To convict one would be to convict us all.

      I had a mother.  She left when I was twelve.  She wasn’t there when I needed her the most.  She had a mother, who worked full time, and spent most of her childhood living with people who weren’t even her own blood.  She wasn’t there when she needed her the most.   My grandmother had a mother.  She died when she was nine.  She wasn’t there when she needed her the most.
       I had a father.  He held his pride closer than he held his children.  He wasn’t there when I needed him the most.  He had a father, who died when he was ten.  He wasn’t there when he needed him the most.  He was raised by a mother, who worked and went to school full time to care for her five children.  She wasn’t there when he needed her the most.  She was the daughter of a criminal.  He spent his time in jail and making a shameful living.  He wasn’t there when she needed him the most.

       My children have a mother.  She spent her time chasing men to fill a void.  She wasn’t there when they needed her the most.

      I am the daughter of a mother who didn’t have a mother, who didn’t have a mother.  I am the daughter of a father who didn’t have a father, and was raised by a mother, who didn’t have a father.  I have born children who don’t have a father, and for many years, I wasn’t there when they needed me the most.
       What are we to do when we are the products of so many generations lacking in parents?  For many years, my heart stewed in anger so great towards my parents and the raw deal that I felt I got as a child.  I was so very bitter not having the affection and attention that I spent so many years craving in silence.  As a child, I was taken over by insecurity and fear.  As a teen, that shyness morphed into a boisterous and bitter hatred for anyone and everyone.  As a young lady, I sought out any man with open arms to find comfort through the night, and I kept them around for as long as I could, but it never lasted, and it never healed.  I have lived a reckless life, void of moral high ground, and full of self-destruction. 

       Now, at twenty-five years old, who do I blame… myself?  My parents?  God himself?

        No.

       Now, at twenty-five years old, I can look back at all my years growing up and look beyond myself to see the parents who raised me.  My parents became parents while they were yet children themselves - not only children, but broken children at best.  They were raised by broken-hearted parents, and not a single one had the knowledge or the resources to raise any child in an ideal manner, myself included.  We are all one in the same, my parents and I, and my grandparents alike.  Will I hang them at the gallows for the rest of their lives for not knowing any better?  At one time, I can say in all transparency, I would have liked to.  But, now, in due time, and as perspective continues to grow, I would have to hang myself as well, for I am as guilty and as innocent as they.

       I was a child born into an unfortunate life, as were they.  Who is there to blame if one was never taught any better, and when taught, couldn’t comprehend?  Only by the grace of God do we all live, and only by the grace of God will our eyes be opened to a better way of life.

 “Then Peter came up and said to him, “Lord, how often will my brother sin against me, and I forgive him?  As many as seven times?  Jesus said to him, “I do not say to you seven times, but seventy-seven times. ” (Matthew 18:21-22, ESV)

In writing a book...

           I think I’ve always felt a certain amount of fear at the thought of writing it all out – my life, that is – a fear of exposing the ones I love, a fear of hurting them, or shaming them, a fear of shaming myself.  I have always wondered of what gifts God may have given me.  I have always longed to have something special to contribute, something artistic, something that touches people deeply, something that someone may find comforting in the darkness, and hold onto knowing that someone feels their pain, something that leads someone out of the darkness and to the knowledge of a Savior.  I have always envied the singers and the painters and the poets for their ability to express snippets of their pain while leaving much to the imagination.  And, while I have dabbled in poetry and short writings, doing much of the same, I have always felt as if it takes off the edge, but never gives me relief of the burdens that weigh down my heart.  I am quickly coming to the point, now, where I cannot deny them any longer. 

I have spent many years getting frustrated with God for giving me a talent I couldn't use, this curse of writing that can help to heal my own broken heart, while feeling that the words I wrote could never be shared.  God has also graced me with compassion, and while my heart has hardened through the years, I still carry immense grief at the thought of hurting the ones I love.  Even still, I pace the floors at night in want, in need, of some way to purge the pain, and telling my story to God alone just doesn't seem to satisfy.  I feel as though He always points my words back at me as if to say, “If you know this, then why aren't you telling the ones that need to hear?”  I have often wondered which would be the greater cross to bear:  Sharing my story and potentially breaking the hearts of those who read about themselves, or refusing to share this story of great redemption that could potentially be the lifeline to some helpless soul, shining down the light of Christ and extending a ladder into their self-inflicted dungeons, that they may see God’s grace that has the power to lift them out of the mire. 

            In recent months, I have concluded that the latter would be the greater cross to bear.  So, pray with me, brothers and sisters in Christ, whether you should see some glimpse of yourself in my story or not, that I not write my words in vain, but that they may be filled with the love and the power of the Holy Spirit.  Pray with me, that the hurting who come across these words will make room for me to sit with them in their darkness, to take comfort in the life that I have led, despite the sinfulness of so many years, and to take heart that it took all of that - every hit and low blow, every minefield that I ignorantly or willingly walked across in my rebellion, every piece of my heart that I lost along the way – all of this, so much darkness to lead me to so much Light.

“Like a bride - cherished, adored and waited for, so intimate with every title that you love her for.  My God, you never fell in love with open eyes.  You chose to die upon the cross.  You knew exactly what I cost.  I was worthless, but you made me worth it.  I was a slave content to beg beneath your table, but you took me in and made me a son.”  - My Epic, “Childbodybride”