I was recently asked to share my testimony at my MOPS group. As I worked through it, I posted what I was doing on Facebook and Twitter and since then, I have gotten many requests to share my testimony here on my blog.
My testimony is quite long seeing that I had 40 minutes to fill up. So each week, I will be posting a piece of my testimony from my MOPS talk.
While reading it, keep in mind that there is more to the story and it is not the end. It is only a small piece of my story and who God has helped me to become.
I did not grow up in a Christian home. My father did not believe in God at all. My mother did, but never showed it or talked about it. I am sure a large part of that had to do with the fact that my father thought all Christians were “bible thumpers.” My mom’s side of the family were strong Christians. I had uncles, aunts and cousins who all came from a strong Baptist background.
I was born in 1978 as an accident. My parents were both young and just out of high school when they found out about their “oopsie” baby. Because it was the right thing to do for their generation, they got married right away. I was born the following May.
As often happens, their marriage did not last long and I became the product of a broken home before I could barely walk.
I don’t have many early memories. I think that I have pushed most of them to the back recess of my mind so I do not have to deal with them. I am sure that God is waiting for the right moment to bring them to the surface for me to work on them.
Many unpleasant things occurred during childhood, things a child should never have to witness or experience. As I look back on them, I can see that the only reason I was able to survive those days was because of God’s hand carrying me through them.
One of the few memories I have, unfortunately, is of an evening in which I was sitting in front of the television with my mom when I was about 4 years old. We were watching a show that was talking about a little girl who had been touched inappropriately. I remember telling my mom that night that the same thing had happened to me.
But that is the extent of what I can remember. I do not remember any of the actual abuse. I do not remember any therapy. I do not recall anything else of the incident.
When I was a teenager, I was snooping in my mom’s stuff and I found court papers. My accusations had gone as far as going to the courts, accusing my own father. I also found papers that described the therapy that I had and what happened during those sessions.
My father was eventually cleared of all charges and it became known, many years later, when my uncle was convicted of inappropriately touching more than one little girl, that he had been living with my father around the time that my confession had occurred. It is assumed that he was the one who abused me. At this time, I honestly do not know because I still have no conscious memory of it.
My mom and I lived in quite a few different places after my parents got divorced; often with my grandma and grandpa. We did a lot of house sitting for them while they worked and traveled. Both of my mom’s brothers took turns living with us as well. I can remember coming home one night and while I did not know what it was at the time, the older of the two brothers had friends over and they were snorting cocaine in the living room. My uncle was gone the next morning when I woke up and He was no longer allowed to lived there.
I was pretty close with my Mom’s younger brother even though he was quite a few years older than me. He was the older brother, the male figure that I craved to have in my life. I looked up to him. I loved him and adored him.
He joined the marines at the age of 18 and left. I was about 5 or 6 at the time. In my mind, he turned out to be just another man who had left me behind.