Damaged Goods

This blog has been a real struggle for me.  I know Abba would not lead me to do anything that is against His Word, so I’ve pondered and prayed as to how to be honest in this blog, yet not dishonor my parents.  I know children can be born with physical problems, as well as some developmental delay mentally, but babies are for the most part an emotional blank slate.  I suppose it’s possible for an unborn child to be verbally abused in the womb, but except in the case of multiple births, the womb is a pretty non-interactive site, as human relationships go.  I once had a Sunday School teacher who claimed I was born under a spirit of rejection.  I can’t argue that . . .

Now that babies are born in hospitals, I’m sure there are spiritual and emotional impacts and impressions made upon their lives immediately.  Interestingly, hospital births and child psychology came into existence at about the same time.  So to say a baby is an emotional blank slate who develops normally or with problems is not necessarily to say the parents caused it.  In this case, I am simply going to be honest, as honest as I can be.  My parents were still children themselves when I was born, but trying desperately to prove they were adults.  They seemed to think the best way to prove that was through a high performance child.  I was a very quiet, introverted, creative child, who completely feared my parents, but desperately wanted to please them.  I spent most of my childhood simply not wanting to be seen.

Before the age was four, I knew I was chubby, I was a klutz, but I was athletic, or at least interested in sports.  I could swim, put a spin on a football, and loved the neighborhood scrub softball games, not to mention rope climbing, it was then announced that I needed to learn how to be ladylike.  I was too “big of a girl” to be a tomboy, so obviously, attention was the last thing I wanted.   On top of that news, right before I turned four, my Grandpa died and my world fell apart.  Grandpa had been my “safe place.”  After his death, I clung to Aunt Bonnie every chance I got, but at four, I couldn’t articulate why I threw myself down in front of the door, and hung on to her legs to prevent her from leaving.

By the age of three, I could already write the alphabet and my name, as well as the baby names my parents were considering for my soon to arrive sibling, but that was all expected.  I was tying a bow before the age of three, so I was clearly trying to please.  My sister arrived before Grandpa died and I wanted to help, but my mother was sure her three year old was jealous of the new baby, so I was put in my place . . . Years later, hearing stories from her younger sisters, I realize it may have been her own personal projection.  To this day, I never did figure out how to be a good big sister.

Before I went to school, I could read and tell time, but I was still a chubby klutz that didn’t know how to sit like a lady or use the proper hand to get a drink through dinner.  I was also left-handed, which seemed to be just one more disappointing fact about me.  I was really nervous about going to school.  I already had an inferiority complex about my size and skin tone, I had no idea how strange my personalit(ies) appeared.

I’m truly thankful I grew up in the time I did.  I had a great deal of difficulty finding a place to belong.  Considering today’s culture, some agenda would have had me in the sites.  Sadly, after my Grandpa died, a great part of the rest of my childhood was spent looking forward to being grown up.  By the age of 12, I was looking forward to being 40.  Forty, by the way, was fabulous!  By the time I was forty, my mind had been healed and I was simply content where I was . . .  Seeing all of life at once took some adjusting, but Messiah did indeed send the Comforter.

I’ve mentioned previously, the fact that I just wanted to be invisible.  I still struggle, at times, preferring to just fade into the background or go basically unnoticed.  That isn’t part of Abba’s plan for my life.  I simply do not go unnoticed, anywhere.  I’m not stunningly beautiful, and certainly not sophisticated or statuesque, but I still draw comments every place I go.  Thankfully, most of the comments are kind words.  Harsh comments are by and large in regard to my beliefs, or exclusively from family.   Although I am grieved, I am not taken down by them.



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