Memories and More

It has been brought to my attention that I've been providing an unbalanced view of my background. I wish to rectify that as quickly as possible, since that was never my intention. When I think of my childhood, I have many positive memories. I remember Dad wrestling on the floor with us after dinner. I remember Mom and him reading to us in the evening, even into our adolescence. I remember family night -- bobbing for apples in the our cold kitchen, going on a treasure hunt that ended up at a movie theater... I remember making Christmas presents together when money was tight -- woven pot holders or plaques or any number of things. I remember the wonderful smell of Mom's daily bread and the way she worked and worked and worked for us, not even stopping for her many migraines. I remember cinnamon toast and scrambled eggs when we were sick. I remember all of us grouped around Mom, while she sang to the littlest one at the time, "Two foot two, eyes of blue, coochy coochy coochy coo ... "

Currently I also have much to be grateful for with my family. For my birthday a couple of years ago, I was iced in. My dad slipped and slid over to my house in his little red pickup to bring me cake and flowers, a tradition he does every year, without fail. Another year I asked my dad for rose bushes instead of cut flowers. He works at a nursery so I figured that would be feasible. Well, he didn't just drop a couple of sticks off at my front door. No, he and my brother Matt dug a trench, hauled away the rocky soil, planted four bushes, and covered them with fresh soil. Those rose bushes are truly my prized possession, as much for the love they represent as for their innate beauty.

No, I am very fortunate in many ways to have the family that I do. What I've been talking about in here lately is simply the results of being raised in terror of a God who (supposedly) demands perfection ... or else. That's it. Nothing more. It's not just us (i.e. my siblings and me). This is multi-generational thing, and it breaks my heart. My goal here is not to hurt anyone. Nor do I wish to imply that my parents were unloving or cruel. Nothing could be further from the truth. But fear has kept our family in bondage for generations, and I am determined that it will stop here.

I know I am making some people uncomfortable (and some are probably downright angry). That's okay. It's not my goal, but I'm willing to there if need be. My goal is two fold. First of all, I need to sort through these things, and writing is the way that I do that. And secondly, I have found that if one person is vulnerable enough to say, "I feel ... I hope ... I'm afraid ...," then all of the sudden the people listening are far more willing to share their own struggles and fears. That is my goal. Silence is the breeding pond of dysfunction. If we can talk, we can heal, but I am convinced that we cannot conquer that which we don't acknowledge. And, again, it's not just "us." It's not even just our clan. It's common within the Christian church, and I think it breaks Christ's heart to see us chained up by fear when he gave so much so that we don't have to be this way.