idea, having no clue that satisfying my desire for love would be dead wrong. We had an adorable little church wedding, packed up our inherited station wagon and headed 24 hours north where he would attend seminary. It was winter in so many ways. The trees were barren and our home was empty. Finding a teaching job was harder than I had planned and college was more demanding than my young wife’s heart desired. Before our first anniversary, he had entangled himself in the snare of an affair. Although my entire body could scarcely move, I never ONCE thought about a divorce. I would forgive and we would work through this.

Another winter fell heavy on our home and before the buds of spring could surface, he was gone. With him, he took everything of value. Every ounce of security, every hope of being loved, and every prayer of living the American dream. He left brokenness, despair, fear, and a huge hatred of God. To me, God had a bunch of rules and subsequent blessings. I had followed the rules. I married a Christian whose parents were on the board of their church. He was even attending seminary. But following the rules didn’t spring forth a well of blessing. Instead I sat in a heap of despair, rejected and abandoned.

He was granted a divorce, and within 30 days I was forced to give his name back. In exchange I got a scarlet letter. Not the letter “A” like Hester, but the letter “D.” For in my mind, divorce was the unforgivable sin. Or at the very least, it would keep any good man from ever being able to truly love me. After all, I was used. This letter “D” was an obvious sign to all. I wore the letter in complete disgrace, although I was too ashamed to ever admit my marital status to anyone.

He Left, Again

I’m not going to lie and say I handled things well. I stopped going to church and became a bit of a player, uninterested in commitment. About 4 years later, the prayers of my granny pushed me back into church. A man walked into that singles group and changed my life. He wasn’t just another face. He was a man who adored me, one who knew about my scarlet letter and cared enough to break past the Great Wall that I had built. He captivated my heart. And although I had vowed never to marry again, within an instant, all of that was a distant memory.

Somewhere between the purple slippers and the scarlet letter, I developed the life strategy of perfectionism. Although I could not articulate it at the time, I just knew that if I could get it all right, nothing else in my life would go wrong. I knew that if I was perfect, I would be enough. And for over 10 years, I set out to prove this theory. Pre-marriage classes, Bible studies, leadership positions in our church, excellent parenting books, and money-saving strategies were just a few of the ways I tried. If there was something to be improved upon, I bought a book and worked on it.

I would listen to pastors, authors, my husband, and friends, as they offered up advice for how I could be a better person. I was determined to be the best wife, homemaker, and homeschooler that I could possibly be. I found mentors and I copied them, adapting their views and behaviors into my life. But all of this “doing” did nothing. I wasn’t enough.

The perfect little world I had tried so hard to build came crashing into a concrete pole and the whole thing fell apart. My body lay frail on the stretcher as they closed the door on everything I had worked so hard for. When I regained consciousness, the darkness fell around me and the crushing reality of abandonment kept my heart from beating. While the suitcases wouldn’t leave our home until several months later, he was already gone. Greener pastures and promises of a better love captivated his heart and he set out for the far country.

I became a single mom to 4 children, ages 6, 5, 2, and not yet born.

The biggest lie I’ve ever believed in my life was about to come unraveled. Tears invaded every moment and space. I was left with the burning questions: How could this happen to me, AGAIN? How on earth could I be so horrible? I had followed all of the steps, dotted every i, crossed every t. But I wasn’t enough. The unread books on my nightstand haunted me. I had meant to get to those sooner. What if I had? Could I have prevented this? What if I had been better? What if I had been thinner or spent more time learning better make-up techniques? And although at first he would tell me that it wasn’t about me, my heart would not believe it.

My plans are shattered, so are the desires of my heart. Job 17:11

I felt comfort in the words of Job. He seemed to relate to my despair. But this time was different. Rather than blaming God, I clung to Him. Instead of running into the world’s answer, I ran into His arms and there I found something I had never known. It was there, in the bottom of the deepest valley, that I met Jesus. I know I told you that I had known Him since I was a little girl. But I didn’t KNOW Him. I only knew OF Him. And KNOWING Him changed it all.

Jesus answered, ‘I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.’ John 14:6

Jesus is the truth. The truth I had never known. The truth about me. The truth about Him. You see, all of that doing and striving toward perfection was never going to work. I could never do enough or be perfect enough. Turns out, I didn’t have to be. God didn’t create us to be enough, He created us to be reliant on Him. We need Him in every moment from the littlest wave to the life-threatening typhoons.

Edited 10 years later to add: When I wrote the words above I couldn’t have imagined just how true they were. Life hasn’t been easy, but it’s been easier on my knees. 4 years after I started this blog and wrote these words, God gave me the opportunity to trust Him with EVERYTHING and to learn to be #NotConsumed when it really counts. Read How I Became #NotConsumed here.