Twenty years ago, I had my first audio memory of a past I had entirely suppressed.
At the time I was part of a christian twelve step program called the Most Excellent Way.
I had realized that while I did not have the crystal addiction anymore, I was still plagued by addict behavior/mentality.
When I had my first memory, it was one of the group members that I called. I did not understand what was happening to me. But she had shared personal stuff with vulnerability an to me she felt safe. She explained that since we experience thins with all of our senses that recall can come through the same ways. She asked if I wanted to meet. I did. The second time we met I had a memory of my finger being cut and my blood being used to write my name in a book. She suggested we get a team and do some renunciations. I agreed.
So she, my transparent friend, another gal (who was a ritual abuse survivor), and a clinical psychologist (who went to our calvary chapel) set an appointment time.
I came. They led me through some prayers. I only remembered part of it.
At the end, the psychologist said to me that he would like to talk to the girl who had spoken with him earlier. I looked at him blankly. In my head I heard, he wants to talk to me. I reported what she said and they had a conversation, him to her and her through me to him.
Our time ended. He looked at me and said, my healing might take a little while. There was kindness in his eyes. And I was sent home.
I was not given any reasons for why I could now hear this girl in my head. My condition was not labeled as dissociative identity disorder until months later.
When I heard the term, me being me, I wanted to go search it out. I wanted to read books. I wanted to get healed.
In those days, hearing from God was more like an occasional dialogue than the oneness and witness that relationship has now become.
He was so specific with me. No.
Looking back I see that he knew me, he knew my need to control. He knew that I would learn so I could fix myself. And he had a better way.
He would teach me trust through making me lean on him.
He would restore me to people by allowing me relationships where I could safely lean.
He would use people who knew and had gone ahead of me so that I could benefit from their journey while growing in my dependence on him.
He is so good.
At 30, I did not see. All I saw was that there was stuff inside me that I was not in charge of or connected to. God! That was scary. I had parts with distinct personalities. Not all of them loved God! I remember how unsafe that felt. The idea that there was junk in me that I had no control over made me doubt my whole world. All of my definitions were needing re-examination. What was love? Who was God? What was family? How could hate an love exist simultaneously inside me?
The anger made me afraid. I was afraid I would kill someone. Or that they would know. And come and kill me. They always knew, when I was little, when I was mad. I was punished for it. Whether we were together or apart. They always knew.
I remember going to Mick at church. I was not sure how to make him understand. I remember trembling. I stood in line, to wait to talk to him. My turn came. I said, I have some memories from childhood that I repressed. They are coming up now. I am afraid. I am beginning to feel anger. (It was not that I did not feel it all before. But it was an undercurrent of how I lived life. I overreacted in disproportionate ways to life’s curves.) This anger…I am worried, I might hurt someone. He put his hand on my shoulder. I closed my eyes. His prayer rings in me, it was an eternal sentence that was straight from the Lord to me. Turn the water into wine, Lord. That is all he said. That was it. At the time it seemed like it was not enough. Today when I pray this for others, I know that it was more than enough. He makes everything beautiful in its time. Even broken little girls who are filled with fear and anger. He did that for me. Beginning twenty years ago. Amazing grace.

When I was 15, I lived in the midwest. I had been moved there because I had relatives there. I was considered to be a difficult teenager that would not live at home.

I felt that I had proved that I could survive on my own through a hitchhiking over 2000 miles on with nothing but the clothes on my back (and my body). My folks would not sign the letter of emancipation so instead I was shipped off to other relatives in the hopes that I would develop some sense.

Unfortunately for me the relatives I had been sent to live with had cult connections in place and so I went from the frying pan into the fire.

I remember a specific time when I missed school for 9 weeks. The cult had kept me in some tunnels under the cemetery. During the day I was starved and guarded by dogs. At night I was sold or farmed out to the highest bidder. Being in the dark, alone, as a captive, for long periods of time during the day does funny things to the mind. I lost touch with what we call humanity. It eroded and I more resembled a wild animal. I can remember going up to the grate- one of my relatives would bring a picnic basket that smelled of fresh hot food and they would mock me and rationalize their behavior; they ate and I stayed in the futile hope that a crumb would drop. I would beg for bread. I would scramble and lick the ground if fluid came. There is no respect or pride in starvation. I would have done anything to eat. At night no matter how much money changed hands for me, the exchange was never with my well being in mind.

One night stands out in clarity. Some farmers bought me. They took me to a barn. They had bought me and a little boy for the evening entertainment. My breasts and my vagina and bottom were taped so that those private areas could be saved for their grand finale. They left the rest of me uncovered. I was blindfolded. They hung me up by some kind of rope under my arms on a hook that seemed like a meat hook. My arms were above me so that I could not fight. One of them whispered greedily in my ear that I was going to be their candy. I was suspended off the ground and helpless. They decided they wanted me to watch so they used a ladder and removed the blindfold to shove it in my mouth. Then they took the young boy out of the burlap bag he had arrived in. He was already gagged. His eyes were wide, scared. He did not look like one that was regularly used. Possibly a kidnap victim.

There was a jersey cow on her side in the barn. I think she was drugged. They stripped the boy and their fun began. He had to milk and be milked. He had to sodomize the cow and then the men sodomized him. He rubbed her, they rubbed him. He licked her, they licked him. I saw and tried to stay numb. He had to bite her, then they began biting him. He was bleeding and dirty and still trying desperately to please them or somehow to make it stop. From time to time one of them would come over to me and rub my privates, telling me the best was yet to come.

The boy, they called him tommy boy, he had to slit that cow’s throat. Yeah, and then, they did his. Blood spurting everywhere. The end for him, the beginning for me.

The blood made them crazy. It was like they became inhabited. One of them grabbed a bat. The party would continue, he said. Now it was time to break the pinata. I was the pinata. The first one to get a gusher got first rights. They took turns. There is an initial ‘fuck, that hurts’ that continues into the fifth blow or so. After that there is just body response and grunts more than blinding pain. I was spitting blood into my rag. I could taste it. My hair was over my eyes. My body swung with each blow so they would try to synchronize their swings with my movement. One of them got my nose. A gusher. I couldn’t breathe. I floated between passing into unconsciousness as they quick took me down. I was rolled as they unwrapped my woman parts. The rapes were brutal, each one trying to prove to the next one that he could be more nasty than the last. I am not sure if they were all done before I lost consciousness. I remember one rolling off and then. Nothingness. And next, a stairway, a spiral set of stairs going up. They were white and didn’t seem connected to anything. What was weird is they seemed unformed at the sides, they sort of unblended but did not have definite shape at their outsides. I was dummied up by the beating, not really thinking very clear. The barn and the men were gone. The stairs remained.

It seemed like a way out. I began to climb. Crawl. Climb. Just trying to escape in my mind as well as with my body. Just wanting to be done. Please God was not really a prayer so much as an epithet. Anything, just…make it stop.

I made it up. I knew it was heaven. I saw a set of eyes upon me. They were gentle and brown. Kind. Their focus brought warmth to me. I didn’t realize how cold I had become. Warm brown eyes. And a voice. A melody of some sort within each word. Kindness settling upon me. Rest like I had not known in such a long time. I spent some time there, with those eyes and in that voice. At the top of the stairs. I kept trying to get further into the white light beyond but a membrane kept resisting me. I would push, meet the push back, then rest again in the voice. It was enough. For the moment.

Then something changed. Time, invaded the space. I was told I had to go back. I said no. I clung to the stair. There was gentle firmness, a tone that would not be convinced from my pain. I sobbed. I begged. I pleaded. I broke. I kept trying to stay, even as I was being pushed back and reinserted into my body. I tried so hard to not come back. It didn’t matter. It was an inevitable lose for me at that time. I found myself in my body, on the floor, in that barn. The men had finished and were gone. They had left me there crumpled on the floor. It was dark. Again I passed out.

The next time I was awake I was in somebody’s bedroom. I was all wrapped up and did not have freedom to move. I remember a straw being brought to my mouth often. I think I was there for a few weeks before I could return to school.

I was mad at him for a very long time after that, for making me come back. I convinced myself it didn’t matter. It was easier to believe that then to consider there really was a God, he was sovereign and good, and he didn’t stop what happened to me. 15 was another hard year, in a life that had many hard years.

Some of the God given gifts in me have allowed me over the years to connect with various people in non verbal ways. Esoteric, right? I don’t know. I think each of us walks what is in front of us to walk. Defining and describing are luxuries we don’t always have. I did not choose to be this way. I did not choose the abuse that opened me all the wrong ways. But I am convinced that God, in his wisdom, is making everything beautiful in its time. The gifts the enemy saw and perverted God is now using for good. When done through his light, with a motive of love, the gift can be of great benefit.

One of the last times I saw Mark on earth I had a word for him about Africa, and rhythm, and songs. It was a chance meeting in Balboa Park, he was with his wife. I gave him the word then continued on to my car with the kids. We were returning from the Zoo. I got within sight of my vehicle. “It’s a good gift, you know.” It was him, but he wasn’t there. I said, really? in my mind. I was very skeptical. “It’s a good gift.” I shrugged. I thought, maybe this was relating to the prophetic word, and that he was talking about prophecy. The jury in me was still out on that. Today, Father, let Mark know for me, he was right. It is a good gift.

Years before I had a nephew that was killed. My brother’s son. Ritual killing, called the most heinous crime in our area ever, the perpetrators had thrown his body in the dumpster when they were done. He was three. I remember after that, I was brutalized by people trying to connect with me in that non verbal way. Chants and curses and taunting. Some of it was demonic. Much of it was his mother’s family, they were indigenous folks who understood their wiring better than I did mine. They got satisfaction and power from harassing me. I had to learn how to do ‘street fighting’ with my mind. Crazy days.

By the time I was 32 I was married and had three children aged 6,4 and 1. My life was normal on the outside. We attended church, the kids an I. My husband was in the Navy and was less interested. Inside I was mainly a mess. The memories had begun a few years prior and chaos reigned. The outside order and demands were what kept me anchored. I was going to school at night to earn a degree and my husband would watch the kids. I was marked. Perpetrators could see me still. I remember a couple of professors and the mind games they played with me. Being connected felt familiar and was seductive in its own way. I did not want to choose sin but I seemed helpless against the mental connections that were sought, found, then used against me. It was like mental rape. I am thankful it never became physical, and I have the strongest sense that God in his grace averted me from that possibility several times. I did not see it as a good gift. I saw it as open doors that needed to be shut hard and forever. I tried deliverance after deliverance, memory after memory, to get that accomplished. To no avail. It was like ley lines inside of me, open routes of travel the enemy could recognize and use. That year was so hard. Memories came, three a week for most weeks. I seemed to always be on the brink of one, in one, or grieving. I saw Mary every other week and my sister helped love the children during that time. It seemed never ending. I was always tired. The special grace I had on worship was where I found God. As deep as the pain uncovered went in me, his love began to penetrate more deeply. Some morning I would awake with a clear choice. Choose life, or choose death. My family of origin still had connections to me and were very aware of what memories I was processing an I was powerless to stop it. I cried out for God. I worked harder to get free. The doors remained open. Sometimes there dead animals left around our property. One day there a chemically treated rose in my mailbox that the Lord told me not to touch with my skin. He would tell me what needed to be removed from my house and he was so specific about where to trash it. Different things were trashed in different places. I remember one time dumping a mirror that was given to me by my dad. Then I went into the store and down the frozen section I saw my dad there. He had a wig on but I knew him. He just stopped an stared. I got out of there fast and shook all day. I did not know then that they could only take me if I was voluntary and if they were able to call out the parts of me that they had trained. I got an answering machine that year because of the terror the silent phone callers would bring. The doorbell stopped my heart. I believed the threats. I knew I would die. It was just a matter of time. But I would rather die trying to get free than to live placidly in the destiny they had planned for me.

32 was a hard year. I was bothered less when my husband was home. And the kids and the love God put in my heart for them was a godsend as well. Looking back to that year I see the great grace God has had on my life. And today, in heaven Mark knows I found the truth. The gift is good after all.

The memory came this week. It all fit together. No wonder the feeling of being powerless was such a trigger.
Volunteering to drown was easy compared to what followed.
When we went in the deepest place, there was a part I did not understand. He did not go all the way into the pit with me. He stayed at the higher level and did specific motions to help me stay focused.
When I asked him why, he said he only goes into places that his blood cleanses and restores.
This place was not one of them.
Could he go, I wondered? He said that if he went in there the deterioration would not be able to continue, because he is life.
I feel like there is still so much I do not know.
In the memory I had to go there to travel the paths I traveled as a child.
I had to know for sure where I was, what I joined with, and how that impacted me and aquifers.
It was so hard.
I would have done anything, joined with anyone, to escape the terrible feelings of being powerless there.
It was so hard to stay in them.
When I came back up, some sort of seal closed the lower place. The part where the electricity formed the barrier was still open to me but the lower place was sealed off an he said I did not have to go there again.
I am so wrecked and weary, bone weary, exhausted by the memory.
I didn’t really have a lot of time to process before today came.
Today a song was being sung about the glory realm.
I closed my eyes an was instantly fixed by a beam of warm light.
Him.
I then was on a platform and he said, where would you like to go?
He said I could travel now, while awake, as long as it was through the light.
Africa. And we were there. A woman with a basket was drinking from a pool of dirty water.
Where next?
He explained that I could not travel much with the other door still open. Now it was closed. I could. Always through the light.
I am excited. I don’t even really know what it all means.
He is delighted for me, so happy I chose to stay in the impossible place so he could heal me there.
It is amazing that I forget still, when faced with impossible, that on the other side I find God there.
I still feel a bit upset with myself for the joining.
I wish I had been able to be heroic, or a martyr or something.
But I was, when I volunteered for the drownings.
Sorting through it all, and the healing is starting to overtake my wounds.
Surely he does all things well…just look at my life.

I remember being excited. An author I enjoy had released a new book. Although it has a paranormal feel to it, I find the romance this person authors very satisfying to read. I was getting ready to go to the bookstore.

I heard the Lord. He said, I’ll go with you. Argh. I didn’t want him to spoil my fun. He was sure to tell me I should not read the book. He was guaranteed to have good reasons. And then I would have to battle with my conscience when all I wanted to do was have the simple hours of pleasure that the read could bring.

It had been a hard season. Surely I was entitled to it?

Of course then I felt guilty for not wanting him to come. That became the weightiest. So I said, fine, come along. And we went. As soon as I got in the store, I can feel myself tense, my soul expecting to hear the rebuke, anticipating it, wondering if it would become an argument.

The salesperson had a hard time finding where the book was.

Sure enough, as soon as it was in my hand, I heard him say, I see what is in your hand. It is not the best for you. I felt him begin to contend with me, shifting his weight towards me. And then he stopped. And the book became light. And as I read the inside jacket I was prepared to see what my conscience might object to. I think I was almost prepared to walk out of the store without it. But there was nothing there. Just a story. And it carried no real weight. And I felt the Lord say I could buy it.

I was a little confused, but okay. A gift horse and all that.

I checked three times before my purchase just to make sure. No matter how much I want the comfort, if it is really going to be a big deal with the Lord, I’d rather not go there. I remember being a bit baffled because now he seemed fine with it.

It was not until I was on the way home that the reason for his seeming nonchalance surfaced.

I’ll read it with you, he said. Ah. So he was okay with me buying it because he would be with me to bring correction to any response my heart had that did not align? No. It wasn’t like that. He just said, I’ll read it with you. No condemnation. Not resignation. Just an anticipation of more time when I would be listening for his voice.

About three miles later he spoke again.
He said the following- my desire to be with you is greater than my concern that correcting you in this way that would cause us to be apart. The book, and your desire for it, will fade. Your connection to me matters more than my need to correct you.

I remember the brokenness of my heart in that moment. Somehow he made it so that I wanted to correct me so that our time together would be more blessed. How does he do that?
How can he be so secure in who he knows me to be that he does not need to be the heavy, he just loves me while I pass through my disobedience and loves me with open arms waiting for me to return to him?

I did read the book by the way. He did meet me in the middle. And because of those days of training there is a trust in me when he brings correction so it is much easier to hear. I don’t need to rebel so much because he loved me, allowed me, corrected me and then cleansed me. He has proved to be trustworthy here. I know there are times when his correction is more critical, and it is his mercy to be the heavy in those times.

And when I sing the song amazing grace, I am reminded of him here in this moment. Loving me fully, not because of who I am or in spite of who I am, but because of who he is. God is love.

When I was a part of San Diego Vineyard, a lot of healing took place in me. There was a special provision on worship and it was an unstoppable onramp into the love of God and his heart for me. He always met me there. Mark McCoy was the worship pastor there, and he led us as Jesus led him, extravagantly and without reserve. There was no plan B. Either God showed up or there was no use in doing what we did. God came. Every time. When he died, circumstances had arisen that made it impossible for me emotionally to stay within the community, so I heard about it in an email. The next time I was in the mountains walking I felt a mantle come. It was an Indian headdress, four gems and a feather. I did not know what to do with it, as was much of my experience in the Lord in those days. Haha, I am not much farther today. When I left San Diego, 7 months later, I went to the ocean with a particular mission in my heart. I brought a sand dollar I had gotten in the midst of a spiritual experience years before. I laid it on the sand before him. I was trying to be noble. Please God, forgive me for those things I have not been able to use here. Please allow them to go to whomever can use them the best for your glory. I know I have not stepped out in some of these things and I am sorry. And I was. I had gone to a church planting school there. never planted a church. learned how to play the guitar there, never led a team in worship. I knew that day on the beach he was okay with me. He didn’t really seem to care about the things I laid down.

Years passed. It was time to come and visit. It was time to see my mom again. The Lord made the way. I set up times to visit with various people while there. I remember the Lord, asking, when was his time. I said he could have anytime he wanted. He picked a Friday morning at the beach. I remember when it came. I didn’t know what he would say. The last time he and I had met at this place so intentionally was when I had had laid the sandollar down.

I parked my car. It was cold and looked like it would rain. I chose the place where I had known good and bad a little girl. I decided on a plan. I would walk from one pier to the next pier up the coast. I had a hope, unthought but there, that he would address the sandollar, since he never had. Perhaps he would explain and it would all make sense. The pain of that time, my brokenness and the way the relationships had failed during that season. But- his agenda. He gets to do what he wants, is always best.

With my umbrella I began my trek. Silence. I walked. Close to the water I enjoyed the sounds of the waves, waiting to hear the voice of my Lord. Silence. I walked. 45 minutes passed. What had seemed quite close to my eyes stayed the same distance away, and I realized two things. I had seriously underestimated the distance I had set to walk. I had also overestimated my physical ability to do so. It crashed in on me as failure. I had failed. It was my own fault and I would miss God. I cried. The wind whipped. The waves crashed. My tears fell. All of the sorrow. from all of the times, that I had not been able to…and the pain of those punished times that taught me intolerance, overwhelmed me. The crazy taught places where I could not change what I needed to change and the awful irreconcilable results volcanoed up. Distress. I screwed up. And I could not change it. Regret as deep as any canyon surfaced with no processing pathway. The tears would never stop, I was sure. I failed.And I was sure he would not come. And I was sure it was my fault.

I stood, uncertain. Go back? Continue? Did it matter?

He spoke. With a chuckle. Almost like it was no big deal to him, but not in a way that dismissed my pain. You are going to fail, Tanya. It is a part of the journey. You will make mistakes and it will feel like you have failed.

He didn’t seem shocked or dismayed. I was still convinced that I had lost something irretrievable, but was thankful for his mercy nonetheless. I looked at the distance I had yet to go. I soaked in the idea that he could get past it. I realized him seeing me where I was was far different than what I had been able to see. It required some acknowledging. Well then, if I am going to fail, let it always be when my heart is aiming for you and headed in your direction. Perhaps that was what the meeting time was ti be about after all.

He loved me. I could feel it then, just like I can now. His love is warm and it makes me remember hope. And, I looked down.
I am not sure if they were there before. There were two. Sandollars. One adult and one baby. I couldn’t move for a minute. The awe overcame me. My God. Who he is and what he does. Reverence and amazement and joy rolled into one toogoodtobetrue moment. I picked them up. And strength flowed back into me. Not only did I complete the walk, but on the way back to my car the clouds parted and a rainbow appeared, one of seven I saw during four days.

I still have one sandollar from that day. The other I gave away, to one younger in the faith who has great promises.
The truth that I can fail, and it is okay, and I won’t be severely punished and he will remain in affection, brought transformation that has lasted.
Surely our God makes everything beautiful in its time.
He is love, and it is what love does. Selah.

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