Dancing With Darkness

I seem to m to have writer's block when it comes to putting on paper about my aunt, my second mother, Dora. It has been more than two months, and still I seem besieged by an avalanche of horror, nightmares and darkness.

But I will try.
No pictures.
Just black and white.
Stark desolation.

This woman was a professed Christian. An extremely judgmental Christian.

1 Peter 5:8

Keep your mind clear, and be alert. 

Your opponent the devil is prowling around

like a roaring lion as he looks for

someone to devour.

2 Timothy 4::17

But the Lord stood by me and strengthened

me, so that through me the message would be

fully proclaimed, and all the Gentiles would hear it.

So I was delivered from the mouth of the lion.

It took me until I was 35 years old to come to the realization of the Truth, as found in both these scriptures.  The bedrock of rejection and self-loathing was firmly in place - first with my natural mother, and then with Dora.

There were things about her youth, which I heard about as an adult. It made easier to forgive her. I am so thankful  the Lord helped me through that, even though she said and did things against me over and over again, right up to when she died. It wasn't just me who felt her maliciousness, it was other members in the family and her foster children.

Yes.  Foster children.  The State of Michigan declared her an unfit mother and took my sister and me away from her; placed us in an orphanage, then a foster home until we ere once again adopted.  In the meantime, our records were filed with the state Humane Society. Are you surprised?  Well, it is true.  While she went on to foster children, for pay, for the state. Some were special needs children.

How do I describe her?  In her youth she was pretty, with blond hair and blue eyes. Men found her attractive; she always had men.  Yet, her smile never reached her eyes. Her eyes were shrewd and always calculating. She never missed church, yet there was nothing Biblical in her home, nor about her. She was 100% self-serving; if she didn't get something out of a thing, she wanted no part of it.

Harold was her husband, and such a sweet man.  She left him for a hoodlum by the name of Bud.  (I believe tt was she and Bud who took us in the car that rainy night.)  Bud was a small time gangster, who had spent time in prison. My aunt met him while out drinking, while Harold was at work.  I was there. I saw and heard it. Bud was a good looking man, and a dashing dresser.  Harold was a simple blue collar worker, a Christian and a man who adored his wife.  Dora chose Bud. She took us with her, though she had applied for adoption of us with Harold.

Our time together, for two-three years was living in a converted corn crib in the middle of a corn field, on a farm. It was partitioned into three squares: two bedrooms, and a kitchen. We used an outhouse.  We used a pump for water. We used a galvanized tub for a sink. There was no insulation in the house. The room my sister and I shared barely had room for a twin bed. The bed had broken, rusted springs for its base, with a mattress and one sheet. The mattress had a large hole in the middle big enough for a child to fall through; we wrapped our arms around the edge of the mattress to keep from falling through.

The bedroom was dark; black. And we could hear the violence and love making through the thin walls. Bud was a drunk. A bully. A beater of women and men, and children.  And he had a lovely, deeply soft  voice, but Bud was very scary..

ALLIGATORS UNDER MY BED

Bud wanted  nothing to do with sister or me. We moved into the shed at the end of summer, and it was beautiful on the farm. At that time my sister was in kindergarten, and went to a small, one room country schoolhouse about a mile from where we lived.  I would walk with her in the morning, to a grove of pines and watch her go into the school.  We were accompanied by a beautiful Border Collie by the name of Lady.  She, and my sister were anchors in my world. After I left my sister I would head back to the farm, and spend my time with Lady. Eventually I would see Bud's car speed away, and I would head back to the shed. I always hoped he would leave scraps of meal, so I could have something to eat. Dora would always chase me back outside, scolding me for getting dirt on the floors. Sometimes, Dora wouldn't be there; she went with Bud, leaving me at the shed alone.

Lady and I would walk back to the pines and wait for my sisters.  Together we would wander and hope for something to eat, until we got back to the shed. Dora would pull together meager scraps for us, but we were never full.

When Bud returned it was time for them to go out. To bars.. My sister and I sat in the back seat, and were told to lay down on the seats. We were told if we saw any "niggers" (sorry, their words, not mine) we were to drop to the floor of the car, because if "they" saw us they would kill us. We spent many nights like that.

Back at home, every night, Bud would make us go to our room and close the door. We were instructed to say there until they let us out in the morning.  Then through the door we would hear the scraping of something heavy, a creaking door, and heavy treads on the floor. "I've let the alligators out, and if you dare get down from that bed, they will eat you up!"

Every night I heard those words, terror filled my heart. I was so little! What if I accidentally fell through the mattress?  I wrapped my arms tight around the mattress, each night and held on for dear life. I would weep and ask God to protect me. If I dozed off, I would awaken with a start, my heart beating fast in terror.

To this day I have dreams about sliding down embankments into alligator pits.

I find I am unable to write any more today.  I will continue this in another, edited writing of this segment.

DEUTERONOMY 31:21

And when many evils and troubles have come upon them,

[the doers and planers of evil] this song shall confront them as a

witness (for it will live unforgotten in the mouths of their

offspring). For I know what they are inclined to do..

MATTHEW 10:19-20

Do not worry about what to say or how to say it. At that time

you will be given what to say, for it will not be you speaking. but

the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.

Mother, May I?

I haven't written much about fathers thus far, because they were so noticeably absent from my life. It would be so much easier if I were the one who slammed the doors, then I could chat about my motives, but the truth is they were the ones who slammed the door. And while I have some areas of discussion to cover about them, they will just have to wait a bit. For now, I want to talk about mothers - my mothers and my own motherhood. This is going to hurt, and may take me a bit to get through. Yet, start I must.  So with your permission, mother, may I?

It is now several days later, and my mind goes 'round and 'round.  I pray. I seek. I read what my sisters in Christ have written. I know I must write things as I experienced them, and how they affected my own motherhood, and many of my life decisions.

The truth is my birth mother threw me away.  She wrote a letter to me many years later, hoping I would forgive her and understand.  I have forgiven her, but it is beyond me to understand.  I wasn't her only child.  I was her fourth child, and she was pregnant with her first child in her new family. She had three more children. She never gave any of them away. And so she wrote me a letter.  I wonder what I was supposed to do with it, other than read it and forgive her. Probably nothing.  Probably the Lord wanted me to be free of the heavy load of wondering my whole life what I had done wrong. Wondering why He had created me too ugly that nobody would want me.  Wondering. Confused. Anxious. Yet, somehow stronger for my personal battles within.  I had few months with her, months filled with caution on both our parts.  Certainly she displayed no generous mother's love towards me.  My siblings didn't help, as there were established relationships there, and I was definitely an intruder. When she passed away, my siblings set about dividing up her goods. They told me I could have anything I wanted, as long as I paid for it.  She did love those children she kept, and I am thankful the Lord allowed me some time to put to rest all the questions I had. For it was God who gave me the strength and healing.

A week after my birth mother's death I received a letter in the mail from my eldest sister, Nettie.  It was two pages long, and in the letter she explained how I was responsible for her mother's death by coming back where I wasn't wanted. One exact passage I will never forget:  You are nothing short of a murderer. You might as well taken a butcher knife and stabbed her in the heart. You are so evil, and nobody wants you around.

The rest of the family thought i should just learn to live with the poison. This was just one example of many hateful things propagated by Nettie, and supported by other family members.  Even while my mother was alive, she saw no reason not to aceede to Nettie's viturperative attitude towards me.  My mother always yielded to whatever Nettie said or did. As time passed, it only grew to untenable proportions.

My husband and I were already making plans to move across country  to Oregon.  We were able to accomplish our move in 1985.

It is once again several days since I have approached this writing. One thing I have come to understand is that I cannot integrate each mother into one telling. I must divide them into their own space and time in my writing.  God will not let me skim over them.  What I learned about love, rejection, self-worth and womanhood, I learned from my mothers. In my writing I must try to find good, and free myself of and bitterness.  In my dreams I could never have imagined how deep and hurtful writing about my mothers would be.  I had thought the pain would come from [absence of] my fathers, but no.  My fathers taught me about rejection. I am learning the real pain, my foundational cracks come from my mothers.

No matter where this takes me, I am left with this from my Bible reading today:

     Proverbs 23:22-25 

Listen to your father who begot you,

And do not despise your mother when he is old.

Buy the truth, and do not sell it,

Also wisdom and instruction and understanding.

The father of the righteous will greatly rejoice,

And he who begets a wise child will delight in him.

Let your father and your mother be glad,

And let her who bore you rejoice.

Jennie Baker Allen Jones ca. 1928

Gone But Not Forgotten

I was awakened last night by a familiar ache, sharp and demanding, from a place deep in my heart.  A place I rarely visit in these, my old days.  Yet, every now and then the door to that long ago heartbreak opens, and I remember to pray for them.

My daughters.

Cheryl Lynn and Cathy Anne.

It was 1971, and my then husband and I had adopted these beautiful sisters through Los Angeles County, state of California.  They were five and four when we brought them home, and they were now six and five.  Dark brown hair and blue eyes, bouncing energy and perky smiles, they were the culmination of all I had hoped for.

But, today. On this day the end of all my hopes and dreams was at hand. I was returning them to the State. I was giving them back. It was over. I had failed. My husband had failed. I just can't write it here. What I saw. How wrong and selfish I had been to bring them into this house, to satisfy my longing, my needs. There was no other step but to return them, so they might have lives of love and joy.  Not lies.

I wanted a good marriage, a happy family.  I wanted it so badly, my mind refused to accept things as they really were.  I had a husband who was a alcoholic, who had stayed sober for more than two years so we might adopt a family.  A man who had at least 36 affairs in the time we were married, whose every thought and word was convoluted to suit his heart. I had thought I could change it, and believed I had.

Until that night.  When I had awakened and he was gone, and his car was gone. I never heard him come home, my mind was so busy racing with what steps would I take next. For I knew it was all over.  So I arose in the morning to check on the girls, and found the eldest wrapped around my husband.  He looked to be naked.  I threw the bed covers off them, yelling for him to get up and get out.  I noted he wasn't naked, but was wearing under shorts as he staggered from the room.

Even so, the girls were going back. I knew there was drinking and abuse ahead, and I couldn't allow it to happen to him. So here I sat with Cathy on my lap, hugging me tightly and begging me to let her stay.  We rocked and sang, and cuddled and kissed until the doorbell rang. it was time for them to go. Getting belonging stashed in the car, lat second hugs and kisses.  Hold the tears, hold the tears. It is amazing how quickly people can be there and then be gone from your life.  They were there. They were gone. So suddenly. My husband was gone, had been gone. I didn't know where, and I didn't care.

I turned to the room and did a nose dive into black despair.  It was as though I was sucked into a vortex of illness  and trying to cling to sanity. So much of the following year is a blur, just a memory of pain. I was extremely ill, and my weight plummeted to 95 pounds. My husband and I no longer spoke, as I packed my car and left California. I drank and partied in a frenzy the next few months. I couldn't eat; I couldn't  sleep. I buried myself in the neon playground. I divorced my husband, and settled in to live with a man who was to become the father of my son. And still, nothing seemed to touch me, yet it all burned me. I was just so lost.

It was at Christmas time, a year later when I received a letter from the caseworker. She had included a picture of the girls.  She thanked me for my generous heart is being sure these girls found a good, stable home. Their foster parents and three older siblings were adopting them. She concluded by telling me how much the girls still loved me, and wanted their hair to grow like mine, and for Christmas to get "granny gowns" like what I wore.  They wished me a happy Christmas.

And there they were.  Hair long and pulled back on top, with tiny angel curls around their face.  They were smiling from ear-to-ear in their new gowns.  They were no longer mine, except for that special place in my heart.

The picture is gone, the letter is gone and the girls will be in their 50's now. And every once in awhile Jesus awakens me with their memory, and I get to recall that year I called them mine. He has called me to pray for them, and so I do. Then I take their memory, fold it neatly, and tuck it away in my safe place, where nothing can bruise them.

I peeked in to say "goodnight, and then I saw my child in prayer.
"Please, dear God bring me some ribbons, scarlet ribbons for my hair."
"Oh, dear Lord, I have no money" I cried out in wans rsad despair.
"She wants ribbons, lovely ribbons, scarlet ribbons for her hair."
Through the night my heart was breaking, just before the dawn was wakening.
I peeked in and on her pillow, in gay profusion lying there,
I saw lovely little ribbons, scarlet ribbons for her hair.
If I live to be a hundred, I will never know from where
Came all those lovey little ribbons, scarlet ribbons for her hair.

...seeing I had lost my children and was desolate, an exile, 
and driven about? and who hath brought up these?
...behold, I was left alone.  Isaiah 49:21

My Tears Are Hidden By Rain

Today is my 75th birthday. By all odds, I shouldn't be alive to write this. So many skirmishes with the devil over the years, for my life. I have often wondered what has him in such a lather. Then I look at my children and grandchildren loving and serving the Lord. There are 12 of us in direct line reaching out to the Lord, and helping share the Good News. Then there are the spouses' families. We are an army of the Lord:

Kevin P. Rowe

Linda (Sunny) Rowe

R. Jason Rowe

Angelene Harrison Rowe!

Wynter Rowe Corcoran

Noah Corcoran

Ryan (Ry) RoweThe

Christian Rowe*

Colby Rowe

Jonathyn Rowe Corcoran

Ethan Rowe

Tanner Rowe

*Christian Rowe m. MacKenzie Spillman Rowe 2017

We are now a baker's dozen!

Children are such a blessing, aren't they? Gifts on loan from God.  That's what you would think, anyway, but sadly this is too often not true.  What do we do about the children who are violently abused because of their very existence? What do we do about children who are starving and left to find whatever they can?  What do we do about children who are taken for trafficking?  What do we do about the millions of aborted children in our country?  Where is God in all this? What do we do when we don't understand?

1 Corinthians 13:12 

Now we see things imperfectly, lie puzzling reflectoins

in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity.

All I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know

everything completely just as God now knows me completely.

These horrendous things are not God's plan, and we must trust God and stand on that. It is the work of satan, roaming to and fro, devouring whom he can. We must remember that the spirits are always in God's domain, with the Holy Spirit standing by for protection.

1 Corinthians 13:11

When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like

a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I

put away childish things.

God not only wants us to have our childhoods, it is the desire of His heart. He wants us to grow in Him, through trust and faith, just like our little children grow under our tutelage. He is our place of safety, just as He expects us to be our children's place of safety. They should be able to run to us when they are frightened, and expect to receive understanding, love and security.  In a perfect world.  And that is what God created. It is satan and the sin of man which have brought us to a state of blurred love and hate.   Where does a child go when they are endangered, abused, wounded and afraid, when they can't go to their parents?  They are to young to reason out anything but survival.  Love is the gold ring from a merry-go-round. I believe, with all my heart the Lord does not hold the children responsible, for they have not yet come to a place of accountability.

We were staying in a house next an old school, and playground. The house was covered by tar paper.  I don't know "who" we were, when I say "we".  I only remember three things about that house: Seeing my father, Wilson Allen at the back door, bringing food, but not coming inside.  Sitting with my beloved Uncle Edward at the kitchen table, staring and the rain and sharing a piece of toast with him And finally, the place where "it" happened.

I was very young, not older than four years old. I had no toys, so I was doing my usual thing of exploring the yard, and the school yard, from behind the fence which surrounded it. An older boy, a teenager came riding across the school yard on a beautiful silver bicycle, I jumped up and down, clapping my hands in glee.  After awhile he swung the bike over by where I stood behind the fence.  "Do you like my bike?" He asked me.  I nodded my head vigorously up-and-down. He then asked if I had ever ridden on a bicycle (I hadn't). He rode around some more, and skidded to a stop in front of me.

"Maybe, I'll give you a ride sometime. Would you like that?"

I clasped my hands in joy. "Oh, yes, yes," screamed!

But, he just rode off. I felt crushed; I so wanted to ride on that bicycle.  I was soon back to puttering around the yard, planning on someday climbing that big tree over there, calling to the birds, looking for squirrels  Day dreaming.  Suddenly, up the alley came the boy with a group of his friends.  He was the only one on a bike. and they approached me from the area behind the wood shed. They were all grinning, and seemed very excited.

"Are you a scaredy-cat?" The boy asked me. I was fierce. I was strong. If I was ever afraid, I would never show it. "No, I'm not."  The boys joked among themselves, teasing me about being a baby and a scardey-cat. They did what boys do, pushed at each other, then tried to tickle me. 

"Do you still want to ride the bike?"  I nodded my head. "Well, you can have a ride with all of us, but you must come inside (he pointed to the shed). We have something to show you," and taking me by the hand he led me inside. It was pitch black, but they had brought matches. The door was blocked.  When they struck the matches, they were all sitting down with their pants opened, with their penises out.  They forced me to perform fallatio on all of them, then told me to get out, threatening to kill me if I told anyone.  They came around me other days after that, and always jeered at me calling me a whore who put out for a bicycle ride. 

Who did I go to for help? Nobody. I lived in fear the boy would come back and grab me. I was numb about the sexual aspect; I didn't like it. Not at all.

Do you wonder that a child that age would not scream for help? The answer is simple. I had already been through enough in my short life to learn self-preservation  There was simply nobody I could to run to for help.  What struck my heart was the fact I never did get that ride, and I was nicer than them.  i kept my promise! I didn't tell anybody.

So, then I still wonder how these things fit into the Kingdom.  I honestly don't know.  Yet I so trust God that I know someday I will know it all.  In the meantime, I can only pray and weep.

Raindrops. So many raindrops. Feels like raindrops, falling from my eyes.

Psalm 72:4

He shall judge the poor of the people; He shall save the children

of the needy  He shall break the oppressor into pieces.

Zechariah 7:10

Do not oppress the widow or the orphan, the stranger or the

poor, and do not devise evil in your hearts against one another.

Do you hear me, Lord?  It's me, again. Can you hear me?
Can anybody hear me?

Save The Last Dance for Me.

Jesus tells us in Matthew 19:30: But many who are first will e last, and many who re last will be first.  This scripture always brings an ache to my heart.  Such a little teaching, but for those of us who have always been last (while being accused of wanting to be first) it touches a cord deep inside.

My siblings always accused me of wanting to be "center stage". While it is true a big part of my personality is gregarious, joyful and playful, that is my personality.  The gift from God to get me over lumps and bumps.  It is not my character.  Let me try to explain.

I am a diagnosed anorexic person, Why?  My explanation to my doctors was this:  The smaller I get, the less space I will take, which means I have less chance offending others. I would be safer. I could hide in broad daylight, among people, and glide in and around their spaces.  This thought process is all part of my anxiety disorder, which has haunted me my entire life.  Always ready for the next blow.  Knowing it was coming, just not from where, or when.

Rejection. Defined as a "spurning of an idea, a person, or a person's affections. This is the thing that scoops out holes in your heart so the devil can toss in his garbage: fear, hate, envy, jealousy, greed, lust, division... all those ugly things.  When the Lord goes to work on healing this infection, it is painful, like touching a burn.  Sometimes He rips it out, as with mildew; other times He gently peels it away. However, the stench of the dross is heart wrenching. So why does Matthew 19 bring an ache?  Because the devil knows scripture, and will misuse it for his pleasure.  It is the vulnerable spot within us  The decaying of the heart  And that is where rejection, and its poison takes hold.

I am a competitive over-achiever. It is my character to fight to the death. Why?  How can this be when the Lord has blessed me with love and joy in Him from the moment it I was born? It is a taught reaction, a learned thing.  Don't confuse laughter and joy with wanting to be first, or desiring center stage. This is apples and oranges; you can't compare them.  For the first is personality (gift from God) and the last is character (taught by the world)..

My son, Jason Rowe likes to reference the story of the elephant chained to the post, and walking in circles, day after day.  Along the way the post and chain are removed, but the elephant keeps walking in circles. It has become a learned reaction.  So it is with rejection.

Folks like to tell us rejected ones that we are paranoid, or imagining things; that it is just a need for us to be center of attention.  And here we have the classic example of the abuser vis a vis the abused:  First the abuser clubs them, then tells them it is their fault, because they made the abuser club them.  It's a tale of abuse as old as time.

There is another kind of abuse - very subtle. The case of the "invisible person". I have experienced this, do you know what I mean? When someone looks through you, or past  you, or around you, but never at you. It is like the wind that fans the fire of rejection. This occur in many churches, where the poor are invisible. They are not equally treated as those with money. But it is not just churches where this is true. It is true in work places, in schools, in sports, and social settings. It is even true in some families. I have learned not just poverty creates this, but the things of the world, predominately gossip. Gossip is usually fueled by jealousy or envy.  Whether the gossip is true or false, it is a slow death to a body of believers, and I have been a victim many times of gossip. Much has come from my family. And sadly, from different church families. I am but a frail human, and gossip is more than fiery darts, it is the tongue's ammunition. Since what comes from a hateful tongue is what is in the heart. It is a destroyer of not just the recipient, but of the giver.  I pains me to even put these words to paper.

I must must seem like a confused contradiction, but we are, all of us complex creations. And we must function in two realms:  Spiritual and physical. I love the Lord, and my desire is to serve Him every day of my life. But, my flesh - this worldly body in which I dwell, is scarred, and scared.  What a balancing act! To be or not to be, it's like walking on quicksand. And then I see His footprints next to mine, and feel Him lift the yoke from my shoulders. And I am restored in that moment. I cling to Him.

Mark 14:38

Watch and pray so that you will not fall

into temptation, for the spirit is willing, but

the flesh is weak.

Jesus calls us by name. He looks at us and into us. We know His name, and His voice. We know the very essence of Him. He has no partiality. He loves us all the same, in fact He reveals us so in His curing of the leper, the man filled with pigs, the sinning woman. The washing of His disciples' feet. He did not consider Himself above others. I keep trying; I keep running the race. Every time I feel rejected and invisible I must ask myself if it is real, or have I just  assumed it out of habit?  Anxiety sets in. Only Jesus can calm me, so that when I look to Him, I remember to love. I remember to forget my past and see more clearly. He is my hiding place.

1 Corinthians 13:1-3

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do 

not have love, I am only  resounding gong or a clanging cymbal.

If I have the gift of prophecy and cam fathom all mysteries and

all knowledge, ad if I have a faith that can move mountains, but

do not have love, I am nothing. And if I give all my possessions

to feed the poor, and if I surrender my body to be burned, but

do not have love, it profits me nothing.

Iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another. (Proverbs 17:17). So I can use rejection to sharpen me. I can choose to let it rule me, suffocate me destroy me and haunt me. Or I can let it sharpen, hone, define and refine me, so I can turn it to good for The Kingdom. I don't want to be invisible. I want the light, the fire within me to shine for Jesus. I do not want to hold who I am or my light under a bush. Oh, no! I want to let it shine. It is the cry of my heart.

I will keep on dancing His dance, and hope He will save the last dance for me.

Psalm 139:23-24
Search me, O God, and know my heart. Try me and

know my anxious thoughts. And see if there be amy

hurtful way in me. And lead me in the everlasting way.

Daddy Will You Dance with Me?

What caused one of the deepest aches in my heart  was the longing for a father.  I needed a "daddy" in my life, but that wasn't to be. This deferred hope deeply effected my decision making throughout my life.  I wrote a poem several years ago, out of my sorrow.

Daddy Will You Dance?

Daddy will you dance, will you dance?

Daddy, will you dance with me?

Stand me on your toes and twirl me 'round,

so that the whole world can see?

Daddy will you dance, will you dance?

Daddy , can we dance today?

You could swing me high up over your head,

'til you take my breath away.

Daddy, will you dance, will you dance?

Daddy, will you dance with me?

You'll make me giggle in endless joy,

'Cause my daddy wants to dance with me.

I wrote it as a Father's day gift for my father, Clarence Dunken. It was my hope I could break the cold, implacable barrier and establish a relationship with him. He looked at it, and set it aside, with a shrug of his shoulders.  This was the same man who told my mother, Hazel Dunken he was sorry they had ever adopted me. Yes, I heard him say it.  He went on to tell her he couldn't stand me, and wished they could get rid of me.  I was 13 years old.  

When I was 13, I had a nervous breakdown and tried to kill myself.  

Breathe. Just breathe.

I seem to need a jump start here as I try to write. Right now, I would prefer not to do this. We have a saying i our home, which we banter around:  I would like to procrastinate, but I think I'll put it off until tomorrow.  My fingers are poised over the keyboard, as though they are frozen in time. This chapter is about the lead character in my story - and that would be me. The task of writing about myself has stopped me in my tracks, and I am waiting on the Lord to help me untangle this being that is me.  Selah.

This is how the Lord is leading me, with the scripture gifted to me, from Him, through the healing prayer of Dave Robison.  It was given to me the night I was freed from the demon Dakar, and given the gift of angelic language, along with this scripture.  Whether or not you, dear reader believe in these things is not for me to ascertain, I can only tell it how it happened to me.  I saw Dakar, I saw Jesus come for me, telling me to hush, and not be afraid because He had heard me and was here. I saw Dakar pacing between the Lord and me, furious and snarling that he would have me.  But Jesus, never taking His eyes from mine simply replied, "No, she is Mine."

PSALM 16

Keep me safe, O' God, for I have come to You

for refuge.  I said to the Lord, "You are my Master!

Every good thing I have comes from you."

The godly people in the land are my true heroes!

I take pleasure in them!

Troubles multiply for those who chase after other gods.

I will not take part in their sacrifices of blood or even 

speak the names of their gods.

Lord, you alone are my inheritance, my cup of blessing.

You guard all that is mine.

The land You have given me is  pleasant land.

What a wonderful inheritance!

I will bless the Lord who guides me; even at night my

heart instructs me.

I know the Lord is always with me.

I will not be shaken, for He is right beside me.

No wonder my heart is glad, and I rejoice.

My body rests in safety. For You will not leave my soul

among the dead, or allow your holy one to rot in the grave.

You will show me the way of life, granting me the

joy of your presence and the pleasure of living with

You, forever.

These gifts were given to me at a Sunday evening church service in October 1977. 

* Angelic language, 

* Psalm 16., 

* Psalm 16:7 (underlined) which was a promise of no

more insomnia because of fear. 

There were many people at the meeting, including a young man, Rudy Ebert.  Rudy and I would become spiritual brother and sister, and to this day our bond remains. He can testify to the events which occurred that night.  

Pause for prayer

I am breathing You in, Lord

I spent my life looking for approval and love. Thinned skinned, I needed tons of reassurance. I took on the negative from others, and blamed myself. I wonder if that is my nature, or is it a learned reaction?  I don't truly know the answer.  What I have learned is to give it to God, and let Him lead me. 

God calls me many names::  Mine, His Own, His Daughter, His Beloved, Prayer Warrior, His Princess, His Love, His Lamb. And He has a new named written down in my book of life.

He called me from the moment He created me.  I learned in 1983 that as a little girl, even while I was with my birth mother, whenever I saw a church I wanted to go in.  And I would dance and try to sing and raise my hands to God, at the altar.   I was filled with the Holy Spirit!  I would forget this close bond with Jesus, over the years and the darkness.  I understand, now how important this infilling was, because I would not have survived the battle against the curse, otherwise.  Did I recognize the Holy Spirit stilled dwelled within me? No.  But that didn't mean he was absent; nor was Jesus absent. 

Early on, God sent me an angel, Timothy.  I talked to him all the time, and felt safe in his presence.  I just looked up the definition of the name Timothy (amazingly, I never have before!) and it means: Honoring God   How beautiful is that?  He told me his name when he first appeared to me beneath a tree. He told me he was there to be my friend. Oh, how needed a friend. Timothy has been around in my life, noticeably at times of danger. I have known he has been there, and one night in Oregon, he manifested himself to both me, and my daughter.  This is written and credited in the book Rustle of Angels. Ruth Bell Graham also wrote about this in a magazine article about true angelic encounters.

Timothy and I talked about wonderful things - about dreams, about Jesus.  He could always make me giggle.  We never sat or stood close to each other, yet I felt his banner of love around me.  This continued, until Aunt Dora yelled at me through an open window to stop talking in that "heathen" language or she would have me put in a mental institution and throw away the key!  I knew, then at that young age that others couldn't see Timothy. I was afraid, then. Sadly, I looked at Timothy and silently said "Good-by".

As you can see, God set me up to be protected, and shed as much love as He could on me. He blessed me with love in my heart for all His creations. This love has tempered my thoughts and actions.  I, eventually learned that life is still about choices, and we are accountable for the choices we make. I was blessed with the infilling of the Holy Spirit as an infant, but I chose, due to circumstances and people to ignore him.  Oh, I believed. I never stopped. To me, the Bible had become a beautiful fairy tale, since God had made a mistake with me. It was out of my reach. I believed this lie until I was 35, feeling like a I  kid outside a candy store, with the my nose pressed to the window.  Tortured and longing, but never being allowed inside.  I resented it. I longed to be acceptable.

I turned my back and walked away.  I was sorely afraid of the future. All the "what if's" would haunt me. Yet, when the dust settled, I was left with one sure thing.  Choices.  No matter the circumstances, or the people around us, the choice is ours. God allows us choices. I will be sharing my choices in this story.

But if serving the Lord seems undesirable to you, then choose for
yourselves this day whom you will serve.  JOSHUA 24:15

The important thing to remember is when we make choices there are always consequences. My choices led to harsh consequences, in that I chose an unholy path for many years. Angry with God. Angry with my fathers. Angry with my mothers,.  Even though I attended church throughout my life, it was mechanical. Loving the Lord, cherishing the baby Jesus, I was so sad within my heart.  I was doomed.  I wanted to know my eternal outcome, and the occult loomed temptingly before me.

You shall not tempt the Lord, your God.  Your shall have no other gods before your Lord God. The Lord God shall be first in your life.

Our Father in Heaven, hallowed be Your name. You Kingdom come, Your will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive our debts as we forgive our debtors. Lead us not into temptation, and deliver us from evil. For Yours is the Kingdom, and the power and the glory forever!

If my people, who are called by My name, shall humble themselves and pray...

Choices.

MATTHEW 12:44-45.When an impure spirit comes out of a person,
it goes through arid places seeking rest and does not find it. Then it
says,‘I will return to the house I left.’ When it arrives, it finds the house
unoccupied swept clean and put in order.Then it goes and takes wit
 it seven other spirits more wicked than itself, and they go in and
live there. And the final condition of that person is worse than the first.
That is how it will be with this wicked generation.”

To Dance with The Devil

As I noted in my previous chapter, the Lord clearly spoke to me about curses, and the fact that our family curse ended with me.  Understanding things so much better (thank you, Holy Spirit), I have come to understand this curse is from my father's lineage. I can't just pass over this, no matter how badly i desire to do so. If I am to tell true my story and, ultimately my response or reaction to these people and events, I must tell it.  It is my story's damaged foundation.  And while I may not have known it, the Cornerstone was placed upon my foundation from the moment  I was born. That part of my story is for later; for now I will begin with my paternal grandparents.

FRANCIS HAVERKATE.  This is my grandmother.  I am always surprised how much I look like her, especially in old age.  She was a tall young woman, 5'10" but a woman of style and prestige in the small community of Montague, Michigan.  Her parents helped establish the Methodist Church there, and Francis was active in all church and community activities. Her height may have sent her into spinsterhood, but I find that difficult to imagine, as she was lovely. with a beautiful smile. In the midst of her busy life, she met at a church social the young man who was to become her husband.  His name was Joseph Allen.  The year was 1910.

JOSEPH H. ALLEN. You would have to look far and wide to find a man as beautiful as Joseph Allen.  He was not tall, only 5'6".=, but fairly average for that era.  When you think of a beautiful angel, you might have pictured him; he had such angelic beauty.  Pale blond hair and a beautiful face. I would imagine all the young ladies swooned for him.  He was a sharecropper (a farmer who farms on leased land, for a share of the crops), but he was also a wealthy land owner from the Hart, Michigan area.  His property was further north in Michigan, and he owned 360 acres; according to census records the average farm was 40-50 acres, so he clearly was a wealthy landowner.  How or why he left that property, we don't know. Perhaps it was to look for a wife.  He certainly picked the cream of the crop. He married Francis Haverkate on March 1, 1911.  Francis and he had six children, four boys and two girls.  He was a vicious man, beating his boys unmercifully for any infraction of his rules, and if they cried he would beat them until they stopped, telling them boys don't cry - only sissies cry.  My father was the eldest, and he learned at an early age to not show emotions, most of all crying. He cried in private most of his life.  The two girls, Dora (oldest) and Addie were the target of Joseph's perversity.   He introduced each of the girls to sex as soon as they began their menstrual cycles.  He had them bathed and brought to him by their mother - at least monthly over the next few years.  When they became pregnant, he tied them to the kitchen table and performed abortions on them. Addie escaped when she was 16, and died in her twenties.  Dora began rounds of prostitution while in her teens.  One of the boys, Edward, committed suicide in his 30's. 

I don't know why my grandmother allowed herself to be manipulated in such a manner. I saw with my own eyes how loving she was with her sons. I can only suppose that she, too was a victim. I know nothing to tell me otherwise, and certainly have heard no negative from her sons, or daughter.  At any rate, until the girls could break free, they were subject to incestuous rape.  Dora went to the police and reported the crimes when she was 17, and an investigation ensued. When the district attorney had the case in order, he issued a warrant for Joseph's arrest.  At that time, Joseph was suffering late stage melanoma. When he heard of the warrant, he went to bed, claiming cancer prevented him from arrest.  He died two weeks later. He was 52 years old; the year was 1940.

 EXODUS 34:6-7

Then the Lord passed by in front of him [Moses] and

proclaimed, "The Lord, the Lord God, compassionate and

gracious, slow to anger and abounding in loving

kindness and truth, who keeps loving kindness for 

thousands, who forgives iniquity, transgression and sin,

yet He will by no means leave the guilty unpunished,

visiting the iniquity of fathers on the children and on the

grandchildren to the third and fourth generations.

From this scripture, I know the depraved, perverse nature existed at least two generations before my grandfather. How do I know? Because I know the Lord's voice, and I have come to understand and trust when He tells me the curse has ended with me.

There have been things in my life, such as the sexual assaults on both my children, which made me question if I had I had misunderstood. The truth is, none of our family members committed these crimes.  The curse from generations past stops with me. Did it damage our family? Oh, yes. And the scars are still there. Bur the Lord heals, and our grandchildren have come through clean, into adulthood. Meanwhile, the spiritual assault of the curse presses against me, trying to find a way in. I will not yield to it. It hisses and spurts vile things at me, so I throw myself at the feet of my Master. I can't do this without Him, and I sorely need the support of praying family and friends. When it sees too much to bear, I can only look to Him. I need time apart from people, to be rested and restored in Him. I need my church family for strength and exhortation. Oh, how I wish I could explain fully how important the days of rest in the Lord, and with the body of Christ is.

I ponder all these things, as I sit with God, today, trying to put my thoughts in proper order. As always, the urge is on me to walk away from this, as we have not really begun, here, God and me. We are simply laying the foundation for the rest of the story. It is important for us to do so, because only forgiveness could bring me this far - forgiveness of others, forgiveness of myself. I must tell my story, but I must let you see it through the eyes of forgiveness. For if I don't, how then can I help others who are looking for the light?

How is this possible? To write without a jaded view of these people, of these circumstances, of these events? It is possible because of love. God's love.  God is love. He has His hand on me, as He has since the moment He wove me together in my mother's womb.

Those things which seem impossible are
always possible with God.

ROMANS 12:20-21

On the contrary, "If you enemy is hungry, feed him. if he

is thirsty, give him a drink. For in so doing, you will heap

burning coals on his head.  Do not be overcome by evil,

but over come evil with good".