But You, O LORD, are a shield for me,
My glory and the One who lifts up my head. Psalm 3:3
Picture for a moment a ragged, neglected child, whose head is bowed and shoulders bent.
A king sees the child, rises from his royal seat and walks in the child’s direction.
Then the king gently lifts the child’s face, until the child’s fearful eyes meet his own smiling eyes. He asks the child to come home and live as royalty with him.
The child is loved, honored, and protected.
I am that child, God has lifted my head!
I believe that God has given to each of us a story, unique to each of us. In sharing my story for the future generations to follow me, my purpose is to tell not my story but God’s. For it is through our stories that God makes known something about Himself, something that reveals His being. We are each a character that God has scripted into his divine play. You and I are being redeemed in a unique and utterly distinct fashion. There is only one way to the Father, through Jesus Christ, but neither my path nor yours have ever been trod, nor will it ever be again.
My story begins in 1960, the year I was born. I was the youngest of four children. From what I’ve been told my mother contacted hepatitis and was hospitalized for a time. She recovered but six months later became ill again. The doctors were on strike at the time and they were unable to get her into the hospital. By the time they got her to a larger hospital in the city it was to late. Her liver was damaged and it was there she passed away. I was six months old.
It was then that I was taken out of my home to be raised by an aunt & uncle some 30 miles away. My siblings remained with my dad and I grew up seeing them only occasionally. It would be years later that I would learn that it was easier for my father to give up his little girl than to give up his alcohol.
I have only a few memories as a little girl. But I do remember for a time while growing up that I felt special because I was adopted.Well, sort of adopted. My aunt & uncle never formally adopted me because my father wouldn’t let them.
I felt special until one day in school another girl informed me that being adopted was nothing special. She said it in a voice that only little girls can, in ways that are cruel, laced with sarcasm. That was the first time I remember consciously feeling shame. Never again did I feel special.
Instead I carried a new label- I was not wanted.
Shame told me I was the little girl that nobody wanted.
The events that were to follow simply reinforced the lie.