When Words Wound

I read the messages, twenty of them, each one hard on the heels of the last. With each beep of my phone, they force their way into my quiet evening. I try to silence my phone but it vibrates and, for a moment, I can't tell if it's the phone or my body that is shaking.

The words speak disdain, anger, condescension, accusation. They sweep over me, hurting, hating, disparaging. They are familiar. They used to comprise the entirety of my inner voice, the one that caused doubt, fear, pain, stress. They held me down. They held me back.

Tonight, I have enforced my boundaries in an unhealthy relationship and the reaction is swift and harsh and verbally violent. It knowingly preys upon all of my regrets, fears, shames, both real and imagined. It is abusive. It steals my peace. There is no grace. There is no understanding. There is no respect. There is only anger and a desire to lash out, to wound, to hurt me.

And it is successful.

I read the words again, translate them into the intended messages. I am good at this. I've had lots of practice.

I thought love was supposed to be unconditional? 
You are arrogant. 
You are selfish. 
It's your fault. 
You hurt me. 
Don't you put yourself in others' shoes? 
You don't think of others!
You can't handle criticism. 
You're going to be a terrible writer.
You treat me unfairly. 
You treat others better than you treat me.
You only want yes-men. 
You call yourself a Christian?
You're a bad christian.
I hate Christians! 

I am a victim of emotional and verbal abuse. I am a survivor of emotional and verbal abuse. I was a victim. 

As a victim, I respond instinctively, like a beaten dog, to this kind of message. I listen, I shake, I accept, I believe in the truth of these words. I feel shame, fear, apologies rising unbidden to my lips. I cower, I tremble, I hide, I retreat, I back down, I demean myself and elevate the Other. I question myself, berate myself, doubt that I am who I say that I am. I spend an inordinate amount of my time dwelling on my flaws, real and imagined. I stand in awe of those who exude confidence. I do not understand them.

As a survivor, I must relearn the concept of grace. Over and over again. I readily accept that I am fallen, broken, sinful, and often in the wrong. I am far from perfect. (For any victim of emotional abuse, this knowledge comes easily.) But I know, now, that I am also forgiven, free, beautiful, redeemed, valuable, loved, given grace. I am made new. Daily. I fall into Christ. 

I fall into the support of my husband, the physical presence of Christ in my life, who has spent long years building me up, telling me the most loving words that a survivor of emotional abuse could hear after years of "You're not good enough." My husband says to me, over and over again, "You've got this."

I fall back on silence. I have learned not to respond in the moment. I have learned that there is no such thing as a rational discussion in the face of this kind of emotional and verbal vitriol.

I fall back on my boundaries. Love does not require that I continue to expose myself to danger, even the emotional kind. I am allowed to have boundaries, even as a Christian. I am allowed to enforce them. This is not unloving. It is not a "condition of my love" for the Other, but it is a condition of continued relationship.

"There is no fear in love; but perfect love casts out fear, because fear involves punishment, and the one who fears is not perfected in love. We love, because He first loved us." 

1 John 4:18-19 

Establishing boundaries has taken me almost a decade of estrangement from the Other. For so long, I thought that I was being selfish, unforgiving. I have finally decided that this is acceptable in my life and that is not. The Other has chosen that and, thus, the Other has chosen to exist outside of the boundaries of my life. 

I fall back on my own strength and find it lacking, so I fall back on anger, my next best thing. I translate the messages again from a new perspective, read them with growing ferocity, and feel my strength ebb back:

How dare I choose to guard my heart? 
How dare I choose to protect my children? 
How dare I refuse to be a doormat to others' selfishness, an outlet for others' vitriol, anger, pain, abuse, manipulation? 
How dare I refuse to engage with the pointed barbs against all that I hold dear? 
How dare I set up boundaries in my life to protect my Self, put conditions on my relationships? 
How dare I refuse to take responsibility for another person's choices?
How dare I put my Self before Others? 

I am a mother.

I pretend the verbal violence is directed at my children by some person in their future.

My inner Mama Bear cannot imagine it.

I know what I would tell my children.

I know what I would expect of them, and the retribution the Other would face from me.

Why is it that I am assertive for others and not for myself?

It seems simple enough but enforcing my boundaries makes my head and my heart hurt.

Coming on the heels of my last post, it hurts more than usual to enforce my boundaries, feels unseemly, as if I am withholding grace.

An inner voice, the one that I used to respond to, mocks me.
This is your idea of grace? Evicting me from your life?

My inner survivor reassures me. This is a manipulation. Do not be deceived. 
I fall into this stronger voice. I remember who I am. 

Truthfully, my anger has already melted away. Maybe that's because, somewhere deep down, I am still a victim. Or maybe it's because I know that my abuser is a former, probably current, victim of the same abuse. And if not for the grace of God, there go I. 

On the days when my temper rises, when the words that come from my mouth are angry, burning, belittling, frustrated, I see my children shrink into themselves, their precious light dim, and I am immediately chastened. I see myself in their shrinking and I see the Other in me.

This makes me unspeakably angry.

I will break the cycle.

I will not allow my children to become the Worst Version of Me.

I translate the sentences one last time. I translate them into Words that speak life, hope, love, grace. I let these words wash over me, healing, inspiring, strengthening. I want them to become my inner voice, the one that will bolster me on the days that I struggle to hold myself together, to combat old voices, to stand firm in my boundaries, to love myself and others. They will hold me accountable. They will keep me safe.

The words come swiftly. They are gentle and powerful. They soothe old regrets, fears, shames, both real and imagined. They are full of love. They restore my peace. They give grace. I am known. I am understood. I am respected. I am loved. I am protected. My boundaries are secure.

Love is patient.
Love is kind. 
It does not envy. 
It does not boast. 
It is not proud. 
It does not dishonor others. 
It is not self-seeking. 
It is not easily angered. 
It keeps no record of wrongs. 
Love does not delight in evil.
Love rejoices with the truth. 
Love always protects.
Love always trusts.
Love always hopes. 
Love always perseveres.
Love never fails. 

1 Corinthians 3:4-8

There is only love and a desire to give me a hope and a future.

And it is successful.

"For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith--and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God; not by works, so that no one can boast."

Ephesians 2:8-9

When Motherhood is not the "Best Experience"

I'm a terrible saleswoman. I will tell you every single negative thing there is to know before you buy an item. I will wax eloquent on the topic. Especially if I'm not one hundred percent in love with what I'm selling, two hundred percent convinced it's life-changing, and three hundred percent certain the sale will minister to the buyer’s heart. Sometimes, I'll share those negative things even when I'm three hundred percent on board. 

Because I believe in Truth, people, and the truth isn't always pretty. Even when it is stunningly beautiful. 

That's motherhood for me.

I can and will tell you every little thing about motherhood that is hard. Times six.

And then I'll tell you why it doesn't matter and it's worth the buy-in. And I will desperately hope that you'll see my heart and your future with bright (but unblinkingly wide-open) eyes. 

I love my children. I treasure the gift of motherhood. It is one my callings. I can say, confidently and matter-of-factly even in light of my many shortcomings, that I was made for this. But I'll never tell you, in the way this poor mama hears it, as a default disclaimer and hasty caveat, that it's the "best experience" ever. She anonymously confesses online: 

I read posts all the time…about how tough motherhood is. 

Posts about how it’s the hardest job in the world, that it’s thankless, that it’s exhausting, etc. As it is. 

But they all seem to begin or end with the same little caveat: That the author wouldn’t trade the experience for the world. That she loves her children to the moon and back despite the hell that they put her through. That motherhood, even with its many flaws, is still the best experience of her life. That she wouldn’t change a damn thing if she could. 

But, here’s the thing I’ve never admitted out loud before… I would. I would change it all. Because, in my heart of hearts, I don’t like being a mother.

In the end, she concludes:

I truly liked my life better before I was a parent. I liked who I was better.

Why won’t I argue with her, throw stones? Well, first of all, because she never says she doesn’t love her children. In fact, I think it’s clear that she does.

But also because I understand her, am her in many ways. Forget the fact that you never day-dreamed of leaning over a bath tub, elbows deep in warm water, bubbles, and your toddler's diarrhea. Forget the days that you literally cannot form a coherent thought and your simple Same-As-Every-Other-Day to-do list paralyzes you, even though your mother-in-law will arrive tomorrow. Forget the fact that, on these days, all you can hear is your 17-month-old fifth child screaming her sudden and inexplicable protest to naps. For the last (roughly) seven hours.

Then there's the stark contrast of the Person You Were Before. 

Once, long, loooooong ago, you were a person who was reliable. You were dependable. Creative. Driven. Punctual. Type A. And proud of it. Your clothes matched. Your bedroom was tidy. You won awards, were top of your class, landed the interview, landed the job. You could map out your achievements along the ladder of success, envision the ten year plan reaching fruition. When you marked an item "complete" on your to-do list, it remained firmly done. People knew you, befriended you, admired you, sought you out for your personality, laughter, skills, talents, hard work, jokes, company, shared interests, for who you were. (Maybe not many people -- you are an introvert after all -- but enough people.)

And if motherhood was in your plan, you were Miss Spider of Sunny Patch in your imagination -- creative, loving, joyful, gentle, kind, always even-tempered never angry, celebrating diversity and adopting every orphaned Little Bug you found, with a tidy home and adventurous but unquestionably well-behaved, polite, and principled children. You would not be that mother.

But here you are. And Miss Spider of Sunny Patch you are not. 

The fact is that your Mommy Self doesn't match those old day dreams or ten year plans at all. You are often late, hurried, harried, forgetful. Your children sometimes slip out of the house shoeless, with masterful bedheads, and breakfast smeared on their faces, and you don't even notice anymore. You are that mother. 

Sometimes it feels as if you aren't even an individual any more -- you've grown five (soon-to-be-six) extra (and largely helpless) pairs of arms and they're always clinging to you, five other mouths that your introvert self can't silence, five sets of elephant feet that won't let you (or anyone else) sleep a moment past your too-early-anyway alarm. People (adult people who are not your children) know you as Mom, not Rachel. You stand out in a crowd because you're that Duggar-wannabe with five kids under the age of nine trailing behind you like ducklings all in a row and "oh my gawd, another one on the way????" Your list of accomplishments might, some days, feel rather meager. Dinner, check! Showered, check! 

If it’s so hard, and it unquestionably is, how can they be true -- our hasty caveats that, despite it all, motherhood is the best experience of our lives? Are we all secretly longing for "the days before motherhood, the days that should have lasted forever?"

The truth? The truth isn't that motherhood is the best experience in our lives. The truth is that it might be, in reality, one of the most difficult experiences of our lives. It's far from glamorous. It's downright dirty work, this mothering. It's demanding and chaotic and full of sacrifices. And I'd be lying if I told you that I always liked the person I have become. In fact, most days, my failures and shortcomings mock me. I am my own worst critic. I've spent more than one Sunday morning talking myself into church attendance when my "Sunday best" felt more than a little ragged, the woman in the mirror an embarrassment to me. 

And therein, I believe, is the problem. I liked myself better then. I had higher self-confidence. I was good at Fill-in-the-Blank. Was I a better person? I can honestly say absolutely not. I am, without question, a better person Now than I was Then. (Which sometimes feels as if that's not saying very much.) Motherhood has an uncanny way of highlighting your shortcomings and demanding that you address them. And it’s tempting to spend most of your time focused on your failures rather than celebrating your strengths and that, too, is part of the growth, the challenge, the beauty of motherhood.

And so I wonder how to respond to this mother. 

Like most of my mothering, I am divided. Sometimes you get the gentle nurturer: Honey, you are not alone! And sometimes you get me, with eyebrows raised and lips thin: Put your big girl panties on and get back to your blessed life, for heaven’s sake.

We can't really know this mama's heart.

Maybe this mama is the product of an increasingly shallow American culture an earthly world that worships wealth, fame, beauty, instant celebrity, ease, selfishness, and isolation, humanity stuck in their adolescence with no mothers or fathers, no spiritual wisdom, to mentor them into a world that is Bigger Than Them. She sends her lost and desperate and selfish plea into the world, and the world whispers seductively in her ear: eat the apple.

On the other hand, maybe it was a moment, a really bad moment, a focused-on-your-failures moment. The kind of moment when you just want to give up, feel like maybe you should give up. You feel completely inadequate at mothering, more than a little lost, probably overwhelmed, and a lot selfish. You don’t want to look at another dirty dish or basket of laundry again. You want to own a pair of high heels, and look good in them. And you just want to vent to someone and have them accept you, love you, anyway. 

Either way, I want to hug her and whisper Grace, Mama. Grace. 

We don't have to be enough. God is enough. We don't have to be perfect. We just have to be our Selves. In the next ten, twenty, and thirty years, our children may be parents and they will need our authentic example to extend grace to themselves and those around them. 




I want to leave her, and her children and her grandchildren, and my children and grandchildren, with more than the apple, the emptiness, the failure, the whispers of the world that expects her to fail, that tries to tempt her away. I want to leave them all with more than my judgment and my thin lips, because I am no better. (And if she's like me, she can thin lip herself more harshly than anyone else anyway, if tough love is what she needs.)

I want to leave her, all of us, with the hope that I have, the joy, the purpose in this mothering gift. The knowledge and the encouragement that her mothering is purposeful. That it is part of a very real spiritual battle that takes place daily -- not between your laundry and mold, not between the bananas and the fruit flies, not between you and your child over spelling tests -- but between the One living inside of you and he who is living in the world, over our very souls. 

‘Cause I hear a voice and He calls me redeemed
When others say I’ll never be enough
And greater is the One living inside of me
Than he who is living in the world, In the world 

Bring your doubts
Bring your fears
Bring your hurt
Bring your tears
There’ll be no condemnation here
You are holy, righteous and redeemed

Every time I fall
There’ll be those who will call me
A mistake
Well that’s ok

There’ll be days I lose the battle
Grace says that it doesn’t matter‘
Cause the cross already won the war
~Mercy Me, "Greater," Welcome to the New album

I suspect that when women like myself call motherhood the "best experience," they do not actually mean that every moment is pure happiness. I bet there are days that they, too, want to run away, even if it's just to the grocery store for two hours by themselves, possibly with a non-paleo Starbucks white chocolate peppermint mocha Frappuccino that they don't have to share with anyone. (Gasp!) 

There are likely days they feel like a tremendous failure at this mothering gig, too--I literally despise Miss Spider because she is a constant cartoon reminder that I am not the mom I thought I would be, and I am convinced (paranoid?) she’s putting unrealistic visions of motherhood into my children’s heads. 

I suspect that what they mean, instead, is that motherhood is the "best experience" like a 45-minute workout is the "best experience." Or like naturally birthing your child was the "best experience." Or like four years of college and the accompanying papers, projects, and finals were the "best experience." Like a major diet change (strict paleo, anyone?) is the "best experience." Like homeschooling is the "best experience."Or sticking to a budget. 

Think for a moment of the most worthwhile changes you've made in your life -- the process is often difficult, painful, thankless, long, full of sacrifice but, in the end, you are changed for the better. The effort was worthwhile because you are in love with the life-change that resulted, and you wish everyone could have the same "best" experience. There might even be moments in the processes themselves, not just the outcomes, where you actually do experience joy and euphoria, in the midst of the pain and frustration: joy in the burning muscles, the ring of fire, the late night studying, the new recipes and resisting old ones, the ah-ha moments of understanding you get to witness as your child's love for learning grows. You find that you are 300% sold, in spite of the agony. The change, maybe even the experience in retrospect, is worth the hefty cost. 

The truth is that motherhood has the potential to become the best experience of our lives precisely because it is such a tremendous challenge. And while it might seem, on the surface, that we bear the scars of the battle -- in the form of messy hair buns, mommy-clothes, sleepless nights, and untidy kitchens -- these are just the proof that our values have changed for the better. We've spent years judging ourselves in a mirror for wrinkles, make-up, hair. Now we judge ourselves in the mirror of our children, in the tones of voice they learned from us, the words, phrases, facial expressions that are our very own, indications of the state of the heart (ours and theirs) and how these Little Ones will someday change the world. We are still critical of ourselves, but the flaws are harder to fix. And the flaws matter so much more. There's no "spot remover" for a quick temper. Often, we feel we aren't making much progress. And, to top it off, we are feeling down because we lost our temper over spilled milk and catch a glimpse of the fresh gray hairs, the dark circles, the missing mascara, judge ourselves by the old standards, and feel disgruntled toward the women we've become.

Do not be deceived, mama. Your calling is momentous. The joy within your reach. The importance palpable. You do a divine work. You stand in for our Creator, in the words that you say, the grace that you give, the love that you share while you live your mothering life. You will not emerge unscathed. But the promise is that neither will you emerge unchanged. And some days, you will see and know the fruit of your faithfulness in your children's lives, the impact of your sacrifices, your love, your grace, your words, your daily do-it-all-over-again.

And that is the best experience ever.

When we really stop to think about it, no amount of What Could Have Been could possibly compare.

Creator of Life, breathing through me, breathing through me
Author of words, speaking through me, speaking through me
Giver of grace, pouring from me, pouring from me
King of the earth, Loving through me, loving through me
~ Scattered Leaves, “Through Me,” Midsentence album