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(excerpted
from Real Teens, Real Stories, Real Life
ISBN
1589195000)
copyright,
2002, T. Suzanne Eller
The
small church was crowded. All around me people worshiped
a god that I didn’t believe existed. Why was I there?
My neighbor asked me to come. To be honest, I thought
they would leave me alone if I did.
I
wasn’t sure what to expect. I had attended services with
my family a few times, but it was more of a ritual or
a way to celebrate holidays. What I hadn’t anticipated
was the wetness pressed against my eyelids as I clenched
them shut.
My motto? Never them let them see you cry. I wasn’t about
to break down in front of people I didn’t know. I wasn’t
crying because I felt the presence of God or that I sensed
his love for me. I fought tears because I was mad, so
angry that I shook inside. How dare the preacher stand
there and talk about the love of God. It was easy for
him and people like him to spout off about a God who
existed, who had a purpose for every person. Well, maybe
their God had taken a personal interest in them but he
didn’t live at my house.
The
mother I am about to share with you is the not the mom
I have now. You see, she had an encounter with God, and
he brought her out of the darkness of emotional pain
and healed her. In order to share my story, I have to
share a little bit of hers as well.
My
mom left home at 16 years old, pregnant and newly married
to a boy who thought he was a man. She lost her first
baby to cystic fibrosis when the toddler was less than
two years old. She had her second child at 18 and left
her husband at the age of 21. He came to visit her one
night and forced her to have sex. She discovered two
weeks later she was pregnant.
I
was that baby.
Mom
married a good man who loved her and the two little kids
that came as a package deal. But in spite of this turn
of events, my mom was fragile. Like stained glass, she
was pretty on the outside, but the broken pieces of her
life created the portrait.
Growing
up, I never knew what to expect. Would it be the mom
who brought home suckers to surprise us, or the woman
who spouted horrific things as she ran out the door and
threatened to kill herself? There was physical abuse
and apologies. There were humiliating punishments, harsh
words, and tearful requests for forgiveness.
Please
don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t always bad in my home,
but when it was it was loud and chaotic and frightening.
I feared one day that my mom would pull the trigger or
hurt herself. I hated the words that came out of her
mouth when she was angry.
One
day my mom chased me through the house, brandishing an
umbrella as she screamed at me. I ran out the door and
into the rain. I was wearing a T-shirt and jeans and
no shoes. The cold rain pelted me as I ran down Latimer
Street. I pushed through the wetness, pumping my arms
as I ran as fast as I could. Finally I stopped, bending
down to catch my breath as my tears meshed with the raindrops.
I slowly turned around and walked home, sat on the curb,
and wept until my throat closed.
I
was stuck. I couldn’t run away. I had no money, no place
to go. I was 13 years old. Where could I go?
I
started smoking at the bus stop, pushing boundaries with
my teachers, and drinking with my best friend. My attempts
to be tough must have appeared hilarious to others. I
was skinny to a fault and looked younger than my age.
Being tough didn’t come natural. My heart was gentle
and I hated conflict and fighting, yet every single time
I let my guard down someone hurt me.
Angry
words all sharp and pointy, a knife in my soul.
That’s
when the hardness crept in. Never let them see you cry.
Never give them a chance to know you care.
One
day it all came to a head. My mom pulled us around her
in her bedroom. She put a gun to her head and threatened
to shoot herself. I was scared, but not because I thought
she would die, but because under my breath I whispered, “just
do it”.
Who
was this person I was becoming?
Two
years later I stood in the little church. The pastor
sang, strumming on the guitar as people knelt at the
altar. “He loves you,” he said. “He has a plan for your
life.”
Yeah,
right. I pointed my chin at the sky, my eyes closed,
and I challenged this God of which he spoke. “If you
are real,” I whispered, “and I don’t believe you are,
but if you exist and you know me and you love me like
he says, I need to know.”
I
expected nothing, yet I received everything as a tender
touch reached past my hardened heart. I’ve had trouble
explaining this moment to people over the years. “Did
you see God?” No. “Did you feel God’s presence?” Yes,
but so subtle and deep inside of me, touching areas that
I had closed long ago to anybody, that I knew it was
God.
Tears
broke and streamed down my cheeks and for the first time
in a long time I wept. I felt as if He had wrapped me
in a warm blanket, enclosing me in his love. I stumbled
from the church. I ran home and told my mom that I had
just got “saved”, though I really didn’t understand what
had occurred.
Did
everything magically change? No. My circumstances were
still the same, but everything was different on the inside
of me.
I
made mistakes, huge blunders as I tried to learn what
it meant to follow Jesus as my Savior. I wasn’t perfect,
but I understood his love. I knew I wanted to know more.
The people of that little church ministered to me in
ways they will never understand. There were times I wept
at the altar and then went home to chaos. There were
times I fell in my walk with Christ and their gentle
encouragement helped me to keep going.
It
is amazing what can happen when God restores a broken
life. It can be beautiful like the portrait that my mom
is now, the shattered pieces of her life assembled together
in a beautiful picture of God’s mercy.
Today
I am a mom, an author, a speaker, and a wife. I have
the opportunity to minister to teens and women across
the nation, sharing the story of my life and the beauty
of purpose and the fact that God loved us from the beginning.
My mother and father were saved when I was in my junior
year of high school. I found a note from my dad under
my pillow one day. I still carry it with me, the tattered
pieces a reminder of what God has done. My quiet father,
who very rarely shared the depth of his emotions, said
in that letter, “I have watched you and I see that you
have something that is of great worth, a treasure. I
know that it is real and I admire you for your faith
and your love for God.”
We
have never spoken of that letter, but it came at a time
when I prayed for a sign. “God, show me that you hear
my prayers. Heal my family. Let me know that you are
listening.” The folded piece of paper under my pillow
was heaven sent and priceless.
For
years my mom and I have been best of friends. She is
compassionate, loving, and whole, and the memories of
our past are forgiven and forgotten.
Today
I am still running after the same God that touched my
life when I was 15. I always tell my teen audiences that
one day I’ll be an old woman running after God with my
walker. You see, he’s done a million things for me. He’s
been with me through difficult times, but my love for
him will always be wrapped around that first moment when
he reached down to an angry, hurting, skinny 15-year
old teenager and silently whispered that he loved me.
I
still can’t help but whisper back, “I love you too”.
T.
Suzanne Eller is the author of Real
Teens, Real Stories, Real Life. She can be
reached at tseller@daretobelieve.org or http://daretobelieve.org.
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