Announcements for UCN

10/1/04-new co-editor introduced

The following was composed by tawnycatfl:



Subject: How about adding another new co-editor!


Hey Buddy! God really put it on my heart to ask Cole Hunter to join us as a
co-editor...He is awesome! regained I am also sending you something he
send me that was not in his port but so eloquently shared his life...it is
long, but oh Lord did it bring tears to my eyes.

It was for me...only Cole did not know what or why he sent it to me...but I
know...I'm a female Cole... When you see his writing skills...wow...they are
so awesome! God put it on my heart to ask him if he would join us and he said
YES! So I would like you to get to meet him...


Here is his story-Dreams Lost-Dreams Regained: Written by Cole Hunter

We never really know what is in another person’s heart, especially when they
never reveal what lies hidden inside. Not knowing what causes others to react
and respond in different manners is one reason we are told not to judge.
Regretfully, I spent a lot of years judging my dad. In retrospect, I would
desire that I had forgiven him much earlier, while he was still alive. With
this in mind, know that I have forgiven my dad; that I no longer hate him and
truly wish I had known what was in his heart, hidden and never revealed, at
least to my knowledge. I suppose that one of the fundamental objectives in
writing this manuscript is that my posterity may know what was in my heart; by
exposing the hidden parts. Another objective would be to reveal to others that
we can never change our past, but we can be healed. Dreams and imaginations can
be restored. We have a loving Heavenly Father who desperately desires to heal
our wounded spirits and broken hearts. Your heart can be set free, regardless
of the past.
We all have a story to tell, and this is mine. I will not mention all names,
either of persons or places; for fear that I will embarrass some or shed a
tainted light upon some place. My children, all grown now, will each get a copy
of this manuscript, for along the way, in my wounded spirit, I inflicted pain
to their lives. T.J., I ask your forgiveness, especially for all the times you
came home with stories of being harassed and I failed to understand the impact
of those provocations upon your spirit. L.M., please forgive me for all the
plays and events I missed at your school, and for thinking that because you
were quiet, and seemed to be content, that you did not need my hugs and
confirmation. J.P, please forgive me for the times when I directed my anger
toward you and failed to handle your heart with compassion. L.E., please
forgive me for seeing only the jock and missing the tender heart. To all of my
children, I love you. I am proud of each one of you. R.B., my pastor, thank you
for helping me to believe, for showing me that God wanted to heal my heart.
J.T., my first real mentor, thanks for your honesty and for showing me Jesus
“with skin on”. M.J., P.M., and J.M., thank you for making my family complete,
and for sharing the love of your mother with me. Finally, Melody, my beautiful
wife, thank you for coming into my life, for being my soul mate, for believing
in me, for encouraging me to use the gifts God has given me.



The Red River Valley was not a place of great beauty. Dreadfully hot in summer,
and miserably cold in the winter, it was not a place attractive to very many
outsiders. The Red River, named so because it literally is red, from the red
clay soil of the area. As a child, I did not remember seeing a lot of river
when I visited the Red River with my grandfather. Abundant with red sand, and
with a quagmire of mud colored to match the sand, it was neither alluring nor
energetic. At times the river seemed to be merely a trickle in the dry,
sometimes parched plains of north central Texas. Many people could not wait to
gravitate to other areas, leaving the river and the valley far behind. To a boy
on an adventure with his grandfather, however, it at times was paradise. The
valley was a place where we picked wild grapes and plums for my grandmother to
“can”, making wonderful preserves for jellies and some the best “cobblers” in
the world. Grandpa always said there were two kinds of people in this world:
those who ate to live, and those who live to eat. Grandpa ate to live, which
his stature showed, being slender. Though he was slender, he was a very strong
man, a strength derived from many years of farming and ranching. By this time,
Grandpa had left farming behind, was living in town now, working for a lumber
yard. Grandma and I lived to eat and our statures revealed just that, we were
both on the “plump” side.
Living in the Red River Valley was not so difficult, not when you had people
like Grandpa and Grandma. Grandpa was a gardener, a genuine handyman; an
outdoorsman and really a man’s man. Grandma sewed clothes for people, taught
Sunday school for as many years as I can remember, and read her Bible daily,
praying for all her family by name. Every Sunday and Wednesday, both of them
could be found inside the local Baptist church. More than just average
attendees, they were the first to answer a call for help. On many Saturday
mornings, Grandpa and I would go the movies, where we would get a bag of
popcorn, and watch a good old western. We loved westerns and the adventures of
the cowboys. Residing in a country known for cowboy heritage, the cowboy way
was a legend here. Rodeos abounded here. Calf-roping, bronc-riding,
bull-dogging, barrel-racing; my grandfather had even participated in rodeo in
his younger days. Good old western movies had been made about the Red River,
and one famous singer even wrote and sang a hit song entitled “The Red River
Valley”. With a hero like Grandpa, the valley was a place of adventure. Mostly
what I remember is how Grandpa loved to fish. Bank-fishing, boat-fishing, big
lakes, little ponds; wherever there was a fish to be caught, he was sure to be
there. He tantalized fish with live bait and lure bait, even processing his own
baits, from minnows we had netted while “seining” the Red River.
“Seining” the river was an experience all its own. Trekking through the sand
to attain proximity to the water that trickled, more than flowed, through the
riverbed, often left the inside of our shoes abrasively gritty. The sand,
however, was not the challenge. The quagmire of mud; red, boggy mud was the
daring element for a young boy. Sometimes I sank all the way up to my hips, as
visions of sinking out of sight raced through my imaginations. Having seen this
phenomenon in a few of the old westerns we viewed, I knew that a person could
go all the way under in the “quick-sand”. I don’t know whether this could have
ever happened, but the thought certainly added to the adventure. As a young
boy, my imagination was still alive, with a dare for adventure. Grandpa on one
end of the net, me on the other, we were a team. He taught me how to “dip and
drag’ the net which was about six to eight feet long. Something was always in
the net when we finished the drag; sticks, crawdads, minnows, small fish, every
now and then a small turtle. Minnows and crawdads were the treasures sought.
Crawdads were a delicacy for the fish we were to catch, and the minnows were
the “meat” for the “stink-bait”, a mixture of bread dough, rotten cheese, some
smelly oil, and various other “highly secret” ingredients. In the river valley,
stink bait ingredients were more closely guarded than military secrets, and
Grandpa always had the best “batch”.
When I was six years old, my family moved away to another town, over one
hundred miles east, out of the Red River Valley. This was my first year of
school, since kindergarten “back then” was not part of the schooling process.
Even then, I returned to the Red River Valley each year with my grandparents
for the summer months. At the conclusion of each school year, they would drive
the miles to retrieve me back to the valley, where I stayed until the first
week school was to resume in my new home town.
I loved the stays with my grandparents. Grandpa was my hero, and we were
buddies. I went everywhere with him and was always his proud protege. Grandma
taught me to read the Bible and pray with her every morning. By this time
Grandpa was completely retired, doing a lot of gardening and a lot of fishing,
but not so much movies now; because now they had a television and we watched
“Gunsmoke” all the time. I had a bike to ride, and the adventure was in full
swing. That bike was reconstructed by Grandpa, from parts found at a junk yard
and welded together; it was my pride and joy. More than a bike, it was a horse,
a real ride for a young boy raised in cowboy heritage, with a vivid
imagination. How I loved my sojourns in the Red River Valley. My imagination
and dreams were in full blossom. I had a real hero, and a Grandma who taught me
about Jesus and showed me how Jesus loved.
When I was twelve years ago, my Grandpa had a massive heart attack. He
recovered, slowly, but he lost a lot of his vigor for life because he could not
be as active as he had been. One year later, he had another massive heart
attack. This time he could not fight hard enough, he was out of energy, and God
took him home. My hero was gone. Already things had started going wrong in my
home, a few years before my grandfather passed over to Jesus. The Red River
Valley and my grandparents had been my place of refuge. After Grandpa passed
away, Grandma had to move into an apartment, and my days in the valley had come
to an end. Along with that, a young boy was being forced to grow up and accept
some responsibilities which he was incapable of assuming.
Imagination was fading, and dreams were disappearing, as isolation replaced
adventure. The dreams were becoming nightmares. The place of refuge in the
valley had disappeared and what remained in my world seemed to be more like a
hell. With paradise gone, imaginations and dreams were diminished from my
heart, becoming replaced by a dreadful thing. Years would pass before they
would return.
As I mentioned, prior to my grandfather passing away, things in my home had
already begun to go amiss. I think my dad wanted to relocate to a bigger city
to make a better living and to get a fresh start; so when I was in the first
grade, we moved from a small town to a relatively large city. There is an old
Clint Black country and western song to which the lyrics say, “wherever I go,
there I am.” We can change venues for a fresh start, but we are still taking
along all our baggage, and all that it entails. I think it is much easier to
hide in a bigger city, a larger church, a diverse crowd of people, where we
think we can escape our problems, lost in the masses. When we moved to this
city, we still went to church, and our family increased in size. I am the
second oldest child, the oldest son, of a family of seven children, and my
dad’s occupation was blue collar, which meant we lived from paycheck to
paycheck, and the paychecks were rather scant.
From stories derived from my grandmother and others, I think dad lived with a
broken spirit, but he kept it all inside and took it to the grave with him.
With the increased sized of our family and the struggle to meet our needs, my
dad, I’m sure, became increasingly frustrated. Arguments between my parents
increased with intensity, and I remember huge verbal disputes even on our
Sunday excursions to church. My dad taught Sunday school, was a youth leader at
church, but he was becoming an intensely different person at home, a man filled
with anger. Eventually, he began to withdraw from family and church, spent a
lot of time hunting, fishing, and raising hunting dogs. Eventually, he turned
to alcohol, and being the angry man he already was, he was becoming a tyrant to
his family. People outside the home would never have guessed what was going on
behind the doors to our home.
During all this, I was becoming a very insecure boy. I had a predicament of
bed-wetting; a memory which I yet find embarrassing. I remember while spending
summers with my grandparents, Grandpa would always get me up in the night hours
to prevent such happenings. Once home, however, incidents became more frequent.
As I recall, this problem persisted until early into my high school years, or
at least into middle school. Anyone who ever encountered this dilemma can
associate with the embarrassment and humiliation. On top of this, I was an
awkward boy; not much of an athlete and quite timid. I honestly do not believe
that my dad was ever proud of me, and if he was, I never heard nor felt so.
Because of our huge family, and our financial state, we moved around from
rental home to rental home. My mom has said people were prone to say we moved
every time the rent was past due. With our habitual nomadic wanderings, I did
not establish a lot of lasting relationships. Having attempted numbering them,
I recall attending approximately ten elementary schools in two different towns,
three middle schools, and four high schools. At one time we even moved across
town to the rival high school. For me, this move was very intimidating and I
learned to despise the cross-town rivals for the way I was treated. I was never
so glad to move again, for it got me back into the school that I loved.
Yes, I did say loved. Unlike a lot of students, I learned to love high school.
I was never a popular kid and I was ostracized for the way I dressed. Being
raised in a large family with little money does not allow for much of a
wardrobe. I was, aside from all this, a good student and most teachers
appreciated me, which was my saving grace in a world at turmoil. School was a
refuge, a place of escape, a safe place away from home. Home, I hated. I would
walk home from school, missing the bus on purpose, just so I would take a
longer amount of time to get home. Home was not milk and cookies. Home was
hell. Home was fighting and violence, unrest; a child among seven struggling
for an identity, in a place where love was not expressed. Recalling a sampling
of houses we occupied, I remember waking in the middle of the night, turning on
a light in the kitchen to get a drink of water; roaches entrenched the
countertops, in great multitudes.
Home, for many like me, was not a warm, loving place; and few things present
greater implication of betrayal. At some point I began to blame myself, turning
my emotions inside, viewing myself incapable of being loved. When viewing my
high school pictures, eyes that portray deep pain and listlessness are
revealed, as hope was fading. Despite the efforts of some very caring school
teachers, dreams were being lost somewhere in the darkness. I began to see
myself as a “loser”. Hope had become deferred, and as Proverbs 13:12 states,
Hope deferred makes the heart sick; or as the Message so aptly paraphrases
Unrelenting disappointment leaves you heartsick.
Progressively moving toward despair, the years and days of my high school were
a reign of torment for my family. At one juncture, we moved way down south to a
very large city in Texas near the Gulf of Mexico. Once again a venue change,
but the problems followed us. Dad’s drinking was escalating, along with the
anger and rage. I was doing well at school, keeping my grades up, maintaining
some semblance of a life, but at home all was falling apart. We kids were
living in fear, hiding under beds and in closets each time dad came home
inebriated and hostile. The abusive behavior was mostly verbal, throwing of
objects, but occasionally there would be personal attacks towards mom. Hatred
was beginning to fill my heart along with the associated bitterness. I can
remember having absolutely no friends in this big city for the short duration
we resided there.
Fearing I had no other recourse, as a young teenaged boy, I appointed myself
as protector of my family. My older sister, my half-sister, whom I love dearly,
had married at the age of fourteen, to flee our home, leaving me the oldest
child residing in the home. One evening, as my dad was in an intoxicated state,
and verbally abusing mom, threatening her; I grabbed a pair of scissors, held
them up to my dad and threatened to stab him. He only laughed. Even though I
was weary of all the bedlam we were enduring, I was terribly afraid of him.
Unrelenting disappointment. After yelling a few words, I put the scissors down
and backed away. Violence only escalated for my family, until mom had enough,
packed up and returned to the city in north central Texas.
What I recall about the trip north is that I was glad to be leaving, returning
to something resembling a home life. I remember the trip we had taken when we
first went south, mom and six kids chasing after dad on a trek clear across
Texas, a long journey. We thought things would be different. The trip, in an
old station wagon, seemed to take days as we trudged though heavy rains,
heading for who knew what, in a place of which we knew nothing. Dad had a job,
we were in pursuit, and things would be different. They were not. Now we were
making the long journey back home, without dad, hoping to escape. We arrived
home, with nothing: no money, no house, just an old station wagon with a few
salvaged possessions. We obtained a place of residence in the government
projects, for the indigent, and mom found a job in a clothes factory. Having
little, and living in the projects did little for a self-esteem, which was by
now almost nonexistent.
I was home, in a school I loved, with teachers that cared for me. I’ll always
remember Mrs. Logie, because she believed in me and recognized a talent for
writing. She encouraged me to sign up for the advanced English class and landed
me a role in MacBeth, the advanced English class drama. Mr. Shropshire, will
get honorable mention for adopting me as his student aide, in a math class, and
math was never one of my strengths. At school, I had an identity, and I had a
safe place.
Sometimes you can live on very little, as we did with mom’s income at the
clothes factory. I worked after school for the soda fountain of a local drug
store, washing dishes and making milkshakes, to help out a little financially.
We had a home that now offered a place of safety. Getting to the school bus was
sometimes a challenge; as there were bullies who always wanted to pick fights,
but I found ways to avoid them. We had peace, because our home was no longer
under siege. The peace, however, was short lived. Unrelenting disappointment.
Dad came back. This time it was going to be different. He was going to stop
drinking and straighten out his life. He did not, and things were not
different.
Almost as soon as he moved in, life returned to bedlam. Often, especially on
Friday nights, I would pray that he would be killed in a car wreck on the way
home. I know now those prayers were wrong, but I was self-appointed savior for
our family, and I was just a scared kid. Unrelenting disappointment. When you
see your brothers and sisters hiding under beds and in closets for fear, as you
witness the anger and the devastation to life, hearing the cries of young
children who just want some fragment of love instead of hell, your heart
becomes very sick. When the people who are meant to protect you become your
tormentors, life becomes almost hopeless. Dreams were long gone. Nightmares
prevailed. And there was no one to help.
At the ripe old age of sixteen, after conferring with both a pastor and with
the police; finding there was no solace for my family, I wrongfully took
matters into my own hand. With my dad attacking my mom, as my siblings lay
crying under beds and in closets, with fear swirling through every part of my
body; I took a baseball bat, slipped into the hallway behind my dad, and
waylaid the bat across his head. Watching in horror, his body slumped to the
floor; I was terrified that he may be dead. Blood was pouring from his head
onto the tile floor. Even now, thirty-nine years past, I weep as I visualize
the scene. Somebody, maybe mom, called for an ambulance, which arrived along
with policemen. Dad was taken away in the ambulance, treated and released to
come back home, where a young boy waited in dreadful fear. He made some threat
which I don’t recall, making it clear that I was to never again to attempt such
a thing. Unrelenting disappointment. The damage between dad and me, many years
in the making, had been done.
Honestly, I don’t recall much of the days that lay ahead. The violence seemed
to taper off, but not the anger nor the drinking, and I lived in fear. Sometime
over the next year, my dad departed for Kansas, to live with his sister, for
admittance into alcohol rehabilitation. I finished high school and graduated,
with about a 3.3 grade average. My mom, having been in contact with my dad in
Kansas, one week after I graduated high school, packed up the old wagon. She
was moving to Kansas, taking the family along. I was eighteen now, and I just
could not trust enough, I couldn’t believe, so I decided not to go to Kansas,
but to remain in Texas, to which mom reluctantly agreed.
Still working at the drug store, I moved into a house where I rented one room
for seven dollars a week, sharing a bathroom with two elderly men. Mom and the
kids had said their good-byes, gave me an old black and white television and
headed for Kansas. I was still going to church, as we had about every Sunday
for many years, where most people had not a clue what was going on in our home.
I attempted to purchase a vehicle, but lacked the funds, so I did a lot of
walking. College was not possible, and I knew I did not want to roam the
streets and wash dishes, making milkshakes all my life; so I joined the
military, during the Vietnam War era. Having just graduated high school and
watching my family leave in May, now in August, I was off to military boot
camp. I stopped going to church while in the military, and it would be many
years before I returned. Who can bear a broken spirit?
The next four years of my life would introduce me to alcohol, drugs, and the
rock culture. I served well in the military, having a very good position, and I
performed a commendable job, but socially I still struggled. I was not
athletic, and had missed out on so much social life in high school. Being
accepted appeared to be an endless struggle. I became good at lying to cover
for myself, to appear more acceptable. Knowing nothing of building
relationships, and fearing I would “be like my dad”, I steered clear of dating
and women. Being very insecure in communicable skills, I always clenched when
talking to women. Family life certainly held little appeal. Love had never been
easily expressed in our home, and I felt incapable of contributing to any
attempt at a loving relationship; not knowing what a loving family was supposed
to look like. I remained single until late into my twenties. Even then, I would
have no idea what a loving family was to look like, much less even a clue that
as a man, I would be responsible for leading a family. .
Before I proceed into the days and years beyond high school, allow me to relate
one more event which would affect my self-perception. It happened in the early
years of high school, before dad’s drinking and rage besieged my family. By
occupation, dad was an automotive body repair man, meaning he repaired cars
that were wrecked and damaged. To earn cash one summer, I chose to work with
dad at his place of employment; as his helper in the body shop. Anyone who
knows me very well knows that I am not mechanically inclined, and this became a
difficult summer. Dad lacked the gift of patience, and made little effort to
teach me, usually assigning me to unfamiliar tasks. In one incident, upon
assigning me the chore of repairing and painting a ding in a car door, he
departed, leaving me completely bewildered with the task. Returning to the
shop, dad found the job completed, but incorrectly, which he informed without
compassion.
A few days past this event, I ventured into the unfriendly confines of the
workers break room. When I entered the room, my dad and his coworkers were
seated at a table, with a clear view of the door. Upon noticing my entry, they
all looked toward me, and began to chuckle, with my dad right in their midst. I
do not know what it was about. I do know that I felt humiliated, alone and
scared, and my dad, seemingly the ringleader, did not come to my aid. From that
day, I have always felt insecure upon entering a room where there are people,
and especially where there is a group of men. At the age of fifty-five, I am
seeking employment. With the help of God, I am overcoming some of those fears
as I enter places of business to imply of openings for employment. How we
handle another person’s heart does matter. Only in the past three years have I
begun to feel comfortable, and then tenuously, in the presence of other men.
I would not be restful proceeding further without a word of caution. If you are
presently in an abusive situation at the hands of another person, do not take
the law into your own hands. What would have happened had I killed my dad when
I struck him with the bat? One person in a professional status informed me I
became a hero to my family. I never felt like a hero; never once felt good
about the incident. Had I killed my dad, I would have been a murderer, and
would have had to face the consequences, or I could have faced battery charges,
either of which would have affected my life adversely. At the conclusion of
this manuscript, I will offer alternatives to taking the law into your hand.
What you are going through is not your fault! Get help! I held that incident
inside myself for almost thirty years, and it affected almost every area of my
life. Pursue your options; you do not have to go it all alone.
For quite a number of years, I drifted without purpose. During my four year
stint in the Air Force, I held a top secret security clearance and was part of
the Security Service of the U.S. Air Force. Drinking and drugs quelled my
senses over this period of my life, as I established no meaningful
relationships. I was honorably discharged and came to Kansas where my family
resided. I tried staying with my parents for a while, but it just did not work
well. To his credit, my dad had stopped drinking, but things were still not
well between him and me, nor would they ever be. We could talk surface talk,
yet still, there existed a wall of animosity. Aimlessly drifting without
purpose, working odds and ends job, with little confidence or belief and
lacking hope, I continued to damage my life with wrongful choices. I assumed I
could find some meaning there, living for my addictions.
Deciding not to continue drifting endlessly, I resolved to enter college. I
went to a small college, where I did well, just taking some basic college entry
level courses. However, I was still digressing into a lifestyle of alcohol,
drugs, and harmful relationships. Knowing a change was needed, I moved about
forty miles west, enrolling in a major college. What I once said of my parents,
I now applied to myself, you can change your venue, but “wherever I go, there I
am”. I did very well at this college, majoring in psychology, with a minor in
education, having a goal of teaching children with mental handicaps. I knew I
needed to be functional, but I still had no passion for life, no real driving
force. A good student, as always, I was on the honor roll at this college, but
still living a lifestyle that involved drugs, and with a heart that resisted
any attempt at striving toward potential. Eventually, entrenched in drugs, I
chose to depart from studies, for life in a factory.
It was at this factory I met my first wife. Having watched the pain of my
parent’s relationship, I had determined that I would never be confronted with
divorce. I would be a good husband and have a great marriage. I would never
have to say “my first wife”, but as John Eldredge would say, “in this life
things are not always what they seem”. Because she is the mother of my
children, I will not go into detail regarding the demise of the marriage.
Suffice it to say that neither of us had ever actually witnessed a good
relationship. We came from very diverse backgrounds, both bringing along very
ample baggage, and we married for all the wrong reasons. I think we both had
perceptions about “the perfect marriage”, and at the onset wanted it to work.
Over the years we began to drift apart. Selfishness on both parts intervened.
The marriage lasted for twenty-five years. Still viewing myself as the loser,
with little self-confidence, and with no vision for life, I did not make our
marriage a safe place for her. Formerly, I blamed her for all that happened,
until God began to show me my own heart. The concluding six years of this
marriage is the time frame in which my wounded spirit began to surface. When a
person views himself as a perpetual failure, and his world begins to fall
apart, life becomes very, very painful. …who can bear a wounded spirit?
Proverbs 18:14.
At the onset of the marriage, we did not attend church. The marriage was
performed by a judge in the city courthouse. The first two years of the
marriage were a period of seemingly becoming acquainted, but with no real
direction. After two years, my first daughter was conceived, and thoughts of
being a father began to vault around in my head. While lying in bed one night,
reflecting upon God, I realized that I did not know my position with him, that
my wife knew very little of Jesus, and that we were about to become responsible
parents. I asked God to intervene in our lives, and two weeks later we were
asked to church. In one of our first visits to church, we both responded to the
altar call; me for rededication, her for salvation. We would spend the next
twelve years actively involved in that church.
Raising our kids in church, even in Christian school for awhile, things seemed
to be going okay. I quit drinking, quit drugs, and even relinquished a tobacco
habit. Upon reflection, I am unsure that I had a personal relationship with God
in all that time. I was going to be a “great” Christian, and do all kinds of
things for God. I readily sank myself and my family into church and church
related activities. Bible reading was included on my agenda, still my
relationships struggled. The ability to give and receive love, other than to my
children, was very strained. My heart harbored many hurts, angers, and wounds
which nobody, including God, were allowed to touch. Eventually, as my marriage
began to wan, desire faded, and I declared church to be an unworthy endeavor,
so I withdrew and walked away. Forsaking all I had believed, I carried away
with me more baggage, more unresolved pain; pressing the anger and wounds
deeper within. Many things once resolved began to recur. My family suffered as
a result. The choices you make affect not only yourself, but all those around
you. A root of bitterness became deeply rooted in my spirit. It would take a
major act of God to bring me to the place I needed to be, and God will wait
patiently for his children to come home.
Entering into the nineteenth year, the marriage began to crumble, suffering
from years of slow corrosion. My wife wanted me to depart, but I refused to
leave; determining that I would not desert my children. Upon that refusal, she
chose to depart. Disintegrated emotionally, I fell into a deep depression,
blaming myself as the “proverbial loser”. As I witnessed the pain of my
children, I began to contemplate the same behavior in myself and my ex-wife
which I had witnessed from my dad. Drowning in despondency; after a short
separation, I promised I would seek counseling if she would return home. She
did return, and I did begin counseling, as promised. This is when the deep
wounds of my past began to surface. The purpose here is not to cast blame, but
to accept personal responsibility, so I offer the premise that much pain was
inflicted by both partners within the marriage. We are not accountable for the
actions of others, only of ourselves; so I extend only my personal
perceptions.
When deep wounds begin to surface, an anguished heart plunges into grief. Open
wounds are painful and unpleasant, which I suppose would be one reason they are
deeply suppressed. Denying wounds which are immersed deeply within our hearts,
we attempt to live life as though our experiences have little bearing upon our
immediate welfare. During high school, the military, and my college days, I did
very commendable work, even excelling in some areas. During the first two
decades of married life, I attended church, becoming involved in many
activities: home cell group leader, jail and prison ministry, children’s
church, street evangelism, drama productions, and evangelism outreaches to such
places as the Mardi Gras. I maintained steady employment, was a valued
employee. Coaching little league baseball and attending school functions for my
kids, on the outside, it appeared that I had life somewhat together, but inside
I was full of resentment. I disliked myself, always wishing I were like other
people whom I admired. Relationships suffered severely. I had few friends,
could hardly carry on a conversation with my wife and the few relationships I
did have were just surface relationships with people at church or work. Even
those relationships did not go past the confines of church or work, as I still
struggled with acceptance of myself, as well as with others.
Inside my heart loomed a dark hatred of my dad; a resentment of the things God
had allowed in my life, and a contemptuous dislike of me. I began the
counseling procedure through a program offered by my employer, with a therapist
at a nearby hospital clinic. Issues with my dad, and deeply related wounds
began to surface. As the old saying goes, “a whole new can of worms opened up”.
Conferring with the therapist, I began to understand things that were going on
inside me, and as I wrote them down, a deeper understanding developed. Allowed
only eight weeks with this therapist, I chose to seek further assistance at the
conclusion of our sessions. I purchased books to read that would help me
further understand not only myself, but my dad, and I continued to write down
my thoughts. At the recommendation of another, I joined group discussion
sessions for adult children of alcoholic parents. I was beginning to understand
why I felt and functioned in diverse and inappropriate manners. Even yet
healing remained distant.
During this period, my dad passed away, and unfortunately, without
reconciliation between us. His death came at a time of heavy turmoil in my
marriage, a time of unrest. The strain was not with my marriage alone, but
among my own siblings, and only after dad’s death was I able to forgive him. A
few times in the past, I had tried to ask him for forgiveness, but the request
was both reluctant and dismissed. At any rate, a heavily erected wall of
mistrust continued to stand.
While participating in the group discussion sessions, one theme appeared as a
common bond amongst the collection of wounded spirits. While the alcoholic
parents (in most cases the dad) terrorized the homes, outside the homes each
were known as decent citizens, some even outstanding citizens. They were one
personality at home, another in public. People had no idea what was going on
behind the doors of our homes. This is something that John Eldredge, in Wild at
Heart, calls “posing”: fearing to reveal the true person inside, and “wearing a
mask”. We all have a tendency to wear masks. I wore many myself, telling lies
to “cast a better light” on myself. Thinking back, I suppose this was something
that really bothered me about my dad. Many people, especially those in the
youth groups he led and the ball teams he coached, thought he was a great,
fun-loving person, while I lived in fear of him.
I had entered counseling to save my marriage, and as I began to understand what
was inside my heart, I assumed things would automatically get better. During
the bout with depression, which I was still battling, I had lost over
one-hundred pounds and began smoking over three packs of cigarettes a day. With
prescribed anti-depressants, I began to eat again, and limited cigarette
smoking. I assumed I was getting along pretty well now, so began a “save my
marriage” campaign. I read books about marriage and was determined to do
everything I could to make my spouse happy. I rushed home from work in the
evenings to cater to her, coddling to her comfort and needs. We began surface
conversations, but nothing remotely close to intimacy. I began to demand love
from her, while she seemed all the less willing to give. Sex became a major
issue, as I strived to gain acceptance through sexual favors. Striving for
acceptance, low self-esteem, and an inability to effectively communicate were
issues that still dominated the purpose of my life. Things seemed to go better
for a while, but the slow corrosion and deterioration had continued to weave a
web in our relationship.
Six years past our first separation, my ex-wife left, never to return. Life
became all topsy-turvy. A roller coaster ride of emotions had set its course.
Things would never be the same. In his book, Tempered Steel, Steve Farrar
refers to this dilemma as “when the bottom drops out”. The trap door opens, and
down into the tunnel of despair we slide; arms flailing and legs kicking.
Very few incidents can cause such distinct emotional turmoil as betrayal and
rejection. Especially when the act is perpetuated by one whom we believed was
to protect our heart. When this happens, every human emotion possible has an
opportunity to surface. From hatred to grief, anger to sorrow, and everything
between, emotions descend upon us like a whirlwind. Loneliness and fear of the
future overwhelm our thoughts; feelings taking us on a ride that parallels
insanity. We feel we are being victimized, knowing we are enduring something
that no one has ever had to endure. Revengeful thoughts emerge our minds into a
darkness the magnitude of which we thought ourselves incapable. Isolated,
seemingly without hope, we sense that all is out of control. Endless days
become endless nights, as we lose desire to eat and the ability to sleep.
Thoughts of deceitful lovers consume our thoughts, and we assume wholeness to
be impossible. Alone in the darkness of night, we wrestle with our thoughts,
crying tears without number, and that endlessly. Hope deferred…unrelenting
disappointment. Sometimes even the will to live becomes elusive.
Often times, in His grace, God will allow us to go into some dark, isolated
places to bring us into an awareness of the need to return home. In the story
of the prodigal son in Luke 15 in God’s Word we see this enacted. Having
squandered all, now alone, realizing there is only one place where he ever
received true, unconditional love, the son who had once forsaken all, now
returns home. Not knowing what to expect, with no other avenue remaining, he
throws himself to mercy of his father. This is a picture of God’s care. This is
a picture of God’s care for me, and for you. What did the father do, he saw the
son coming and ran to meet him. He had been waiting and watching the whole
time, and he ran to meet him. God patiently waits for his sons and daughters to
return and when we do, he runs to meet us.
God runs to meet us, draws us into his arms and welcomes us home, as if we had
never left: unconditional love still intact. This is my story. After a couple
of months of wrestling with my emotions, entrenched in darkness and isolation,
I decided to visit a tavern, get totally intoxicated, meet a woman, and throw
my fate to the wind. Why not? I deserved to be happy, to have some little
morsel of satisfaction, so I turned to my addictions. I set myself on that
dead-end, well rehearsed, course, but thankfully, God had other plans. Bellied
up to the bar, drinking, saturated with self-pity, and giving flirtatious
glances to a woman across the way; I was in pursuit of happiness. I was going
to return to the game. Glancing down at the woman’s left hand; a marriage band
loomed large. My heart sunk to despair in the pain of memories. Then I heard
myself saying “God, I don’t want to live like this any more.” The God Who Sees
Me heard that cry in the middle of a tavern. His still, quiet voice simply said
with love, “then come on home!” I departed the bar, went to bed and spent the
rest of the night weeping.
The next Sunday, I darkened the door to a church, sitting way in the back row.
A guest missionary was speaking, and I do not remember one word he spoke. I
remember the loneliness, the feeling of destitution. Years had past since I
attended church and at that time I was with my family. Here I was in a new
church, alone, knowing no one, attempting to hide as I perched solemnly on the
very back row. Nothing significant happened, until the altar call. The guest
missionary led the altar call; a few people went forward for something or the
other, and the pastor stepped forward. All I recall is the words he spoke,
“There is a prodigal son out there who’s returning home, God sees you coming,
and he is happy to see you coming home.” It was a fairly big church, and I was
hiding; that pastor had no clue, but I did, I knew he was referring to me, and
I went forward into the arms of God.
The days that lay ahead held ample darkness, as I wrestled with emotions; my
heart yet filled with grief. I remember returning from work one day. Darkness
and rain covered the horizon, and inside my soul, the climate was the same.
From deep within my spirit, slowly proceeded the words and sounds of an old
familiar, but long forgotten hymn, “How Great Thou Art”, as I sang through a
choked, tearful voice. Days on end at work, the words to Psalm 51, put to song,
continuously rewound in my mind, “Create in me a clean heart, O Lord.” During
the long sleepless nights, I would pray the psalms of David as I wept in
loneliness. It was to be a long skirmish with darkness, but a strand of hope
was beginning to emerge, and way off in the distance, I could see a very small
speck of light. I would weep puddles of tears as I prayed by the altar at
church, as I mourned almost non-stop for a period of about six months.
At work, I had a Christian friend I chatted with, and I had begun to attend
church regularly; a different church than I had originally visited. Becoming
involved with a men’s Sunday school class, I poured out my heart to those men.
I was becoming part of a community of believers, and I had brothers in Christ
to encourage me. Growth was slow, as I battled the pain of a broken spirit.
Forgiveness became a daily area of combat as I poured out my heart to the Lord.
I began to read his word, and he began to correct some of my thoughts and
attitudes with the Book of Proverbs. The revealing of the dark places in my
heart was almost unbearable, as God worked to replace darkness with light. For
so many years, I had blamed others, now I had to face my own heart, the process
being handled very carefully by a very loving and compassionate Father. He had
waited for me to come home, had raced down the path to meet me, and now cradled
me in his arms of restoration. One thing I have learned, God doesn’t use
bandage strips, and he gets in no hurry. He wants to do a complete healing,
taking his time to do so properly.
Allow me to interject here that many changes began to take place in my life in
what has now been the last three years. There are no formulas for these things.
There is no way to avoid the pain involved in the search. In his Word, the
Bible, God says that we will find him when we seek him with all our heart. In
another place in his Word, the writer under divine inspiration pleads for God
to search his heart, to know his heart, asking God to lead him in the way that
is everlasting. I believe that it is in the search for God that each person
finds him. I began to understand about my heart by reading scriptures related
to the heart. There are no short-cuts, no easy formulas, and no pain-free ways
to a heart that is set free. Jesus came to set our hearts free, that we may
have life, and life to the very fullest. The things which come from the heart
defile a person, Jesus said, so it is the heart that must be set free. For
years, I knew about Jesus. I was raised to believe in him. But it was not until
I allowed him to search the depths of my heart that my heart was set free.
F.B. Meyer has stated, “If I’m told that I’m in for a hard journey, every jolt
along the way reminds me that I’m on the right road.” Jesus said that in this
life we would have many troubles. John Eldredge states that we live in world at
war. Rick Warren, in Purpose Driven Life, says that this life is preparation
for the next life. We are on a spiritual journey here, and it is a journey of
the heart. In Ezekiel 11:19, the Word of God says, And I will given them
singleness of heart and put a new spirit within them. I will take away their
hearts of stone and give them tender hearts instead. This has happened to me
and I can offer only the evidence. I did have to work through forgiveness,
forgiving each one that I was bitter toward. I had to live with the pain of
loneliness, allowing God to be my closet companion. I had to face the pain as
the things hidden in my heart were laid open before the Lord. Slowly, the way I
managed my thoughts began to change. My attitudes changed, and my performance
changed. Sexual sins which had held me captive for years were released, as my
heart and my thoughts began to change. God was doing a work of restoration in
my heart.
The hate and bitterness are no longer there. I no longer live for acceptance.
God accepted me just like I was when I came back home, giving me the freedom to
trust him. I suppose we all desire acceptability from others, but it is no
longer the driving force of my life. I have friends, good Christian brothers
who love me and I them. Although tenuously at times, I can now talk to people I
do not know well. I am at the present in search of employment, entering places
of business, seeking job openings, and talking to the people I meet. I could
not have done that in the past. It still takes some occasional encouragement
from my wife, but I am doing it. There are no secrets in my heart, and I still
ask God to search my heart and to know me. The crippling pain that once ruled
my life is no longer there. I bear no hatred whatsoever toward my dad. I depend
upon God everyday now. I struggle, like everybody, and in this life I have many
troubles. But now I know Who I belong to, and that He will never leave me,
never forsake me, and that absolutely nothing will ever be able to separate me
from his love. I read his Word with a freshness, not to gain head knowledge,
but for grace to make it through each day, and for direction and guidance for
my life, and to learn more about him. My heart is no longer a heart of stone,
but it is now tender. I do not want it any other way. I have known both, a very
cold heart of stone, and a tender heart. This is by far the best.
I am remarried now. My beautiful wife, Melody, has a new heart too. Her healing
came in the same time period as mine. We were set up by God. He put us
together, and she is my very precious gift from him. I don’t try to force her
to love me, I have learned and am still learning to love her, and she
reciprocates that love. I never knew what a relationship looked like that was
not codependent or dysfunctional, now I do. She is a very lovely woman of God,
a woman of gentle grace, and my soul mate. Our past lives almost paralleled,
taking similar courses in about the same time periods; and God has brought
healing and restoration to both of us. It is because of her encouragement that
I can undertake such writings as this. Her name means song, and she is my song.
She has my last name, Powers, which makes her a powerful song to the Lord, and
I have been allowed to be part of her life. For that I am honored.
I can dream again. Proverbs 13:12 says Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but
when dreams come true, there is life and joy. There is life and joy. I am
writing now. In the past when I sat down to write, nothing would ever come to
mind, now I write with passion. God has shown me my spiritual name. I go on
walks by a lake, just to talk with God. On one of those walks, I actually had
an encounter with a deer, where we just stopped and looked at each other,
almost as if there was a trust there. Maybe that sounds weird to some, please
forgive my indulgences, for my heart is alive again. I am learning to take
risks, to trust God’s guidance into the unknown. My marriage to Melody was a
risk taken, and we are both very happy to have taken that risk. A heart alive:
life and joy in the midst of the troubles of this life. What a journey!
Discouragements and disappointments will always filter the skyline of our
lives. I know that now, I did not know that before. They were there for sure,
but I assumed it was something personal against me. In this life we will have
many troubles, Jesus said, and he also said that he came to give us life to the
fullest. They both go together in this journey of life. For the first time in
my life I can say “Jesus, I love you, I love you, I love you”. I know I can
fail, without being a failure, and I know that I have a place of eternal
acceptance. I’m home now.

But I’ll take the hand of those who don’t know the way,
who can’t see where they’re going.
I’ll be a personal guide to them,
directing them through unknown country.
I’ll be right there to show them what roads to take,
make sure they don’t fall into the ditch.
These are the things I’ll be doing for them-
sticking with them, not leaving them for a minute.
Isaiah 42:16-17 The Message


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"And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good, and acceptable, and perfect." -Romans 12:2

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