Watermelon Slices and a Whiffle-ball Game

                                                   

When I was a small girl, the world was very exciting and frightening. Like many children, I was full of energy and imagination. The world was my stage.  At the beginning nothing was unreachable for me. I loved drama and excitement, and I could see the extraordinary in the simplest of things.  There were times that I believed the world had a place waiting just for me. Yes, I will admit, I was a dreamer, and I could not wait to conquer those dreams one at a time. Yet, to those around me, I was a skinny rowdy little girl. I loved climbing trees as much as playing with dolls, exploring the woods and walking the corn fields. Life was to be lived big, but I was forever reminded of how small I was. Looking back, I can see that I was desperate for attention and complete acceptance. What I did not know was that I already had it. And while I would go through some difficult moments in my life, the Lord had a plan for those moments, a plan that is still to be continued.

I was “who I was,”, and I often wondered why it was so hard for those around me to accept me, to love me, to actually enjoy me.  Still, I believed that somehow in some way I had to be special, created for a wonderful purpose; just what it was I did not know.  I think every child feels that way when they are small, having no inhibitions, full of hope and promise. And make no mistake about it, God makes no mistakes, we are each unique and special in our own way. Sadly, we lose sight of that when others around us teach us differently, and I had some great teachers.

I lived with my mother, sister and step- dad and spent most of my time in my bedroom playing with my dolls and imagining being on a grand stage somewhere.  Every evening, around dinner time, I could feel the tension rise as tempers escalated on the floor below. Sometimes I could even hear chairs being thrown and glass breaking. Often I would try to intervene but to no avail. I would be glared at by both of my parents and sent back to my room where I was left for hours to entertain myself and create my own safe haven for the dog and I. The demon of alcohol ruled our home, and I was its youngest victim. My sister was much older and many nights she was able to find her own refuge with her friends away from the chaos. Yet, even though I did not know it, God was with me. It was he who helped me to hold on to life when the depression and hopelessness began to rise within me.

It has taken me time but I have learned to forgive my parents for the dysfunction and the abuse I received while growing up. I now have a greater understanding of their pain and weaknesses.  Each one had their own demons they were battling in some form or another. One thing I have learned over the years is that our experiences determine much of our perception about the life around us. If we have experienced much pain we can become skewed, bitter, angry, made to feel like a victim, and walled off. We can judge life and others according to the place and the intensity of our pain; OR we can allow our wounds to be healed, our minds to be transformed and our hearts to forgive. Only WE can make the choice of which mindset we will carry and what reality will be ours. I have chosen to forgive and to love.

 When I was three years old, my mother, whom I adored, remarried a man ten years younger and she spent much of her remaining life trying to make that marriage work. In a way she was stuck. She had no work skills and could not support my sister and me.  My step-father, whom I called, Dad, had taken on a huge deal of responsibility when he agreed to care for us girls.  He was young and just starting out in his career. He wanted success and became part of an elite circle in the Banking world.  Part of his “duties” was to wine and dine clients, which he knew far too well. Both he and my mother made many poor choices and it took a toll on our family life. The loneliness I felt was overwhelming at times and I am sad to admit  but sometimes death looked like the only way out, and then God sent an angel.

During the summer of 1971 in rural area outside of Springfield IL, a loving angel showed up. Though she was not adorned with feathers, she became an angel to me. Her name was Cathy. She and her family moved into the house across the road from us. Cathy was a young mom with lots of spunk and a great laugh. There was always a twinkle in her eye and a kind word on her lips. Her boys, Brad and Jeff were rowdy and loved the outdoors. Her husband, Kingsley, was tall and handsome and resembled my own biological father whom I had grown to miss deeply.

The first time I saw Kingsley, I must have been a sight.  I was small, skinny and had long blonde hair that always fell into my eyes.  I squinted up and studied his strong features. Unaware of how it might sound I said, “You look just like my ‘real’ daddy.” Cathy looked at Kingsley and back at me. She smiled and asked about my father. I explained he lived several hours away and I got to see him once or twice a year. It was not long before she shared that she wished she had a daughter of her own, and how she loved my long blonde hair. She came over and fixed my barrette and put her arm around my shoulder. Cathy bent down and pointed across the way to a watermelon which sat on top of a cooler in front of her garage. It was far too big to fit inside the metal box. She asked me if I would like to come over later for a slice or two. I accepted politely (hoping it would be okay) and ran home, excited to have made some new friends.

The thick evening air was beginning to cool as the sun went down.  I skipped barefoot across the hot country road to their house.  Afraid to knock, I sat on their back step trying to be quiet. It was not long before the boys came out and we began to play. Soon Kingsley and Cathy came outside with plates and a knife. To the average eye there was nothing magical about that moment.  But I could see it. We sat around the picnic table laughing and sharing stories and enjoying the sweet taste of the sweetest watermelon ever. I even learned the art of spitting seeds.  The laughter of the boys as they aimed and fired was contagious. For the first time in a long time I felt at home. I could actually breathe freely. Though we did not know it a the time, it was God's invitation that I had accepted.

Afterward they began to play Whiffle-ball. I  never had played the game before then and was a bit shy. No, I was a lot shy, and much too scared to try something new; afraid of failure and condemnation. You see, at home the tension was so thick that it was like walking on eggshells. I never knew when the next blow would come by something I said or did. These blows were not physical ones.  But to me the blows I received were much more painful. They were blows to my spirit.  Step by step they began to crush my soul. The sad truth is that when there is emotional abuse, the scars are hidden deep inside and very seldom recognized by others.  And often children learn how to smile through the pain. But if you look closely you can see down into the sadness of their soul. Thankfully my tears did not fall in vain; they were all part of God’s greater purpose.

Apparently, Cathy could see the fear in my eyes at the invitation to play Whiffle-ball and she encouraged me to play. She showed me how to hold the bat and swing at the ball; her gentle arms wrapped around mine as she bent down to help me make my first hit. At first the boys laughed and I wanted to quit, but she encouraged me to not give up. Soon, I had the hang of it; and before long we had games going a couple times a week. I remember thinking how great it was that Cathy was actually out there playing with us. My mother did not play much sports other than an occasional game of golf. I could see the spark in my mother’s eyes had begun to dull also. She did her best to keep life as normal as possible for us girls,  but just as spoken words has hurt me they too had left her wounded. So to be with Cathy, Kingsley and the boys,  was a slice of heaven. Soon I was invited to help make homemade ice-cream and sleepovers at their house. Cathy loved to fix my hair, though at nine years old, I didn’t care much about hairstyles. The boys and I laughed and fought like siblings. We shared in mischief and laughter; and even tears as we said good-bye to their beloved dog who was hit by a car.

One of my favorite memories I have of them is driving in the evening just a short distance from the house to the “crick” as they called it, and having campfires and roasting marshmallows. We would sit around and tell spooky stories. I'd be scared to death while the boys laughed knowing their tales weren't real.  Life became so simple, innocent and fun during those times. In a way I had become a part of their family.  And although Cathy had tried many times to befriend my mom and dad, they chose to stay simply neighbors. Cathy and Kingsley were different from my folks.  They were a different period.

After a short time, Kingsley was given a position in Southern Illinois.  I was so sad and wished they would stay.  Before they moved, after their many invitations, I finally agreed to go to church with them; the 'final frontier' to be explored.  It was years later before I understood that Cathy and Kingsley simply saw me with the eyes of Jesus, unconditionally loved and accepted. Cathy’s arms that had wrapped around me that first day were an extension of the arms of her Lord. The feast of the watermelon is like the feast that Christ offers us each day, a feast of love and peace; of fullness and joy. In the smallest of ways that family simply loved on a small scared broken little girl. But to her, it meant the world.  I honestly do not know if they even realize the impact they left on me. Through their simplest acts of love they changed my life forever, they gave me hope. They touched my heart.

I can look over the course of my life and see God’s thumbprints all along the way. And though other’s words may have cursed me, it is Word that heals me. It heals others.  His presence has been with me each step of the way; even in the darkest of times when I decided to go my own way and rebel against his great love for me; and his call to forgive others. Forgiveness is the key to freedom. Freedom allows us to live life Big, to love big, to hope big, to see big.

My journey has been difficult at times and forgiveness has been a process. But I can honestly say that I no longer hold hate in my heart for my parents. I love them and I forgive them.  The Lord has never given up on me because he sits not only here with us but he also sits on the other side of un-forgiveness and knows what power love holds. It is in Him where we find the greatest purpose of all, love.

The seeds of love that have been planted in my life have created a new heart in me. Nothing is ever wasted. Nothing.  There have been several angels along my path, each one touching me with a simple and yet profound love.  It is through the love of Jesus, which we can find healing from our wounds, freedom from our shame and a hope for our future.

I pray that with the remainder of time I have left here the Lord will use me to touch the lives of others the same way the Bennetts have touched mine, even among the simplest of things, like watermelon slices and a whiffle-ball game.