Forever After

I married at 21 years old.  I believed I knew exactly what I was doing because being married for life and having six children is what I had always wanted. And he was my “best friend.”

And we were Christian.

My father had married seven times, and had eight daughters. I was one of six daughters he had with my mother, his second wife.

My inner vow, then, was that divorce would never be an option for me. My conversion to Christianity at 20 years old reinforced that inner vow.

We argued often. And long. Oh, those arguments would last hours…not because I liked to argue (one accusation he always threw at me, but which was so very false), but because the misunderstanding preceding any of those arguments “emasculated” him.

We married anyway. As I said, he was my best friend at the time, and I had always heard my dad say of his seventh marriage that he married his best friend, so….yeah.

We’d done all the appropriate things as a young married couple in Christ: served in many capacities in ministry, attended every church service, conducted ourselves as disciples of Christ by avoiding corrupt speech, not allowing the enemy to corrupt our eye-gates, our ear-gates, or our hearts by remaining firmly rooted in the Word of God

We raised our children in the fear of the Lord, leading by example.

It wasn’t until 20 years into our marriage that I understood how literal – and how destructive to our children – was that example.

I feared my husband when he was angry. He never struck me, but he was so frightening when he yelled. And he always yelled over me when I tried to speak during his rages. If ever he had to leave during an argument because of a music gig, he always returned angrier than before. Stepping away never calmed him down. We argued more when he returned, often after he “awoke” me (couldn’t sleep, but tried) to yell some more.

Fear the man of the house.

When our children weren’t seeing our arguments, they were hearing them. Sometimes it was them he was angry with – or with just one of them – but they all had to sit and suffer through the rage.

Fear the father.

I usually backed him up because “that’s what a good Christian wife is supposed to do.” Sometimes I’d plead the case of one of our children, but he’d shout me down about how a house divided cannot stand and that our children would suffer for not seeing their parents united.

The last few years of our marriage, our oldest spiraled downward into a suicide plan that nearly came to pass; our second born could not express her emotions without being chastised for doing it “inappropriately”; our third-born was prescribed anti-anxiety meds for what everyone thought was just an anxious personality type, and our youngest children just observed and learned to fly under the rage radar.

One afternoon, nearly 23 years into our marriage, I decided to fear no longer, and I grew a spine. I had spoken something, and he angrily said, “When you said this, you meant that.”

To which I responded, “I am done doing this. I am done arguing with you about what I mean when I say something. You can think what you wish, but I am telling you that you do not get to tell me one more time what it is I mean when I say something.”

Months passed, and during those months our second-born was in an on-again, off-again relationship with a manipulative, emotionally abusive fellow. I had been allowing myself to consider divorce, but felt like I could stick it out until our youngest was older.

Until…

One day, after our second told me she had gotten back together again with her emotionally abusive boyfriend, one of her brothers asked, “Why do you keep going back to him?”

Her reply:“You stick together and work it out. It’s just what you do. Look at Mommy and Papa.”

Holy. Crap. That was when I knew. I didn’t want my daughters to follow what I had modeled, allowing their life partners to treat them as I had allowed myself to be treated. Nor did I want my sons to find life partners who fit the example modeled by their mom. It wasn’t okay.

I divorced their dad.

And that daughter kicked that boyfriend to the curb and has healthy relationship boundaries.

Inadvertently, we discovered that our third born no longer needed anti-anxiety meds. Once we scheduled the follow-up for the new prescription, we learned he was free of anxiety.

And our home is calm. A place of solace as it has never been.

Yes, I’m okay with divorce.  It’s just that my “Forever After” came…after.

©Aja Hart, 10.29.15

Sing Me To Sleep

Last night I was up way later than I should have been. But I was on a roll, getting things done around the house that I had been unable to accomplish all week.

I reluctantly climbed into bed around 3:15 AM with the second-story window slightly open. Then……singing?

Singing birds.

It kept me up for awhile, not because it annoyed me but because I had to wonder what kind of birds sing like that two full hours before the sun rises.

Was it the way the nearly-full moon lit the cloudless sky that caused this song of the night? Did they perceive the well-lit sky as that of the pre-dawn?

I slipped into a sleep comtemplating this and the previous night’s “serenade”: coyotes.

Our second-story window had been slightly open and within minutes of closing my eyes, a pack of coyotes began howling, jolting my girly-cat, Istas, from her sound sleep. Once the maniacal howling stopped, she lay back down at my feet and settled once again into that serious sleep zone, only to be jolted awake by the howling coyotes a few minutes later. I closed the window. I was too tired to hear that all night, too disturbed by wondering why they were howling…

Had this happened other nights? Had I been deaf to these serenades before?

How limited-scope of me to suppose that God’s creation sings only during the daylight hours!

Coyotes, birds…and likely others I’ve failed to notice. Different languages, different songs, but one Creator.

Choruses of praises or cries for help, wafting through the air to any listening ears — or to no ears at all — using the voice given them to speak, sing,  what they must.

They sang me to sleep. 🙂

© Alexa lopez 2008

Following Not So Well

My older sister Jolè used to do this one thing with my younger sister and me. She would drive around our little town while the two of us lay down in the reclined seat with our eyes closed. We had to pay close attention to the turns and straightaways, and she would have us guess “where are we now?” It was so simple yet so much fun. We were together. And we didn’t have to think about trusting our older sister…..we just did. It didn’t freak us out that we could not see where we were going. We knew we were safe wherever we went with her.

Well, life lately is this journey that is less an adventure than it is a fearsome executing of hairpin turns on a mountain road in a three-wheeled vehicle.

Who in her right mind would remain on such a journey?

I would. I am belted in securely…no chance of being ejected or thrown from this vehicle called “That’s Life.” I trust that no matter how uncertain things are, they would be infinitely hopeless without faith.

And so I remain a sojourner on a zero-visibility route to wherever it is I am going. I know that even 100% visibility would hinder my way; I would trust my ability to follow my Lord more than I would trust His ability to lead me. Surely the result would be less than wonderful. His leading is perfect; and my following……not so much.

Traveling this road with my husband — my best friend — and our children makes the journey less terrifying, if only just a bit. We survive the anxiety of life’s blind curves by sharing laughter, finding moments of value in simply being together. We find respite in one another’s company, relishing the distraction from what swirls around us.

We white-knuckle the journey as a family, emerging from the back side of each trial with a “Whew, we made it,” a few high-fives and lots of “Hallelujahs.”

If I don’t see where I’m going, I’ll count myself blessed. If nothing else, it’s a pleasant reminder of a great sister who taught me how to trust.

© Alexa Lopez 2008

Heritage as an Inheritance

I didn’t feel important to my dad. I felt cherished from time to time — like in those times when he said things like “you’re Daddy’s girl” or when he made certain to kiss me goodnight when he was home, or when he fought my mom for custody of us (my mom loved us enough to let us go), his two youngest daughters. That was until I realized that though he did the best he could with what he had, his priorities in life betrayed the words he spoke to us.

His pain in life brought him to a place where he was blind to the pain he inflicted on others, and he refused to admit that there was room for change. Even when he had opportunity to grow as a person, he enjoyed instead the comfort of his bubble and everyone it shut out.

I am a grown woman today, with five children of my own. I am only now discovering how deep is my distrust for God. I understand fully that it is my responsibility as an adult to determine how I act rather than use my crappy childhood as an excuse for my failures and shortcomings. It is a daily struggle; I welcome the challenge. I want to grow.

I look upon my children numerous times each day and pray I am doing right by them. I hope they always find warmth in their memories of home and not sorrow when they reflect upon their childhoods.

Each day my ability to trust God as a Father and trust others in general is a challenge because I never knew a promise kept. Each day I am faced with the fear that my children will struggle in their belief the way I have in mine.

Even as a child I was aware that my dad’s mind was always elsewhere. Those days when he was not flying his commercial jet, while he was present in body, he was absent.

It may seem as though I’m whining. On the contrary, I’ve learned a lot and I can make the future of our children count for something. I can use it all for good.

How significant is an earthly dad’s nurturing to the faith of a child.

Our family may not be wealthy or able to do much materially for our children, but perhaps that in itself, while frustrating, is a blessing! May I never lose sight of the heritage I attempt to create for my kids. If I had to choose between a heritage and an inheritance, heritage wins. In the long run, I can honestly say that is what matters.

© Alexa Lopez 2008