Visits home are always a mixed bag of joy and of pain. While I travel with anticipation to see my family, and return glad that I have, I never leave without a feeling of deep and lingering sadness.
To explain this, I need only to state that the nineteen years of my growing up and living at home were long years of nearly unadulterated horror. They left me a numbed and twisted ruin of a human being. The story of my redemption is a miracle in itself. But not now.
None of my siblings (we are five) has emerged unscathed. All of us have dealt with the fallout in different ways. Some have experienced more than others the grace of God to heal. Others are still grappling with the darkness. All of us, no matter the extent of the healing, will carry the scars of our memories till our deaths. If healing is allowed, these scars become our strengths. Unallowed, they will bleed and cripple us forever. . .
And so, I cry as I talk to my youngest sister and she tells me she is still cutting herself to deal with emotional stress. I suffer as she tells me that our father insults her singing and won't attend her events (she is a very gifted vocalist). "But I guess we all want our parents' approval," she tells me as I try to counsel her that it is his issue, not hers. I weep as I watch her take that quest for approval to boy after boy who abuses and mistreats her. I hurt as I hear her recount that the one person who used to listen to her and mentor her, has stopped. "He was the only one who knew everything about me," she said. "And if he rejected me, why won't everyone do the same?" I shake my head as she tells me that her Christian counsellor reduced her to monthly instead of weekly meetings, and that she has decided to stop going altogether. A well-meant Christian friend has suggested that she see a Christian psychotherapist. And I am angry because I know that none of these things are the answer.
We talked about darkness. The conversation began with her confession that she reads her horoscope and once played with a ouija board. She shared with me her nightmares. Her sense of an unseen and malignant Presence in the darkness of our parents' house. Yes, as a Christian I believe in the demonic. I have experienced God's power to deliver, and I have no more fear of those spooks. I know they must bow the knee to Jesus' name, that I have his authority and they cannot touch me. But she has no defense.
I prayed over her, and her room. I commanded evil things to flee, and asked for God's presence. Inside I cry, "How long?" I am reminded in my temptation to discouragement of all that God has done for me and my siblings. How far we have come, and the fact that he is still in control. That my family has not seen the last page by far. That the darkness is not the reality, and the brilliant blaze of his love and power is. So I pray for them. Because I have seen him do mighty things, and I want to see more. In the end, the evil one will not have his way, even if some choose death over life. I rejoice in knowing that love is stronger and will triumph over any obstacles, even the most impossible situations. That's my God.
. . .love is as strong as death,
its jealousy unyielding as the grave.
It burns like blazing fire,
like a mighty flame.
Song of Songs 8:6