God’s Sneaky Way of Setting Us Free: My Messy Beautiful

I was born afraid.

Okay, I was born Much Afraid.

Much Afraid from the very start. In my earliest memories lie a consistent, uncomfortable knot in my stomach and a feeling that things would not work out very well. You see, my mother was and is mentally ill. She had my two brothers and I by the time she was 23-years-old. It wasn’t until I was in Grad school to become a Therapist where we were studying bipolar disorder that I realized the disease was what drove her bizarre behaviors. At that point she had lived 53 years undiagnosed, and I had lived 30 years afraid.

Early on in life I learned to take care of myself and my brothers. I also figured it was somehow my job to take care of my mom. My dad was an OB GYN and was gone a lot. We lived on the Navajo Reservation since he worked for the Public Health Service and it was a lonely time. Fear and Shame were my constant companions. I was deeply afraid to be “found out.” I felt unworthy, not lovable, and very alone. I worked hard to stay under the radar which resulted in severe perfectionism rearing it’s ugly head. When I was 16 I was sexually assaulted by someone I trusted. The knot of fear grew into full blown anxiety.

I was held captive in a prison of Shame and Fear and could see no way out.

God has a sneaky way of setting us Free. It usually happens when He lets us experience our worst nightmares. My freedom began with a prayer. I was married to a mentally ill man who struggled with alcoholism and sex addiction. I was 38 and desperate for freedom. I cried out to God to break the Generational Sin that had so bound me and my husband. I begged Him to break the sin that threatened to also bind my two children. The date was Saturday, April 10, 1999.

On April 11th I met with a woman experiencing demonic manifestations to do Deliverance Prayer to free her from the strongholds she was experiencing. Strangely, this was something God had led me into professionally, in addition to my work as a Therapist. In this session three of us prayed for her. It was an intense experience to say the least and the demons were stubborn about leaving this woman. Finally, she experienced a release. The woman fell forward, then lifted her head and looked me straight in the eye:

“The Generational Sin is broken with your children”

I fell out of my chair. This was the first time we had met!

Things I’ve learned: One, God hears every prayer. Two, be very careful what you pray for.

April 19, 1999 I was in between sessions checking my messages. I was half listening when I heard something about an affair with someone named Mike. I replayed the message and heard clearly that this woman was telling me she was having an affair with my husband, Mike. My body went cold. The knot grew into a violent wave of nausea. A sweet little family sat in my waiting room ready for their session. In a state of shock, I led them into my office, ‘cause that’s what I do. The session was a blur.

That night was what we call in the business “The Dark Night of the Soul.” I hadn’t realized I’d made a deal with God until it was broken. I screamed at Him, “I told you if this ever happened to me I couldn’t handle it!” I cried and screamed and cried and screamed all night. Finally, at some point in the night, little Much Afraid gave up the fight. I lay on my floor, praying to die. Little Much Afraid did die that night. A gentle voice spoke, “Dee Dee, when are you going to figure out, I AM all you have, but I AM all you need”. A weird peace came over me and I finally slept.

The next morning was April 20, 1999. After ugly crying all night, I got up and went to work, ‘cause that’s what I do. I was at my Littleton office that day. Just before noon, I began to hear sirens screaming, then helicopters flying overhead. My pager was going off again and again. My phone beeped with voicemail messages. I finally checked my messages and heard desperate voices, “There’s been a shooting at Columbine! We need you here now!” That day seems like a thousand years ago, and also like it happened yesterday.

I went to Leawood Elementary School where parents were sent to be reunited with their children. Someone slapped a name tag on me that said “Therapist” and sent me into a room where the parents had not yet heard from their children. All I could do was pray and cry with them. I later found out that those were the parents of children that had been killed in the shootings.

I knew one of the moms from church. She was a delightful, funny woman and her daughter was missing. She was alternately, calm and hysterical. “I know she’s okay, she’s hiding in a room in the library waiting for us to get her.” “She’s dead…she’s dead!” At one point as I was praying with her she looked up with desperation in her eyes and choked, “I told God if this ever happened to me I couldn’t handle it.” The deal she thought she had with God was broken. Again, my body went cold. Unlike this woman, I did not lose a child. Both of us would somehow survive this nightmare. I saw firsthand that God would use my brokenness to help others in their brokenness. All the shame and fear I had experienced up to this point had finally lost their power. But I wasn’t free. God had one more big lesson before I would truly experience freedom.

March 2004 was a sweet time. After a devastating divorce three years earlier, I was happily married to a wonderful man named Tom. My children were 16 and 19, but sadly had not had contact with their dad for two years. We weren’t even sure where he was.

Tom and I were a part of an awesome community that met on Sunday nights to pray. During the middle of prayer, my phone started buzzing repeatedly. I excused myself to listen to the message.

“Dee Dee, this is Veronica. Mike was just admitted to the hospital. He’s dying. You have to come.”

Veronica, who was part of our prayer community, happened to be working at the hospital that night. She was a nurse, and recognized Mike’s name on the board.  I later learned that when asked if there was next-of-kin to notify of hospitalization, Mike sad no. Veronica risked her job that night by calling me. I phoned my kids and we all headed to the hospital.

When we arrived, Mike was lying in a hospital bed heavily sedated. He looked like Hell. He had been found in a Halfway House, hemorrhaging violently and vomiting blood everywhere. Though he was conscious, he was intubated and unable to speak.

My kids both went bravely into his room. I could hear them saying they loved him and forgave him for all he had done. I sat outside the room so proud of them for their incredible grace. I could feel the nudging of God to go in and pray for Mike.

“No” I said out loud. “I have no desire to pray for him.”

The kids came out of the room and I played tug-of-war with God for a few minutes. God won.

Angrily, I went into Mike’s room. I started a half-hearted prayer and was overcome with a powerful wave of hatred and betrayal. I was shaking. ‘I can’t pray for him,’ I thought. ‘I hate him. I hate that he was such a shitty husband. I hate that he chose alcohol and other women over me and my kids. I hate that he ignored healing and redemption. I hate that my kids have to deal with their dad dying. And I really hate that I think he’s going to Heaven. He doesn’t deserve Heaven! He was an asshole. Mike never did anything good in his life and you’re probably going to welcome him to Heaven with open arms, ‘cause that’s what You do.’

I stopped and looked at Mike. He looked awful. His skin was yellow. His body was bloated. He was 43-years-old and he was dying. In that moment I could feel God’s profound compassion. Mike was tormented his whole life and he would finally be free. Mike would be with the Lord, I was certain. I felt the rejoicing of the Lord in my spirit – and – I felt deep remorse and shame for my own shitty self. Who am I to judge him? Are my sins of condemnation and judgment any better than Mike’s sins? Do I think I somehow “deserve” Heaven? Wow…I really never understood that whole Grace thing before. I begged God to forgive me for my self-righteousness, for my “cleaner” sins, for my pride and arrogance  assuming I somehow deserved God’s favor more than Mike.

God’s perfect undeserved Grace truly set me free.

It’s been a long journey, but I think I get it now. Or, at least I’m starting to get it. God has provided wisdom and freedom in His artfully sneaky ways. God has demolished Fear and Shame in my life and given me grace when I didn’t deserve it, He’s broken the Generational Sin. Two days ago, my son and his wife welcomed their baby girl into the world. Avery Frances. Her name means Wise and Free. She is. We are.

[This blog also appears on Momastrey.com’s Messy Beautiful Warriors Project]