Fractured Childhood

I've been thinking a lot about a conversation I had recently with another survivor. We don't know each other well, and don't know each other's story, but we know we are both survivors. I mentioned that those of us with fractured childhoods need to find ways to reclaim that time in the present. I've done it through collecting stuffed animals and dolls. I color. My husband bought me a silk and flannel fairy blanket that I slept with for years. And of course there is Yolie. 

The greatest gift toward reclaiming my childhood has been my husband. From the very beginning he embraced the idea of creating new memories. Part of my attraction to him all those years ago was his ability to have fun and be silly without worrying about perceptions. I have learned much from him. He is constantly making suggestions and reminding me to do something nice for my inner child. 

She is Lucy. Years ago I named her to avoid confusion when discussing things with my therapist -- not another personality, but a way of recognizing the little girl who was so damaged in those years. I still have difficulty talking about the abuse in the first person, so Lucy carries a lot of the weight for me. I owe her a great deal. 

She is named for my great-grandmother who cared for me while both of my parents worked, before I was old enough to go to school. "Nur" (pronounced nuh) loved me unconditionally. She taught me to make biscuits and how to braid hair. She sang hymns while she pegged the laundry to the line. Her sister was my dearest Auntie whose home was a refuge. 

I read the verses in scripture about children. About how Jesus honored and sat with children, and I am reminded that He still loves me like a child. And if He does, then I will too.

linking up with imperfect prose

Security

Climbing the big stairway was the entrance to a wonderland. Wide pine planks and a handrail that was just a little too high for her to reach comfortably. It was okay, though, she knew those steps and had no trouble navigating them.

At the top of the stairs, she always stopped and just looked around. The stairs came up into the middle of the big room. Looking to her left through the railing that surrounded three sides of the staircase, she saw the sewing machine cabinet, a chifferobe and some slipper chairs. Straight ahead were the windows and window seat, and on either side of them the little slanted doors that led into the attic – fairy doors. As she rounded the top of the stairs to her right, she saw the two beds, one on each wall, facing one another. There was an oval braided rug in the middle of the floor and an antique lady’s dresser on the far wall. Two more windows covered in sheer white curtains let in voluminous sunlight.

This was the happiest place on earth in the daytime, and the safest at night when all four of them snuggled into bed, Auntie and Lucinda in one, Uncle Horace and she in the other. Nothing bad could ever happen in this enchanted space.

She wished she could live here forever.

link up at Write on Edge

Thankful Thursday #13

I've noticed over the past few weeks that I have been waking up with a song running through my head. They have been gifts from God to encourage me to face each day with a more uplifted spirit.

This morning the song was an old gospel hymn that was my great grandmother's favorite -- "There Is a Balm in Gilead".

There are 2 hymns that have always meant so much to me, partly because of the lyrics, but also because they were special to 2 wonderful women who blessed my childhood. My great grandmother and her sister who we simply called Auntie. 

Auntie's favorite was "It Is Well with My Soul", but we'll talk about that one another day. "There Is a Balm in Gilead" is an old Negro spiritual. Although the exact author and date are unknown, portions of the song appeared around 1854.

I don't remember the first time I sang this hymn, but it has always moved and comforted me, so today I share the lyrics with gratitude to the lady who shared them with me.

Chorus (in bold):

There is a balm in Gilead, To make the wounded whole;

There is a balm in Gilead, To heal the sin-sick soul.

Some times I feel discouraged,

And think my work’s in vain,

But then the Holy Spirit

Revives my hope again.

(Chorus)

If you cannot sing like angels,

If you can’t preach like Paul,

You can tell the love of Jesus,

And say He died for all.

(Chorus)

link up at Women Taking a Stand

Red Writing Hood -- Epitaph

Polly Agnes Lawrence Dodd

1898-1974

 Beloved wife of Horace

While we had no children of our own,

I pray that I helped usher many nieces

and nephews through happy and sad times.

I smiled through much sadness.

An empty womb, while my sister gave

 birth to seven children who all lived 

long lives.

I never saw her unhappy or angry. She was a sea of calmness in my topsy-turvy world. Few things soothed the way Aunt Agnes’s hands did. (We called her “Auntie" - ainty). Her hands were cool in summer and warm in winter, and felt like silk as she cupped my cheek in her palm. She knew and understood sadness, heartache and pain. She was quietly joyful. 

Oh to have to have talked with her as an adult! To have been able to converse fluidly, with reason and understanding. She was taken too early from me, but I learned so much from her. 

:: to show kindness to all

:: that gentleness is not weakness

:: that there is beauty in the ordinary

:: that love takes many forms, and every opportunity must be seized to the fullest

She was/is my inspiration. To love as Auntie loved me – that is my hope.

link up at red writing hood

Horace

His name was Horace, and looking back now, I realize that he loved me unconditionally. He was married to my great grandmother’s sister. We just called her Auntie. They were old. They’d never had children, but had taken care of several generations of nieces and nephews. Their home was always open and welcoming. I’m sure he wasn’t perfect, but he seemed perfect to me. I never saw him angry. He was warm, loving and accepting. I could do no wrong in his eyes. 

My sister and I would go and visit them. If we stayed overnight we all slept in the big room in the attic. There were 2 double beds that faced each other from opposite walls. Auntie and my sister would sleep in the bed on the left while Uncle Horace and I would sleep on the right. I never felt as secure as when we were all tucked in for the night. Normally Auntie and Uncle Horace slept downstairs in their bedroom, but when we stayed they slept in the attic with us so we wouldn’t be scared.

Eventually they sold the house and moved to the country. Not long after that Auntie had a stroke and died. We all went to the funeral and I held onto Uncle Horace all day. When we returned to the house he marched straight back to their bedroom returning a few moments later carrying Auntie’s china doll. He carefully placed her in my arms and said, “She always said you were to have this. I gave her this doll before I went to fight in World War I.” I have treasured that doll and that memory ever since.

After that we didn’t see much of Uncle Horace. My parents apparently didn’t make the time to drive out to see him anymore which meant I couldn’t see him either. Later I heard he’d moved into a nursing home. Eventually I assumed he’d died.

A few years ago I went to visit their graves. I wanted to take a moment to let them know what they had meant to me. An oasis of love and acceptance in a childhood riddled with pain and fear. I placed flowers on their graves, and told them I loved them. That’s when I noticed Horace’s death date. He’d been alive when I married. He could have been at my wedding! I’ve worked hard to accept that I didn’t abandon him personally. I was a child and thus limited in what I could do. But I miss those opportunities I could have had with him to give and receive love and acceptance.

His is the first face I’ll look for in heaven.

linking up with Writer's Workshop