“Weeping may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning.” Psalms 30:5
It is so hard to talk about the past when there are family secrets that seem to betray someone love. You could never love them more and not a fraction less. You love them with all your heart despite their mistakes. As a child I was supposed to look forward to the grandeur of the summer, filled with the smell of fresh-cut grass, long days, a summer breeze touched by darkened nights and fireflies. I moved through pain like an escalator going up, then down. The vicious cycle might not change but it can look different. I had too many secrets, already overwhelmed, the fear changed me.
The ideal childhood fantasy was lost, my teenage years brought a different kind of terror. Alcoholism moved in and hung its hat announcing its right to lodge where it was not welcomed. I could smell it on my dad’s breath waiting to spew out grievous words I wanted to believe he didn’t mean. Mocked often times for not being like my brother’s and sister’s. “Why can’t you be more like ….?” a question that made me feel like I wasn’t good enough. I often felt the sting of rejection. I felt small and awkward not to mention the fact that I was always grounded. I spent my time isolated and alone and because of that I would retreat to my bedroom, that just happened to be a walk-in closet in my brothers bedroom. A closet I would grow to love with nothing more than a bed, a small table and an a.m/f.m radio. It was mine. I’d daydream of getting out while gazing at the ceiling. Life looked huge and I wanted to chase it my way, on my terms.
Fear and trepidation would propel me into a panic attack. Everything I did, everything I said had to be right, the house had to be clean or else? I knew no matter what day of the week it was that my dad was going to whip me with a switch. I dreaded the fact that at any moment my dad would walk through the door with a scowling look on his face. “I heard what you did today, Pila. Go get them there hickories off that ode tree.” He’d demand in a southern accent. Fear often lodged in my belly and knotted in my throat. My dad did not whip me right away hours would pass, dinner served, dishes done before he beckon me to my brothers room. The family would glare at me, as if say “You are in trouble.” I don’t know when I decided to hide the pain but I did? I held my head up, followed my dad into the room and stood still as the switches wrapped around my back, over and over.
The welts on my back from the day before were still fresh. But, I stood and I stood still without shedding one tear no matter how much it hurt. I did not want to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me cry. My eyes fixed on the paint peeling from the wall without so much as a blink. I learned later that if I would have at least pretended to cry … it might not have been so harsh. On the other hand, everything I went through made me hard. I remember wishing death upon my dad. Sounds horrible and God knows I would not wish that on anyone. I hated myself for having those thoughts.
I had a big family yet I felt alone. I didn’t talk to my mom about my problems, she was amazing, young and beautiful with problems and a divorce of her own. I didn’t talk to anyone. I kept to myself. I felt the shame of fault loom over me like a hot air balloon drifting by. I could shout but no one would hear me. My mom remarried and not long after they pulled us out of school with just the clothes on our back. I swore I would never go back. I thank God I did. I rejoice in the fact that he became one of my best friends after he put the alcohol down. God restored the relationship despite the numbered years of physical abuse.
The abuse left me with different problems that sooner or later I would have to face. Some of which I struggle with to this day. A BIG ONE …I can honestly say there was a time when I could not cry even if God wanted me to. The walls were up. Then one night I came across a scripture “Weeping may endure for a night; but joy comes in the morning.” I must have read that scripture 50 times before I realized what God was showing me.
“No matter how hard you think you are if you want a breakthrough Paula, you will have to go through tears to get it.” I began to continually ask my Heavenly Father to teach me to cry. I wanted that Joy that He spoke of. I wanted that freedom from the pain… that scarred me internally.
I wanted hope
I wanted peace
I wanted joy
I wanted to cry because I knew my breakthrough was in those tears.
“”Weeping may endure for a night but joy comes in the morning.” Psalms 30:5
It is my hope and prayer that you will ….Trade your tears for joy.
Lord teach me how to cry. Teach me to release all that pain shut-up in these bones. Heal me through these tears. Lord that I might have true joy. May I never be afraid to cry. Teach me to cry, “Abba, Father.” amid the tears.
In Jesus name I pray, amen.
