Control and Intimidation

I have given you a glimpse of me, from the inside, from my childhood. I want you to understand that I had an awesome childhood. I had not only a lot of fun, I had awesome, caring parents! I had a Spiritual upbringing the like of which most do not understand. I learned to love God from an early age. Most of my childhood was pure joy!

Some of the parts that I have shared with you that were not pure joy were my own insecurities. My cousin Paul called them “Lies that we tell ourselves”. That would probably be an accurate description. You see, I believe that there is a great controversy going on in this world between good and evil, God and Satan. God has our best interest in mind and Satan would love to destroy us one way or another. God wants joy and peace for us. He wants us to know his love for us. He will do all in his power to bring us to an understanding of his eternal purpose and he polishes us like rough stones into shining ones. He molds us like clay into useful vessels. He refines us like gold with fire so as to fit us to reflect his perfect character. And as we allow him to work in us, to change us will we ever come to an understanding of God’s love.

When I was three years old and hit by a car. I could have been easily killed, but I believe God intervened on my behalf. If the devil couldn’t get me one way, though, he would try another. He placed in my heart lies that I believed. Insecurities arose around how I looked, how I couldn’t keep up and compare to my sister, and I believed I was deficient and inadequate. I told you about those things in detail and how they played out in my heart. But, I told you those things so you would know that it was those very things that I had come to believe, that the Devil used against me in one mighty swing, one mighty blow that very nearly destroyed me completely the year I went to school. It was there that he used other people to confirm what he wanted me to believe. He drove it home while I was alone and had no one to understand or listen to me. It was when I was most vulnerable, that He tried his hardest to bring me down.

Remember, I was leaving school in Africa to go back to the school I loved in Canada. My memories of that place were of fun, classes, good grades, lots of hiking and camping and choir. I had lived with my parents there before. We had a house load of kids, 18 teenagers at one point. We had big meals with always plenty of food for all. We had basic rules for guidelines but there was always a little give and take. My parents were neither controlling nor legalistic. We had wake up times and bed times. Lights-out was not enforced if we really needed to study. We were expected to keep our rooms clean, but it was never made into a big issue. We had study hour often around the table and everyone would help each other. We laughed a lot and sang a lot and told stories. We had major snowball fights in the winter and even more major water fights in the summer. My parents were often also involved in the fun. (It was my dad who threw water all over the piano in the living room, trying to douse my roommate as she ran by.)

So with those memories and expectations in my mind, I looked forward to returning!

The day that my mother and sister left me at school, I stood in the driveway watching the car move away. I felt very, very alone! Tears ran down my cheeks and I waved and forced myself to turn away. I felt like a ton of bricks and alone. I trudged up the hill to the house that was to be my home. I had asked if I could live in this house. It was where I had worked and cooked and babysat when I went to school here before. They liked me before and I figured that they would like me again. But now, I let myself fall unto my bed and sobbed my eyes out.

Other students soon showed up. The school was filling up and the program was about to begin in earnest. I got a roommate, I met new friends. I liked them all!

Then the program began. It all started easy. School was easy, choir was fun! Work on the farm was fun! Then, something happened. When I reached for bread at the table, I was asked, “How many have you had?” Huh? Ok. The same went for the milk. It was rationed. I had no idea! The butter, the peanut butter, and more. It felt very demeaning! I had never been piggish before. I never hogged food. I knew my manners but I guess it was assumed that this was necessary to keep all students in check. I didn’t say anything. I just understood it to be degrading.

One day, my friends and I asked if we could make our own cookies. We had gone down to the commissary and purchased some carob chips and things. We were granted permission but our homehead (the Mrs.) was very unhappy. “You don’t like my cooking?” She stomped off. All the fun was gone from the idea and I can’t remember whether we made them or not. I do remember that we put our names on our goodies and placed them in the pantry. We would take a handful now and again but this made our homehead angry.

Lights out time was strick! Room check was regular. I remember one day, feeling rather nauseated and cramped from, well you know, I was a girl and that happens once a month when you’re young. I came back to the house from work and curled up on my bed. My homehead questioned me and I told her I was not feeling well and why. A couple hours passed and I felt a lot better. Getting up, I ventured to go back out to work. Unfortunately, I was stopped and told that if I was going to say that I was sick, then I needed to be in bed and expected to stay there all day. I was taken aback. I apparently was pretending to be sick. I was mortified. I had only done the pretending thing once in my life and I was in grade two. I went back to bed but why did everything have to be this way?

I began to melt. I began to retreat inside myself a bit. I tried to talk to my homeheads (the Mr.) one day as we walked back to the house from classes, that I felt very restricted and distrusted about a lot of things. I had not broken any rules, nor did I plan to. This only made things worse. The Mrs. was angry. Angrier then I have ever seen. She saw us come up on the porch and she shouted at me through the open window. She forbid me from ever talk to her husband again. I was causing problems, big problems! I was so confused! I didn’t want to cause problems. What did I do wrong?

One day at breakfast, the morning after staff meeting, I asked the question, “So what happened, that we should know, in staff meeting last night.” There was always something more to know, a new rule, a new idea. I was cheerful!

“The new rule is that the Principle of the school will be doing room checks from now on. You better have them clean. He will be checking everything. Have your bed, drawers and closets clean!”

I sat there dumbfounded. “You mean, He, a man, is going to be checking my room like that?” I stood up. I burst into tears. “Have I no privacy?” I didn’t feel it was right. I felt invaded. I had no room for individuality or personal choices, though, so what was to be was to be.

I had never been rebellious before. I had never felt a need to be. My parents had raised me to obey, but they gave me freedom of choice and wisdom to know right from wrong for the most part. Now, in my heart rose for the first time, a bit of angry rebellion. “Fine, I will clean my room for some man to exam!”

I remembered all the rules. “No food in your room!” “Do not bring any walk-mans to school or tapes to play” “keep a tidy room and so on!” I cleaned my room all right (It wasn’t messy in the first place), every nook and cranny, every drawer and shelf, my desk and under my bed. Then I sat to write a note.

Dear Mr. Principle,

Welcome to my room! I hope that upon entering that you find it completely satisfactory!
If you do not and you’re feeling your blood pressure rise, feel free to grab the tape that you will find sitting on the top shelf of my desk. It is all about hypertension! Take it and place it in the walk man that you will find on the top shelf of my closet, way in the back. Then feel free to lay on my wrinkle free and clean bed and catch your breath. If by chance this whole thing has worn you out and your sugar levels have dropped, then open the bottom drawer of my desk and pull out a bag of carob chips that I have put there for just such an occasion. Eat all of them if you need to. May your next visit prove more successful!

Sincerely,
Julie

That was a bit of a paraphrase. Sarcasm took over! I decided to expose all my sins. I had a walk man because I had brought all my earthly possessions with me from Africa. I reserved a box in my closet for the items I didn’t touch. The walk man was one of them because, for one, I only owned one tape, which I found on the road. It was all about hypertension and I didn’t listen to it. The carob chips had been a birthday gift to me from the other girls in the house and I had not yet brought them upstairs to share, nor had I eaten any myself.

I had eventually regained my composer about the whole room check thing. I still felt it was an invasion of personal space but I had said I felt trapped and I said no more.

My homehead was angry with me though. Now, she knew how I felt and she decided I was a bad influence on her children. When I walked into the living room, the children were called to be in the kitchen. When I walked to the kitchen the children were told to go to some other room. I was obviously a burden to this lady. It was as though I had leprosy. I decided to ask if they would consider letting me move. They were not liking me and it was obvious that my very presence was just a little more then irksome to them. I personally felt very distressed.

One weekend, there was a campout. Everyone was busy loading the trucks and getting ready to go when I heard screaming. I looked up the hill and saw the little girl from the house where I lived, crying her eyes out. She was calling “Daddy, Daddy, don’t go or mommy will leave and never come back!” Mr. _________ was angry and marched off in anther direction. While we waited for him to come back so we could find out if he was coming or going, I remembered something I had forgotten and ran up to the house. I opened the door just in time to see the little girl have a door slammed in her face and she ran to her bedroom crying. I tiptoed up to her room against my better judgment, placing a hand on her shoulder, I quietly said, “Your mommy is sad right now, but she will be better soon and then she will be ready to see you and talk to you! Just hang in there. Everything is going to be ok!” Then I tiptoed out, retrieve my forgotten items and left.

Campouts were not what they used to be. We used to let our hair down and have fun and be free. We ate when we were hungry and rested when we were tired. We played games, told stories and sat up late around the campfire.

Not these campouts. We got up at the morning call. We ate in the allotted time. We hiked with the group and went to bed, lights out as usual. I remember a friend of mine had managed to slip in a small chocolate bar and invited me to share it with her. She told me, though, that we must go for a little walk away from the rest or we would be caught.

Camping is not comfortable even at the best of times but when all the fun is sucked out of it too, I didn’t care for camping at all! Oh, for a bite of sweetness. I enjoyed one bite of chocolate. Too bad I felt sneaky to get it.

When we returned home, I was in big trouble. I was always in trouble, no matter what I did, but this time I got called in to a private setting. I was asked if I had talked to the little girl before the camp out. I told them I had and just exactly what I had said. I was told, I had no right to talk to their children. I understood. I apologized. I felt that I had not done wrong but I certainly COULD not do right!

The Mrs. then told me. “You know Julie, we were all until you arrived here!!”

Quietly, and with measure words, I asked, “I don’t want to be a burden to you, Can I move to a different house then?”

The answer was and emphatic “NO! You have not learned your lesson yet!”

“Why?” I cried. I was so confused. I did not know what lesson I was suppose to learn. So far, I’d only learned that I was in a prison like situation.

Time passed and things did not improve. Every word had to be measured. Every word was on eggshells. I begged to be able to move. I was not happy here either. It is hard to be happy where you are thought of as a bad person, where the children are called away from your presence, where every word you say is taken as a threat. I not only wanted out. I needed out!

I asked again to please be considered for moving. The answer was always a resounding, “NO!” Until one evening, I got called down to staff meeting.

I was scared; I didn’t know why I was called. I only knew that I was in trouble, without having broken any rules.

I was puzzled when I arrived at the classroom where the meeting had taken place. All the women had been asked to leave. The desks were being arranged in a circle near the entrance of the room. One desk was in the middle. I was asked to take the middle seat. The other desks were quickly closed in all the way around me, corner to corner. There was one man to every desk. I was trapped in the middle of a circle of men with a plan and I began to shake. My whole body was trembling. Homehead #2 addressed me.

He said, “Julie, You are a very miserable person! I want you to know that you will never be happy in your life! (OK, now I’m bawling while I write this.) You are impossible to live with, and nobody can be happy around you!” They let that sink in. For a minute I sat their shaking. Then they continued. “We are allowing you to move from the top of the hill down to the ________house. But it doesn’t matter where you go. You will always be the same. You are a miserable person and will never be happy!”

I don’t know what they expected of me but I was shaking so badly that I could hardly talk. I managed to whisper “Thank you!” So, I was moving to the house of homehead #2.

I asked, just last year, one of the staff that I had trusted to be there for me, why he, of all people, had been part of that exercise. Why did he participate in the circle of intimidation and fright. His reply was that he didn’t know. Everyone just followed the leader. I asked if I was they only girl that happened to. Again the answer was no, there were others.

I’m sorry to anyone who had it rough that year. I don’t know what happened to anyone else. But, I left that place totally shaken at the end of the year. That was 20 some years ago and I am finally telling how it was now. It took me a long time to forgive. I’m sorry that it did. I am now telling the story not to expose people but rather to share what it does to a person to be treated in such a controlling manner. I am so glad that God is a God of freedom and choice. It makes me appreciate him all the more now.

This story of this year in my life was crippling and sad but I will tell finish it. To be continued.

Pictures

"God is taking pictures of His people, just as surely as an artist takes pictures of men and women, transferring the features of the face to the polished plate. What kind of picture do you wish to produce?...What kind of picture will the great Master Artist make of you in the records of heaven?" CG563

The Bravest One

I have to smile --- I read the comments about my story and some people seem to be aghast that I should have had certain thoughts and feelings. I must remind you again, the story does not end there nor is one blog post all encompassing of my life long feelings.


I want you to know, I had a wonderful childhood! I had many, many happy memories. The thoughts and feelings that I wrote in my last post were true to “heart and soul feelings” that I did have, not so much as a little child but more from about 13 on up. My teen years were tumultuous but not in an outward fashion. I did not rebel against my parents even a little bit. I loved them and knew without a shadow of doubt that they loved me. They were logical and fair and I had no reason to rebel and it never crossed my mind even once.

My parents also taught me to love Jesus with all my heart. I remember consciously loving God from the time I was 7 years old and never did I turn back.                                                           
The tumult in my heart during my teen years and even beyond was my feeling of being inadequate. It started when I was 13 when I began to be torn between knowing I should start acting older now, but not being ready to give up my dolls so to speak. I wanted to be recognized as older but I looked like a twin to my brother, three years younger then me. Nobody took me seriously.

I remember once my cousins and my sister and I were all dressing up for church. We were at my cousins house. We pulled out some nylons and decided that those would look very beautiful with our dresses. But I was stopped short. I wasn’t allowed to wear them like the others because they looked way too grown up for my size. I was pretty much the same age, just didn’t look like it.

I did start growing when I was 13. I was very tiny up to that point. I could have passed for nine years old. I wish I had pictures to show you.

Those feelings I talked about, however real they were to me, did not mean that I had no joy in life. I had a great many good experiences that I am about to share with you in this post.

So, here goes:

The Bravest One!

When we lived in Ontario, I was brave! I was proud of that too. You see, when all the kids would get together and play, I was always the bravest one!

I recall 4 of us children standing on the peek of the roof of the root house down at the farm. We were contemplating the metal roof and how slippery it might be to get back down. They all suggested that since I was the bravest one, I should go first. I was only too happy to oblige, after all, who would want to turn down a title like that.

I also remember sledding of the roof of our garage when the snow drifts were high. I remember climbing up the broken ladder onto the wood shed roof and convincing my brother to follow. It broke under him and he was in a serious cast on his leg for the next two months. I remember climbing the ladders in the big hay barns, from the main floor to the lofts, to beyond, until I would perch myself in the rafters at the top near the roof. Then I would scoot or even inch my way across them on foot to get to the other ladder on the other side of the barn.

I loved building forts under the bales of hay as well, hours upon hours of fun, rearranging the bales into tunnels and rooms. Some spaces were very claustrophobic and being stuck under that big stack of hay sometimes did cross my mind but never dwelt upon.

I loved all the animals my mother allowed us to have as kids. Dogs and horses were my favorite. I loved my horse. Her name was Domaine and she was quite a gentle character. I have lots of stories to tell about her. She was so personable and intelligent that I was quite taken with her. She claimed us and became a loyal friend when we moved to BC with her in the back of our U-Haul with the furniture. She came to the house and whinnied for treats which we always obliged. She fought with the dog for his bed made of hay. She adopted an injured cow as her charge and kept the coyotes at bay for over a month. She stood in the middle of the long driveway to be bumped on the rump by the car all the way to the house every time my father came back from town. She and the dog were always the first with their heads in the trunk of the car to see what goodies may have come back from town (that’s when she wasn’t fenced). I rode her with a western saddle or bareback. Sometimes I would ride her with snow pants on because they were slippery and then I would run her up little hills to see how long I could stay on without sliding off. She was so much fun! When I was 15 years old we had to sell her because we were moving. I cried for days!

I’m going to save the stories of my dogs for another post. Only, I’m going to tell you that my dogs meant so much to me. They were true loyal friends and Todd especially had my heart! I was quite wrapped up in that little dog. He was the best ever!

Aside from animals, we had yearly vacation Bible schools in Ontario. They were a highlight of every year! Another highlight of every year was going to camp. My grandmother had a cottage on an Island and it was available for all family member to use. My cousins often came to stay with us for sometime in the summer and we would go to camp and swim the days away!

I always appreciated my mother for not stopping us from going out beyond her reach in the cold waves. She watched us but she didn’t stop us from going just beyond the point of danger if something should happen. She never stopped me from climbing to the highest branches of the tallest trees and she never stopped me from crawling under a whole barn load of hay. She understood that we needed to have fun and adventure and to push the limits a little bit in that way. I am forever grateful for that!

I have fond memories of picking strawberries, pollinating, tomatoes, weeding gardens, picking potatoes and fields of corn. Then there was hours upon hours, days upon days of canning fruit. The games we played to pass the time, “Who could be the quietest”, “Talking without any 3 letter words”, “Who can make the other person laugh first” and so on.

When we moved to BC, I remember fondly a friend who decided to help my brother, sister and I catch up with our school work. She also gave us swimming lessons and got us into a regular exercise routine. I loved it! I was good at it! Twice a week we would go to her house for school. I remember doing a test and getting only 99% for a grade. I complained bitterly over that one lost point. She was a bit exasperated. I also remembered, when I was 14 years old, that she was teaching us once in the pool a certain move or technique. I wasn’t getting it, and I said, “I am so stupid!” then I plunged my head under the water to keep trying and to avoid a reaction. She dragged my head back out by the hair and said very sternly, “Don’t ever say that again, ever!” lol Good for her. I had a lot of respect for her too!

Later we moved to a boarding school where my father was a Bible teacher and my parents both were heads of a home full of students. I must say, I excelled! I was in my glory in class. I was competitive and enjoyed learning. I did my best to stay at the top of all the classes I took. I didn’t always succeed but I did not too bad. I loved my work, I was learning to cook. I did it for another household. It was fun and they told me I did well at it. Apparently they liked me and I liked them.

I liked campouts and hiking and outdoor adventure and it always seemed that at this school, there was always plenty of that.

I loved, loved, loved choir. I so enjoyed singing. I was not confident about my abilities at first but they grew and when a choral group was started, I was chosen to be one of them. I was sooo happy!

Then we moved to Africa.

I was not apposed to going to Africa. I had prayed all my life that God would let me be a missionary someday. I wanted to feed the hungry, clothe the naked and help the poor in any way I could! I also liked adventure. I wasn’t exactly ready to go yet though. There was two dilemmas. 1. I was loving school! And 2. I couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to my beloved dog, Todd. That was a heartbreaking experience.

Zambia proved to be all that I had hoped for. I quite enjoyed all the adventure. There was never a dull moment and I loved the people.

Next we moved to Lesotho. I was very disappointed to move away from Zambia. I did not really enjoy Lesotho. I went to school there. I was the only white person in the school. I did my best and had some touching experiences in the hospital. School was hard though. Not scholastically but socially. When I put my hair up, it seemed that the other girls all chit-chatted and laughed. When I sat, they laughed, when I stood they laughed. When I answered questions I was afraid. We had one teacher who would loudly laugh when you got the answer wrong or did the wrong thing and point you out to all the other students in class. It was humiliating. There was another teacher who angrily shouted at the students when they didn’t get the answer right and she kept a pointer for teaching which she sometimes lashed out with. I never got hit. I’m sure I would have walked out right then and there if I did, but I stood up in fear and trembling one day when she asked, “Why will nobody answer the questions that I ask?” Everybody sat in silence until I stood up and told her that her behavior made people afraid. She seemed to calm down a bit after that. I also found it frustrating that the some of the teachers didn’t believe in giving 100% grade even if you got all the answers right. I found that very discouraging.

I loved working in the hospital as a nurse, but besides feeling pretty insecure there and unsure of myself, I did not enjoy school. I got it in my head to go back to the school I had left in Canada. I was 18 and I was ready and happy to go back to a place where I had felt on top of the world for the most part.

That’s another story!

This was me and my sister and brother at around 7 years old. This is before any surgeries.

Middle Child Syndrome?

Hi Everyone, Time to continue the story.


I was laying in bed this morning, basking in God’s love when the thought came to me again, that I would just love to be whole. I would love to be completely beautiful, feel joy in who I am and who God made me to be. I would like to be pure of heart and mind and reflect God’s greatness in his creation of me.

I wandered if per chance people could see me as beautiful if I truly loved who God made me to be.

I thought of my cousin David. He is a photographer, and a very talented one, might I add. I have seen his works of photography and his skill in creating an atmosphere, a feeling, a sense of what that person is about or wants to be about. I have seen some gorgeous photos and some equally skilled photography but of a darker character. I lay in my bed and wondered, “If I were to ask Dave to take some photos of me, what would it be that I would want people to see and decide about me, my character?” Could he portray beauty even if outwardly I am not model material? Could my inner desire to be wholesome, pure, tender and gentle, loving and joyful in who I am be portrayed outwardly? I would love to have a photo of me like that so that I could look at it and remember, “This is how you are with God in you, just the way he made you!”

I think my family has probably often wondered why I have been the more emotional one in the family and sometimes angry. I want to assure you; I had a most wonderful upbringing with the greatest parents that did their very best. I on the other hand, had some hang ups and I internalized them. I think they always called it, “The middle child syndrome.”

I can remember growing up with certain habits and sins, things that I felt terribly ashamed about. But thankfully I had loving parents who also knew Jesus and His power to save. They did everything they could to raise me in a victorious life through Him. I can remember though, that often (every few months or so) my mother would find a quiet moment to talk to me about my besetting follies and would try to encourage me to victory. She was always loving, quiet, and patient about these little talks with me, but I hated having to admit failure again and again, I was so ashamed! so, I avoided quiet, intimate times. This led me to envie my brother and sister because I saw them enjoying talking quietly, intimately with my mother. I figured in my mind, that they must not have any issues, no problems; nothing to feel ashamed of.  They were what I SHOULD be like.

My sister was as opposite of me as you could get. She was ladylike for as long as I can remember. Her hair was always brushed. She always wore pretty dresses and kept them that way. She cooked, she cleaned, she was responsible, she was shy, and she was musical. She was quiet and always appropriate in her words.

My brother was always conscientious and seemed to think out his ideas and thoughts well. He was quiet but seemed to always have a direction in his life. He set goals and didn’t veer from them whether it was lifting weights, reading his Bible, waving to the train engineer every morning at 5:00, making money or hoeing tomatoes.

I, on the other hand, was a sanguine, bubbly personality. I was carefree and flamboyant for the most part. I was talkative and not shy around strangers. I was a tomboy through and through. I tended to be messy, playful, and a story teller. I could make an adventure story out of most anything. I loved riding my horse at full tilt. I loved my dogs from the very bottom of my toes and I played hard and usually looked like it.

Unfortunately, I didn’t think being this way was very ok. I believed in my heart that my parents would probably truly appreciate it if I would stop saying whatever came to my mind (sometimes, very embarrassing, only I never realized it until after it was said!). I was sure that they would have been relieved if I would act like a lady. I often got my clothes messed up or torn.

I remember wearing a beautiful long dress with a thin skirt and some liners underneath that made it all fluffy. It had pink and yellow flowers all over it. I loved the dress but when my favorite cousin rode by on his little bike one day and stopped to offer me a ride, I straddled the fender with my long flowing dress dragging behind. It got all wrapped up in the tire. It ripped from hem to waist. My mother didn’t say much, she just threw it away.

I had beautiful blondish brown, curly hair. I liked my hair because people told me it was beautiful. The problem is, I never brushed it more then once a day and I didn’t put it up in braids or ponytails unless my mother did it for me. Even then, I often had grass or hay from the barn or twigs from tree climbing stuck in my hair. I remember on many occasions my mother taking the scissors and cutting my hair off short. I knew she was wishing I was more ladylike and I wished that I would remember to be. It was soooo hard! I just couldn’t maintain that personality for more then an hour.

I tried hard to play the piano like my sister but I hated to sit there. My fingers were not talented like hers. Her one hand did something completely different from the other. Mine would simply not work like that. I gave up! My mother would set the timer for me to practice by and I spent most of my time checking the timer. I wanted to learn. I figured it would make mom proud like she was of my sister but after six years of lessons, I still could not play!

I tended to be a much disorganized person (And well, I still am!). I often had a messy room, much to my sister’s chagrin whom I usually roomed with.

Once we moved to BC, we live in an old dilapidated house. My mother fixed up the kitchen, the living room and made a functional bathroom. Then she fixed a private room for my sister. It was pink, with pink curtains, beautiful quilt that my sister made herself, and it was bright and always clean. It was a very grown up looking room. I wanted one too. I begged my mother to fix the attic for me. I had a dream room in mind. But it never happened, probably because she had too many other things on her plate or she didn’t think the attic was a very reasonable choice for a room. I figured, I had to room with my brother because I was too messy and still considered a little kid. I felt that maybe my mother thought that I didn’t deserve a beautiful room because I couldn’t possibly keep it anyway.

Another story about living at that house was that I was 13 years old but had a love for adventure. I raced through the forest, read books while laying on the back of my grazing horse, played for endless hours with my dog, Todd, and my brother. Then one day found me and my brother mucking around in the stinky bog. We were covered in mud from head to toe. My mother thought it was a Kodak moment. I cried when I couldn’t convince her to destroy the photos. I didn’t want anyone, ever, to see me at 13 years old mucking around like that. My sister would have never gone near that hole. Yet there I was covered in it. I just knew that these photos would pin me for sure for being the most immature, unladylike 13 year old ever. I vowed never to go anywhere near that hole again!

I also remember once in Africa while living at someone else’s home. I came home from class one day to find Mr. *Mason vacuuming my room. I was mortified! My clothes were all heaped up on the floor at the foot of the bed. He gave me a fatherly but condemning look. I was so ashamed! He said, “I find your room in a mess!” I answered, “Guilty as tried!” to which he laughed and laughed, but not me. Why could I not just be like my sister and not be so random. I even put the end of my finger in the peanut butter jar one time there, and I got caught. It seemed I lived from one embarrassing moment to another. I was not sure how they felt about having me around but I was convinced they loved my sister because she had her wits about her.

Oh how I wished I was good, and ladylike and talented.

If you would have asked me what my talents were, I would have had a hard time coming up with any idea at all.

I could draw but I didn’t think they were exceptional, so that wouldn’t count for much. Besides, making pretty pictures wasn’t very helpful to anyone in my opinion then.

I was a story teller but I thought that was embarrassing. I wished with all my heart that I could learn to “not talk” so much! I remember even in college, apologizing almost daily to my boyfriend for talking too much!

There was once however, that I was so surprised. My brother was telling a story about “I don’t know what” (he was 13) and my sister told him to please be quiet. He responded with, “Why? Julie tells stories all the time!” She responded with, “Well, at least she’s interesting!” lol. Note: Just so you know, My brother’s not boring! He writes a great blog called “Missionary Pilot” and he’s also not 13 anymore!

I could sing but I only sang with my sister and it wasn’t until her wedding day that I sang a solo for the first time. I knew I could sing but it was then that I discovered that other people didn’t know. I was told, “Wow, we didn’t know you could sing. We only knew Angie could!” I was disheartened actually. Where was I all my life singing away in church beside my sister? Did no one ever notice that I was singing too?

It was when we were invited to go to Africa for the first time that I truly believed I was pretty much a dunce. I was anxiously listening to a telephone call from Kim *Busl to my parents. My mom or dad (I can’t remember) were talking to him and were discussing how each family member could fit in the program in Africa. I heard my parents tell of my sister’s ability in typing and secretarial and that she would probably like to work in the office there. My brother was very good at and interested in agriculture and stuff like that. I listened. I wanted to know what they thought I was capable of. Where could I fit in? The conversation carried on to other things and not a word was said about what Julie could do or how she could fit in. I remember being broken hearted. I was convinced that my parents couldn’t think of anything that I was capable of doing. I was discouraged by that.

I wanted to be viewed as capable; I wanted someone to have confidence in my ability to do something useful. My mother asked me once, “Why does everything have to be a party?” It was exactly what I didn’t want either but I enjoyed having fun too. What was I suppose to do? I wanted to be responsible and hard working like my brother and ladylike, beautiful and quiet like my sister. Then my parents would be proud of me.

My struggle to accept my own personality did not end there. I was fragile but I was not broken. I was still happy, laughing, playing and talking to and telling stories to everyone who would listen. I was confident that I could at least make people laugh if that was of any use! But I was confident that it would please my parents greatly if I was much more like my siblings.

Now, as I have been thinking back, I just want to let all that go away in the past now. I just want to allow myself to be talkative and not feel bad afterwards. I want to be joyful, full of life and humor and love that I am. I can accept that I am not a totally organized person. My house and yard will never look like a park but while I don’t like a messy house, I’m not undone about it. I can accept that I’m not the most routine person on earth but that spontaneity is good too, sometimes (maybe often). Art projects may randomly pop into thoughts and I drop the schedule to accomplish them. I am responsible but in a less serious sort of way. I love and I laugh and I sing. God is truly helping me to find ME!

I’ve always hated my pictures taken. I thought it was near impossible to get a good one, but if I could have my picture taken now, I would want you to see a difference!

I would want you to see Joy, Purity of heart, laughter and sunshine, confidence, courage, gentleness, humbleness, and gratefulness to God for helping me be content to be me as he created me to be.

Moments that will always make me smile

I want to let everyone know that I appreciate all the love and support and have appreciated also the people who have contacted me and let me know that in telling my story, it has given them strength to tell their own. I hope that all those who are finding courage, and realizing that they are not alone, will find God and his purposes for you through this venture.

One thing I want for sure in the telling of my story is for you to know that this is not a sob story, a negative narrative, or a plea for comments, compliments, or sympathy. It is a story of me. Please realize that while I write of painful experiences, I am not unaware of the numerous amount of blessings also poured out by God, friends, and family upon me. I will be including those also. Keep in mind that my story is not done at the end of every post. You actually may have a life time of reading ahead of you! :0) Hopefully this story will be going for a long time.

This story is completely from my perspective and you may think that I should not have had certain feelings or thoughts. I can't help the past and the perspective that I had. I can only choose Jesus to lead me to new perspectives and to grow to embrace the life that he has lead me through. I only want to find meaningfulness in his leading.

I sat at the Canada games centre the other day, eating a sandwich while my children ice skated around the rink. Slightly behind me and to my right was a group of people. I have seen them often. One was a mother of 4 boys I had learned through the grape vine. There were also her two youngest boys sitting with her in wheelchairs. There were two therapists and a friend or counsellor or another therapist ( I'm not sure). They all sat chatting, eating and laughing.

The two children, whom I've seen often, I had learned have MS. They spend their lives largely in their wheelchairs. They have to be carried around otherwise. They have an older brother that also has MS and out of the 4 children, is one who is fine. My heart goes out to them!!

I was unintentionally privy to their conversation. I overheard the mother say, “I blame all my problems on my mother, and I tell that to her every time I talk to her.” I continued eating without blinking but in my heart I was disturbed. How must that mother feel when she gets blamed for all this woman’s problems. How would it be to feel that you were to blame, especially for insurmountable problems such as MS. This mother was obviously hurting and her mother was also as a result.

I turned my head as the sun glinted a reflection off the glass door to see a young, beautiful woman enter the building. She looked to be in her early or mid twenties. She had only one leg, gone all the way up to her thigh. Wow, I thought, “I wonder what her story is?” There are people everywhere that have a story to tell. I do too and I want it to be one of encouragement!

There were some things in my childhood that made me glad. Lots of things, most things actually! But, there are some things in my childhood that make me smile every time I think of them. Those are the fuzzy warm things!

I had two of the best set of parents available on earth. I am so grateful that God chose them for me!! He knew I needed them and still do to this day. My mother was a constant. She was there all the time. She brought us to wonderful places, bought us enough animals to fill a barn yard several times over. She taught us everything she knew. She homeschooled us (I'm forever grateful for that!), and she was both strict and loving.

My Dad was busy a lot but he was always home in the evening. He read stories and biographies to us every night. He taught us to pray and he was a real spiritual mentor.

But there were specifics that never got over looked by me. They were were purposefully meant for me alone and they are the things that endeared my parents to me more then anything.

One day, I was in the hospital. It must have been in the day that family could not stay during the night but could only come during visiting hours. I was terrified of being left alone. I never felt loneliness, like I did when I was left alone in the hospital during the nights, as a kid. I didn't sleep. I just cried quietly to myself all night long and in the morning hours before visiting hours. I remember one such time. It was the winter. It was back in the day when they dressed you in striped flannel pajamas. I lay in my bed crying.  I'm sure I looked terrible.  I'm sure my eyes were swollen and red.  I had been crying for hours.   Then the door opened and in walked my dad. He was by himself. He had a long wool,  coat on. He was covered in wet sparkles from head to toe but he took one look at me and without removing his wet gear, he gathered me up in his arms and seated himself on the nearest chair. I curled up in a fetal position on his lap and sobbed my heart out. He whispered to me, “If I had known that it would be like this to you, I would never ever have left you here!” I believed him. It was the best thing a dad could have ever said to any little girl.

My mother had a look that was special to me. Most mother's probably do. You hear a lot about “The Look” or “The Evil Eye”. Yes, my mother gave me those too sometimes but my mother had a special look too, that was just meant for when you did it right, when she was proud of you, when she was

satisfied, or when she just needed to reassure you that everything was going to be just fine. I can't describe the look but I do remember seeing that look often during hospital stays. She still gives me that same look everytime we part ways and she wants me to know it's ok. (She knows I hate good-byes and don't do well with them). She gave me that look when I had my fourth miscarriage and she said, “God will give you another child, trust him!”  That look is fleeting, It is not something I could capture on a camera. It is meant for me. I can picture it only in my mind and it is the most beautiful picture of my mother that I keep always!

 

One day, while I was still very young, my dad said that I was to go with him today. I don't remember the reason. I don't know if my mom and siblings were doing something else, I only remember that my dad took me and me alone with him to the woods. We were going to be gone all day and we were going to saw and stack wood all day. I don't remember actually being very helpful but this I do remember. My dad took me. No one else, just me! He also made US a lunch himself and we sat on a rock and ate it together. It was peanut butter and onion sandwiches, I remember, thinking that they were a bit strong for my taste but if that is what dad ate, I was proud to eat it too. I happily reported to the rest of the family later that they were the best sandwiches ever. Actually it was just the best feeling ever, to be singled out to be special.

One thing that my mother would do every once in a great while that always made me look back with fond memories is, she would buy a little box of lemon meringue pie filling and cook it up and put it in little containers with spoons. She would place four of these containers in a basket or backpack and send my sister, my two cousins and myself on an adventure in the woods or fields to play and eat lemon meringue pudding. It was so very lovely and storybook like to me that I never forgot those times.

Just one more favourite memory if you don't mind. When I was 12 years old my parents were planning on moving from Ontario to British Columbia. My mom and dad left us in the care of my Aunt and Uncle and when to see the possibilities in the West. They agreed to purchase a health food store and the next step, I guess, was to purchase a car. While there, my dad wrote us kids letters. We each received a letter in the mail, which of course we were very pleased about. But about a week later one more letter came in the mail. Just one! It was one just special for me. It was a letter with a poem that my dad had sat down and written himself all about our new (to us) yellow car. It was a poem about the colour and about the fact that the car really was more then just yellow, it was a lemon! I thought the poem was funny but what made that letter something special is that is was just for me. I put it on the fridge with a magnet for a while, I kept it in my drawer for a while. I treasured it! He took time especially for me. He spoke to me in my love language!

Thanks Mom and Dad, I love you!

 

I Feel for other people

When I talked about “Ugliness” in my last post, I was referring to pain, sadness, fear, and insecurities. These things feel awful to me and I see them as ugly but only when they come from me. Strange but true. When it is coming from someone else, my heart nearly bursts like a dam with a flood of sympathy and emotion. I can't handle seeing other people suffer!

I was talking to someone not too long ago, saying, I would like to go back to college someday and become a nurse. I am not sure if I could handle it though. I feel other people's physical and emotional pain way too much.

There are times when I struggle to keep my composure while driving down town and I am forced to pull off the road as an ambulance goes whizzing past. The emergency, the panic, this feeling of tragedy overwhelms me and I fight tears.

Is it post traumatic stress disorder? I don't know. I don't know how I would figure that out but I can tell you I have had to fight tears for other people's misfortunes all my life.

And so here I'm going to tell you one of the most boring stories ever, at least to me, that is. It has become so worn out, old, and petrified with telling that it makes me almost sick to re-tell it yet again. But this is where my story starts so I'll make it brief and maybe this time the whole world will have read it and I'll never have to tell it again.

When I was 3 years old I ran out on the road in front of our house. I was hit by a car ( or should I say, I ran into the side of a moving car). I fell under the car as the driver slammed on his brakes. He jumped out and grabbed me by my feet and dragged me out from there but I had been pinned by the muffler on half my face. I was severely burned. I had scrapes on my head, knees and burns on my hands. Yup

Over the next few weeks in the hospital I really don't remember any pain. I rode around on a tricycle, ate Popsicles and generally was unaware of anything to serious. After all, I was 3. I do remember being stuck to my pillow because of the oozing wound drying at night. I still remember the scab coming off my face. I remember magazines being wrapped around my arms so I couldn't bend them and scratch my face. I remember a little boy named Rocky (ironically) throwing a rock at me and calling me pizza face. Still, I was only 3 and that didn't bother me for more then just the moment.

It was later that I began to be more aware of what I looked like. I became a little more self conscious.

I was eight when I had my first reconstructive surgery done. My mouth was pulled way up on one side and my eye was pulled down at a funny tight angle. I was fully aware of every one looking at me as we travelled home from the hospital. Even when we got home, there were always lots of questions from everyone, everywhere we went. Adults were generally polite and didn't pry, but children always asked what happened. I tried never to let any of it bother me but there were comments that made me think. I remember once in church during some evening program. My sister and I were both dressed in our brand new grey dresses that my mother had sewn for us. A well meaning neighbor complimented us as we stood side by side. “Wow, (to my sister) You are very beautiful and you (talking to me now) have such a pretty dress.” I must have pondered that for some time because I never forgot it. My thoughts were that my dresses were pretty but what I really wanted was for me to be pretty.

When I was nine, I was told by a child that I was so ugly that nobody would ever marry me when I grew up. I didn't like what he said but I was kind of used to brushing off people's comments by that time. Thing is, I told myself, it didn't matter, that I was fine, that it didn't bother me. I had convinced myself that it was so. That is until...

When I was 14 years old, There was a new kind of surgery that had come out to deal with scarring. I had had all the usual surgeries, skin graphs and the like. I was left with a large scarred patch on my face with a skin graphed patch in the middle. Kind of like an appliqued crazy quilt. I was quite self conscious inwardly about it because the edges of the middle patch of skin were raised up and it looked, for all the world, to me like a crater on the moon. Now a new kind of surgery was going to take that away.

This new surgery was a bit of a long procedure. The surgeons had to cut between the skin and the flesh and inserted a bag with a valve on top and sew it up. Through the valve they injected saline solution to fill the bag, stretch the skin and grow it so that they could remove the scar and cover it with the fresh skin they had forced to grow. It sounded hopeful.

Every week I went to the hospital and they injected more solution into the bag through my skin. They filled it until my body would go into shock and I would be shaking from head to toe uncontrollably on the hospital table. My skin would be stretched so far that it would begin to grow new skin cells. It was painful, ugly, and hopeful!

I was very self conscious. My face bubbled out on one side hugely. I wore my coat over my face in church, in town, in other people's houses. I even remember my father-in-law-to-be (I didn't know that then) asked me if he could see, just let him see what it was like and what was happening. I wouldn't let him. Not even once. (I always felt bad about that after). Then one day this crazy thing in my face got infected and within an hour my fever was raging and a small pin prick of an abscess turned into a hole the size of a quarter. I was rushed to the hospital. IV's were put in, surgery would happen immediately in the morning. I was sick but I was excited. I was going to be beautiful. There was only going to be a tiny line left on my face. I couldn't wait. It was what I always wanted.

The next morning, or was it afternoon by then, I woke up from surgery. My eyes were still blurry but I watched the window to the hall for my parents. I wanted to know their reactions. I wanted to know what I looked like. I wanted a mirror. I was kind of expecting a new face.

Finally I saw them coming, I studied mom's face, my mother looked at me through the window as she walked. She started to cry. She walked right passed my room. I was devastated. I can't tell it even now without crying. That was one of the most disappointing moments in my life. I cried a lot and still cry at that memory every time I think of it..

When my mom did get herself together and come back I didn't ask for a mirror right away like i wanted to. I think it was the next day that I asked for one but she refused to get one for me. Later, when she left to get some lunch, I weakly crawled out of bed. I grabbed my IV pole for support and walked to the bathroom. I didn't call any nurses for help, I waited till there was nobody but me. Nobody was going to stop me. I went in the bathroom and shut the door behind me. I positioned myself straight in front of the sink and peered into the mirror in front of me. I was so shocked by what i saw that my head began to swirl and I grabbed on to the sink to steady myself and keep myself from fainting.

Well, eventually the swelling went down and healing took place, It was indeed better then it had been. Two more surgeries followed in the succeeding years but beauty never did.

I became very aware of everyone who looked at me and I despised my looks. I was always polite and I always answered people's questions kindly, except for once. ---- One time in Africa, at some friends place, I was sitting in a circle of friends, many of them around my age or slightly older (I was 18 at the time). I was actually quite embarrassed about myself most of the time because several of them were real nice young men and I felt so ugly, clumsy, and self conscious which I was sure was totally disgusting to them but I didn't know how to help it. So, I sat quietly listening to their fun chatting. All of a sudden I realized that one of the guys was staring at me. I'm sure he was seeing right past me but I shrunk up inside. I looked straight at him and with my eyes all big. I gave him the staring look right back. Oh, he shook his head and broke out of his stare. As for me, I was so ashamed of myself for making him feel bad. I figured the only reason someone would stare at me is because I was strange or ugly. Never again would I make someone feel bad for looking at me.

But these years of accident plus surgeries made me very sensitive to the emotions of other people. I did not want anyone else to feel inside like i did. I felt it was unfair. If there was to be pain, scars, or emotional trauma, let it happen to me.

I recall when I was 16, a friends little boy was filling a generator with fuel when the fumes made their way to the pilot light of a hot water tank and blew up. It caught everything on fire including himself. He was burned severely. I learned of this, and I cried uncontrollably for days. I kept saying over and over, “It's not fair! He was such a good looking little boy! I would have rather taken his place!”

Another time I had a friend who worked as a logger in the woods. It was rumoured that while he was cutting some trees, a large branch fell and took off his nose, and while it didn't kill him, I was just as devastated. Again I cried my eyes out for days for my friend. The same thoughts kept saying the same things, “It should have been me! He didn't deserve to be ugly!” Thankfully, it ended up only being a rumour and my friend was fine.

Now, years later, I still struggle. I stood watching a dog sledding race, here in the Yukon when all of a sudden the little musher lost control and fell off the back of his sled. His dogs raced on without him, pulling the careening sled behind them right into the face of a photographer who was laying on the snow trying to get the best shot. How bad the wound was, I don't know. There was blood. I was beside myself. I was in tears. I could feel her pain. There was her little boy, screaming in panic beside her. He was well taken care of by other relatives but I wasn't. I could feel his panic but I was totally useless!

You know, I don't see it as a bad thing to feel so deeply for other people whatever emotion they exude, (so long as I learn not to project my own emotions into their situations).  It is probably a good thing. I believe that Jesus feels our pain as fully as we feel it, maybe more. He came to Earth and endured every temptation, every rejection, every pain. The difference between him and I is that he uses his pain for the healing of the nations. "By His stripes we are healed."  I am striving to learn how to be like Jesus. How can I learn to be like him? If I could use my experiences to help one person find joy or one person find Jesus or one person find healing and strength, then it will all have been worth it. I must learn to do more then internalize their pain along with my own.  I must learn to lift them up!   How do I get beyond the helpless state and take someones hand?  I know the wrote answers, I think, but I want it inside of me to experience.  I want my experiences to make a difference for someone in a tangible way.

I would add pictures of me before accident and after and during my childhood if I had them but I do not own ny childhood pictures.  Maybe my sister could find some.

 

 

Writing Again - A look at my heart

My sister has been encouraging me to write tidbits of my life. The kind of stuff that has made me who I am, that has helped me grow, that has made me wiser, some of which I am often silent about.

I was reflecting last evening on why have not shared certain thoughts and feelings and experience, especially the painful ones, at least not in a serious, meaningful way. I realized, that although, I have told parts of some of my experiences, it has been in a trivial sort of story telling way.

I have not cared to tell much to people who are near and dear to me. Those trivialized experiences hold a great deal of weight inside of me, whereby, if I were to tell them them to someone who cared, I might cry. I hate crying!

As I reflected last evening on why I have never shared some of the painful experiences in my life, I concluded that I don't want people to know that I've been so deeply affected by them. I don't want to look like I'm insecure. I don't want to look like I haven't got life by the horns. Although, I'm sure it all shows as I don't hide that very well.

The fact is though, I AM deeply affected by painful experiences. I have convinced myself that it is better to keep them quiet. I have told myself both consciously and subconsciously that these things don't matter. They happened and there is nothing to be done so stuff it.

My mother-in-law recently said to me, “Julie, you have suffered a lot of losses, have you ever let yourself grieve?”

Ummmm, Uhhhhh..... I don't know. I cry by myself sometimes. I don't know how to grieve though because every time I cry, I look in the mirror and I see a red eyed, scarred face looking back and I often (cross that out), always tell that face audibly to “Stop it!! You make yourself ugly that way!”

That has been my way of dealing with pain for as long as I remember.

One day,

in college, my boyfriend just up and broke up with me the very evening that I was writing a letter to my parents to tell them that I had fallen in love with a most wonderful man and he with me (he had told me that he loved me only the day before). I was absolutely devastated. I cried, I looked in the mirror. I told myself to get a grip. I talked about it over and over to a sympathetic friend (nothing mean or angry just, “What did I do wrong?”), until one day, he was tired of it and said to me, “You know, you are becoming a very ugly person!”

I was struck dumb! I was hurt! I had never had anyone else tell that to me but it was like a light bulb went on in my head. I became silent. I walked to my room and looked in the mirror. He was right and I knew it. I had always told myself the same thing. I was Ugly when I showed my pain on the outside! It took me a few days but I eventually approached my dear friend again, and thanked him for helping me to see. It was true and I had always said so myself.

Never should I burden people with ugliness, Ever! Any pain I had, I would have to hide as well as I could. There was nothing to be done about it anyway, so why bother expressing it.

So, “Julie, have you ever grieved?”

No, I guess not. I don't know what that means. Honestly! What is a person supposed to do when they feel sad, angry, violated, upset? And so I'm embarking on a journey to learn. To express myself somehow without being ugly. I don't have the answers yet. Not even a clue.

I asked my dearest friend the other day, “What is grieving?” Her answer to me was, “I don't know, but I often wandered how you could go through trials that would devastate most but act like it doesn't matter”.

Well, it does matter. It matters lots! And so I'm going to tell you some of my experiences, not to be ugly, not to whine, not to show you the injustices of people who have hurt me (I will not name any names) but to simply share. To learn from them, to grow by them and away from them. To own up to the fact that I am affected by things but don't have to always and forever feel it.

God is leading me on a journey that I hope will help me, and maybe someone else who is in similar circumstances.

Pray for me because, as I share, the same words always come back to my mind. “This is stupid!” Ok, well, if it is, foolishness is mine. You can think of me what you will, but so is freedom to express myself and I think I will.