Friday, March 15, 2024

Was It Love or Was It...

 Was It Love or Was It...

According to Wikipedia, betrayal is defined as “the breaking or violation of a presumptive contract, trust, or confidence that produces moral and psychological conflict within a relationship amongst individuals.” 


Is this a story of betrayal or the story of a mother wanting to save the life of her son? You be the judge. 


At the age of five, I trailed behind a group of individuals, accompanied by my mom and the evil person she had married. We were entering what would be my new residence. I had been removed from my home because of the torture I was enduring by this evil person. Describing the extent of the damage he wrought upon me and my siblings is a challenge; the scars he left run deep, making it difficult to articulate the sheer malevolence he embodied. 


I have never given that person the satisfaction of calling him a man or even a step dad. You may feel the emotion in my words even in describing this person, but this story is not about him. It’s more about the emotions I’ve carried around for decades. I’ve been treading around these waters for a few years now. I’ve been sticking my toes in, and sometimes I can put my whole foot in. Now I’m about to be waist deep in these waters of betrayal. My hope is that I don’t fall in a pit here and sink. 


My biological father was absent from my childhood. For most of my life, I’ve held him responsible for the pain and suffering caused by the poor choices my mom made. He ended his race with a bullet.


I remember entering that giant brick building that I would call home from then on. I met my new mother and all my new brothers. “This is George,” she screamed to the entire house. As I stood at the door with my paper bag of clothes, I watched my mom walk away. As my mom and the social worker drove off, I could see her looking back at me. I could see the anguish in her tiny eyes. 


I wasn’t sure if she would ever come back for me, or if she would make it through her own torture at the hands of this evil person. I could only hope that the evil would die.


I was led to my bed in a row of several other boys. They just looked at me as if I were damaged goods. In truth, we were all in the same boat. None of us had a place to call home. There was no one to give us a hug, no one to crease our hair, and no one to say the words, “I love you.” We were all isolated in our own little worlds. Even at five, we were all trying to understand why we were betrayed. Or were we? 


It wasn’t until recently that I realized the deep-seated emotion I had been carrying all along was betrayal. For so long, I harbored feelings of anger, frustration, and resentment towards my mom, feeling there must be something more beneath the surface. Despite knowing about forgiveness and surrendering to God’s will, I still felt a profound sense of confusion about this aspect of my life. 


Now, as I immerse myself in this story, I realize that if I can finish it, I will break free from strongholds that have bound me for decades. This story is unfolding in real time and the emotions that are surfacing are really extraordinary.


We have defined what betrayal is, but what about love? Let’s delve into this further.


Love encompasses a range of intense and positive emotional states, ranging from profound virtues and deep interpersonal affection to the simplest pleasure. For example, the love of a mother differs from the love of a spouse, which differs from the love for food. Most commonly, love refers to a feeling of strong attraction and emotional attachment.


People consider love to be both positive and negative, with its virtue representing human kindness, compassion, and affection—defined as "the unselfish, loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another” (Wikipedia). 


After reading this definition, I find my heart overflowing with love for my mom. Suddenly, the fear, depression, anger, disgust, and resentment I felt for her for just disappear. The betrayal I had carried with me for so many years now seems insignificant. The last sentence in the definition says it all. She demonstrated love in an unselfish and loyal way, and her concern was for my well-being. It’s clear to me now that she was never solely focused on herself. She wanted to save me and give me the best chance at life that I could have, and for that I am forever grateful. 


Is it possible to feel betrayed and deeply loved but not know it? I’m not talking about something that happened last year or a few years ago; this happened decades ago, and it’s one of my first memories. For most of my life, I’ve had a profound lack of trust and confidence in others. I never knew she loved me that much. Identifying with the betrayal was so easy for so many years. But as I write this, I realize it wasn’t betrayal at all—it was an act of love, a desperate attempt to rescue me from the death that was sure to come. 


Now that’s she’s gone, there is no opportunity to express my gratitude. No chance to embrace her, kiss her, or explain to her that her child has overcome this deep-seated emotion of betrayal. I can only lift my eyes to the heavens on this moonlit night and cry out to her, screaming, “I love you.” 


It reminds me of the song, Scandal of Grace. (Hillsong)


Too much to make sense of it all

I know that Your love breaks my fall

The scandal of grace

You died in my place

So my soul will live


Her motive will always be a scandal of grace. I am now free from this emotion of betrayal and full of the grace of her love.


The song reminds us that the true scandal of grace brings true life to our soul that this world wants to destroy, 


All to be like You

Give all I have just to know You

Jesus, there's no one beside You

Forever the hope in my heart


Now, the story goes on. I’m now walking out of this river of water that has surrounded me for so many years, and now I’ve been washed and baptized in the truth that has set me free. It was out of love! Forever, Mom, you brought hope to my heart. I love you, Mom! 


Jeremiah 29:11

New Living Translation


11 For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.

www.sandwestedit.com

Monday, March 4, 2024

Teardrops

Teardrops 


I’m sitting here watching the lake today. It’s a beautiful day; the sun is shining so brightly, and the wind is very soft. With every bright day, there is always a chance a storm will pop up. Suddenly, the wind shifts direction, gaining strength, and I observe the clouds swiftly advancing over this picturesque lake. I can see the storm brewing in the back side of these clouds. The clouds are getting darker and darker, and they are twisting in and out as if they are playing with each other. 


As the storm draws closer, I retreat from my seat on the deck into the screened-in porch. Standing with my arms crossed, I am mesmerized by this beautiful storm. It’s more enchanting than words can describe. I’ve never seen a storm like this before. You know all storms are different in the countless eyes of humanity.  


The storm now approaches land, and I notice the wind has a calming effect to it. Then the beauty comes. The clouds are now darker than ever, and they are rolling like waves in the ocean. I can hear them rumble. As I step closer to the screen on the porch, I observe something that is falling out of the sky; it resembles rain, but it’s not wet.  


Transparent, tear-shaped drops fall gently to the ground as if they are waiting to be caught. Some are as large as pears, and some as small as garden peas. I see them hitting the ground, but they just disappear.


I want to open the screen door, but I’m not sure if it’s safe. Larger drops, now clear, float by, inviting discovery. The smaller ones require me to be closer than I am comfortable. 


I can see it now. These are drops of memories and emotions, each with a story to tell. As I study them closer in my safe place on the porch, I notice each drop has an emotion to release. Am I safe now? I’m not sure.  


I’m drawn to this storm for some reason; I feel compelled to step out in it, but I don’t right away. The pull is getting stronger, and the force is beginning to pull me. 

 

The storm intensifies, and I am drawn outside, surrendering to its beauty and the memories it unveils. I’m no longer fearful of this storm, but now embrace these emotions and memories. 


In the grass, I  see emotions and memories in teardrop form, wanting to escape their prison. The larger drops are floating ever so closely to me. They are not speaking, but they are replaying the emotion and the memory that was blind but now seen. This storm has brought a title wave of these emotions and memories. It’s so clear to me now; it is safe for me to see these now.


The trees are now swaying back and forth, the wind is picking up, and these emotions and memories are circling around me more. They want to be discovered and released from their teardrop form. They have been trapped in this prison for so many years. I’ve never really noticed what was falling to the ground until today when I took the time to watch the approaching storm. 


The storm uncovers what was trampled, kicked, and covered up for years. The larger drops swirl around me in a twister like fashion, causing the drops on the ground to come to life. In the vortex, I feel safe capturing each story of grace, redemption, and my place in humanity. 


Some may not understand, and that’s okay; your storm has not come across the lake just yet. When it does, don’t be afraid to step out and examine each teardrop as it falls. Don’t miss the grace that has been given to you; it’s where I used to be. 


There is another in the storm that is next to you. You can hear him if you listen. Don’t be afraid to leave those drops on the ground; some are meant for harm, but all have a place in your life. They are part of the totality of the storm. 


I’m crying, but there are no tears; no one sees and does anyone really care? Can you see there are no tears on this little boy’s face? Why do you say he’s sad or in pain? Can it be possible to cry inside where no one ever sees? It’s possible!


For those whose storm is on the way, take shelter, wait for safety, and remember the purpose in each drop. The storm that brings destruction becomes a beautiful storm of life, breaking strongholds, and bringing peace into your life. All these drops in the vortex of this twister can move us all into healing and bring a tranquility to life that is more than you can ever imagine. 


Acknowledging the storm across the lake wasn’t easy, but through life’s circumstances, I was ready. Caught up in a vortex, I was lifted to a sky of freedom, peace, and contentment. 

I am looking forward to writing out each of these emotions and each memory that goes along with that. Burn like a fire! This world needs you!     


www.sandwestedit.com

 

Monday, February 19, 2024

Still Running

Still Running


I recently turn sixty-two. There is something about getting older that makes you think about your life. Some days, I wake up and hit the ground running, and some days I just seem to crawl. I feel like I’ve been running for a long time. My life’s journey has been an unfiltered and authentic experience. 


My run began at five years of age when I was first removed from my home. I soon learned there were others just like me who were running. Even today, there are so many runners that I can’t count them. I’m not sure if they even know they are running. There’s an invisible force we are running against.


It was difficult to identify the runner beside me; for years it directed the course of the life. It controlled every aspect of my speech, my emotions, and my thoughts. Its goal was to cause me to end the run early. This runner, as invisible as it was, had such control of my life. A smile, a hug, or a look could trigger this invisible runner to rise up and fill my mind with evil thoughts. 


Through a series of life-changing events in 2005 and 2006, I discovered this runner beside me. In 2007, I came to identify the runner as “the invisible soul.” It’s a part of every human being’s fabric. It’s an outside invisible influence that, if given permission, will steer the course of our lives. This runner never runs out of breath and it never sleeps. I’m not talking about the Spirit of God, our spirit, or even our soul. I’m not even talking about the dark spirits of this earth. I am talking about an invisible soul that no one ever sees and is hidden deep in our personality DNA. Of course, there is no scientific study to prove this. The only proof of its existence is the destruction it leaves behind. The death of our innocence and the death of ourselves. 


It’s what has been introduced to us during our formative years. It seeks no good in our lives as it desires to portray a fake image of who we are to the world, but never our authentic selves. It causes us to run off course from God’s plan for our lives. To demystify the invisible soul, it’s a dynamic and resonant voice that screams to us to make the choices we make but also whispers ever so softly. The invisible soul wants us to follow and not lead.  


The invisible soul has been accelerated into fame by the invention of social media. Its pace is rapid, running alongside countless individuals who may not even be aware of its presence. It runs with those aspiring to be more than what they were created to be. It runs with those who have a double life, one visible and one concealed. It echoes the dynamics of the platforms we navigate today.


Why would anyone let an invisible force be so dominant over their life? The answer is simple but complex at the same time. 


How can you run and never know you are running? How can you be in a race but never know there is a race going on? How can something be invisible but identified at the same time? These unseen forces are tangible with the goal of either elevating our sense of achievement or suppressing us so deeply that we decide to end the run early. There is no simple answer to this question. We don’t control the invisible soul; it acts on its own accord.  


After a two-year journey with an incredible ministry, I was able to come face-to-face with this invisible soul. It wasn’t until 2007 that I knew this invisible force existed. I fought hard for these two years as the force was almost too much. The events that took place were seemly directed right at me. Death and destruction were all around me. Then, some thirteen years later, I would confront a force so strong that it almost caused me to end the race. It was as if this invisible soul had laid dormant for years, studying me and observing me, calculating my destruction. 


This time was different, though. I had help. For years, I handled things on my own, never seeking help from anyone. It was the way I learned at an early age to deal with myself. In 2007, I believed that unveiling the invisible soul would be the catalyst for its death; that was far from the truth. 


My help came from my beautiful wife of forty years. Over the years, I learned to share with Lisa and lean on her; we discovered things together and brought light to what was going on in my inner thoughts. Lisa calls it checking in with me.


Through this process of checking in, we discovered I was once again dealing with a force that was not friendly with me. I told Lisa that we had a friend I thought could help to deal with this and put this invisible soul in the grave for the last time. I contacted my now close friend and shared the situation with her, and she agreed to meet with us. She had read my book by then, so the term “the invisible soul” was not a new concept to her. I detailed this encounter in a previous story called “Perspective.” 


After being in therapy for over two and a half years now, I feel like I am evolving to my purpose and discovering my true path. The run is not so blind; I see now that the path is clear. I have been broken to pieces but put back together with understanding and love. I am more than blessed to have hope in my heart and discover new and exciting truths about myself. 


There is a level of hope in my heart that is not measurable. My soul will now live unhindered by an invisible force. I’ve been lost, but now I am found. 


Sometimes I feel guilty for being so free because I know so many who need help. They either refuse or deny the help or they just don’t know they need help. It took me years to discover this invisible soul that sought nothing but destruction for me. As the therapist says, “Keep writing; it may help others.” Knowing someone has gone before them gives hope to the hopeless and brings love to those who may discover this kind of grace. Love is not deserved but given. 


Because it’s so, I will live. 


Keep running and recognize those who run with you, seen or unseen. This world needs you! Keep running!  


www.sandwestedit.com

Wednesday, January 10, 2024

The Fire

 The Fire


Recently, I was challenged to write a story about someone who must keep a fire burning, surrounded by total darkness. I have been thinking about this for a few days and have been pondering what type of emotions I will have to explore to write this story. This has triggered a host of troubling emotions and thoughts. The darkness in my life has always been real. 


The memory that stands out to me is when my brother, Mike, and I were dropped off at this lady’s house during the week. She ran some type of off-grid daycare. We were about four or five years old. I believe it was the year before I was removed from my home. Even on our best behavior, we found ourselves in this dark closet. It was in a room that was already dark, and the closet was even darker. No light shined in at all. It was total darkness. 


My brother is one year older than me. He sat on one side of the closet, and I sat on the other side. The closet was about four feet wide, and I remember our feet touching the walls with our knees in the bent position. I would always grab my knees and place my head right in the middle of my legs. We would sit there for hours, listening for any sound of hope. We always hoped to be released from the closet early. Some days we would hear footsteps, and the door would open; we would be led out into the light. Our eyes would be half-closed and our legs would hardly work because we had been sitting so long in one position. 


The resilience of the darkness brought many imaginary things to life. We knew the darkness was real, and it provided solace and comfort, but being seen by someone could lead to torture or other forms of abuse. We made the darkness our friend. I couldn’t see my brother, but I knew he was there. I would often say, “Mike, are you there?” He always answered in a sweet, small voice, “Yes, I’m here.” As I write this, tears are streaming down my face. These emotions are stronger than I had originally thought, but I am going to press on. It’s a yellow door situation. I have an escape plan. 


As we sat there, hour after hour, we would make up things to do in the darkness. One thing we did most often was to build a fire. One, so we could keep warm because it was cold in that closet, and two, so we could have some light to see each other. We had grown to expect to be put in the closet. We knew going in what we were going to have to do. Mike would often say, “Get the fire going because I’m cold.” I would say, “I need some light in here.” This was a necessity, not a game. We knew we needed each other, and we needed light. Fire is light. I would imagine what my brother’s face looked like and would depend on that image to get me through to the light of day. 


When we had the fire going, I would say, “You feel that?” Mike would always say, “Yes, I feel it, George.” I fanned the flames more and more, and the light would illuminate his face from his chin to his hairline. “There you are, my brother,” I would say. As the flames grew larger, I could see the closet and the contents. There was an old coat and some hangers on a rail just above me. It was mostly empty, except for one thing. There was some writing on the wall about mid-way down the closet. We were not the only ones who had been put in that closet before. There had been generations of innocent children shut up in that darkness. Broken to pieces. 


The writing on the wall read, "Keep the fire going; never let it go out. Fan the flames and keep adding wood and you will make it.” It was signed in a scripted word that looked like HOPE.


So, my job each day at just four years old was to fan the flames for my brother and me. He was much stronger than me, but I was more technically minded and the only one who could start the fire and keep it going. Even now when we chat, I am the encourager, the one who brings enlightenment, and the one who brings some clarity to any circumstance. His part of handing me the wood to feed the fire was important in that closet. We worked together. 


Those who had gone before us had forged a path of hope. It is written in that closet. In the darkness, there is hope; in the light, there is hope; in the midst of any circumstance, there is always hope. No matter if you find yourself in the darkest place on earth, there is light. You have a part to play in the closet—to fan the flames. They may be dim at first, but you will see the writings on the wall signed by HOPE. 


Amazing grace is what we can call it. Coming out of that dark closet each day with my little eyes barely opened, I knew there would be more to endure in this life and that was just the beginning. I knew that what I read on that wall was not meant just for me, but for all of us.


My task of writing about someone who had to keep a fire burning, surrounded by total darkness, has become all too real to me. This story opened a floodgate of emotions, but as always, with the release of the thoughts and emotions, I am free. My hope is ever alive, and I know that whatever and wherever you are broken, there is always HOPE! It is written!   


www.sandwestedit.com

Was It Love or Was It...

  Was It Love or Was It... According to Wikipedia, betrayal is defined as “the breaking or violation of a presumptive contract , trust , ...