The Faith Collective

I have learned over the years that one way I receive revelation is feeling an undeniable sense of knowing what I should do, especially when things are out of my comfort zone. I knew from the Holy Spirit that I would find tremendous healing in group therapy; I still felt alone, and I needed to connect with people who also experienced childhood trauma. I don’t think it was by chance that a leader in my church helped start a charitable foundation for the benefit of Adult Female Survivors of Childhood Sexual Abuse. 

Why didn’t I receive the exact answer to my pleading in the way I thought I needed it? I don’t know. But as I look back, all I do know is that I was not alone. I could not have gotten through that moment alone—I know what I was feeling; I know where my level of grief was and I didn’t have the physical or emotional or spiritual capacity to pull myself through that situation. 

I just didn’t. I was overwhelmed to the depths of my soul. It would have finished me. But it didn’t. I got up. I eventually was able to finish the laundry. 

I was afraid to feel. Afraid that if I let myself cry, I might not ever stop. It was in the heart of this trial that my sister-in-law came to visit at the hospital. She painted my daughter’s nails, we chatted, and then she gave us each a gift as she left. It was a wooden heart from Bethlehem, specially carved from an olive tree into the perfect size to fit in our hand. The note she left suggested that the heart be used in times of need, that as I tossed the heart around in my hand the oils from my skin would make this heart personal to me and remind me that as I turn to Christ, I will be rooted in Him no matter the turbulence of my trial.

Before my fourth pregnancy, there were only a few times in my life that I can say I experienced anxiety. And most of those related to a difficult labor and delivery experience with my third child. I still don’t know what caused it, but in June 2020 when I was six months pregnant with our fourth child, our first girl, I had an anxiety attack; the first of many.

When Kimberly was about 12 or 13, she was attending the local Jr. High School .  She was very troubled and I couldn’t find out why.  I had asked her what was wrong multiple times and she just shrugged her shoulders and denied that anything was the problem.  She left for school one morning and I went into the closet and fell on my knees, telling Heavenly Father that something was wrong with Kim (as we called her).  I told  Him that I’d tried to find out what was bothering her and I couldn’t.  The words came to me, “ask her about the candy bars.”

I remember laying in my hospital bed one night feeling so unbelievably alone. My room didn’t have a phone, my husband was in his most demanding semester of school with finals and boards quickly approaching, and my family was clear across the country. I was desperate to pour my heart out to someone and tell them what I had been going through the last few days.  I thought of the other patients in the burn unit. Were they in similar situations? What if they did not know of God or believe He was there? How in the world were they even surviving without hope and faith in a loving God? My heart ached for them. So, I decided to pray. Through tears, I pleaded with my Heavenly Father to watch over them and be with them.

She mentioned a few other things about eating organically, watching out for those GMOs and drinking tons of her favorite water from Trader Joes, her favorite grocery store while offering some apples and nuts, but the most powerful moment of my time with Norma was when she talked about her first moment of faith. The first time she had to face death, and the first time she knew that she had work to do on this earth. 

But, there was always an unspoken difference that would eat away at my self worth and thoughts over the years- I have African American heritage while the rest of my immediate and extended family members do not.

My unique appearance did not alter my family life or the way we all deeply love each other, but it did have a great impact on how I saw myself. 

My son was born with only half a heart – a single pumping chamber – that required a series of surgeries in his first months of life. While the doctors are pleased with my son’s progress during the two-year lull between rounds of surgeries, my husband and I face the unseen horrors of the aftermath, often in the dark of night. Even after he had fully recovered from his latest surgery, for ten consecutive months my son woke up every fifteen minutes in the grip of night terrors, screaming and inconsolable though no longer in physical pain. It was these moments –  exhausted beyond reason, emotionally spent, and each night hopeful, even desperate, for relief that did not come – that brought me abruptly to the limits of my faith.

Gratefully, with incredible support from my family and congregation, I realized that I was in charge of the narrative, and I received reassurance that I had given what had been asked of me. The Lord had received my little offering, my “loaves and fishes.”  But little did I know that was just the beginning of owning and creating new narratives with God.