Cindi's Story
I “preached” this past Sunday at “Outreach church”. As part of the deal, I invited my friend Cindi (and her two kids and grandson and his father), from Arlington , to attend. Cindi has been a very special friend of mine for a very long time. She was one of my tenants during the most difficult decade of my life (see “Extruded”, my May 4, 2007 post). She was a great blessing to me during that ordeal. I also tried to help her through some of her struggles at the time as well. She helped me fix my rent houses and encouraged me while I talked to her about what the Bible really teaches (as opposed to the many things she had heard from “religious” people). I also tried to help her deal with some of the abuse garbage that had been heaped upon her as a child. Her story is incredible and it is amazing to me that she is such an incredible person in spite of all that garbage. She is one of the most amazing women that I know.
In the past few months she’s finally started writing down some of the things she’s had to battle with for most of her life. It has been very difficult for her---gut wrenching, even---nauseating (literally). She’s had to dredge up so much of that filth that appeared buried. But it was always lurking underneath the surface and often times, like some loch nest monster, it would rear its ugly head to torment her. She’s gradually been working through it and exorcising some of those ugly monsters but it has been a long and difficult journey for her.
The reason I wanted her to come down was because of the topic I had decided to preach on. It was a combination of two concepts, actually. The first had to do with outreach. As a church it is obvious that outreach is important to us or we would not have put that into our name. I fervently hope that we can be effective in reaching out to our community to bring them comfort and encouragement and to meet needs and to teach them the good news of Jesus Christ and him crucified. The second concept had to do with safety and making our church a safe place to worship and fellowship and to comfort and support one another. If we can do those two things well, I believe we will reach many people in this community for Christ---perhaps several hundred. (Wouldn’t that be awesome?)
So, I brought Cindi down because I believed that she, because of her horrific experiences, could share with us about her life and about her experiences with “church” people, and by so doing we could have a better understanding about how to reach out to those on the “outside” and how to make our church a safe place---a safe haven---for those who might come into our midst.
I spoke for a little while about the things I’ve mentioned above and a few other things and then I asked Cindi to come to the front to read her vastly cleaned up (PG rated) version of her life story. I’ve printed it below for your personal “enrichment”. It made quite an impact on our church and it blessed Cindi greatly as well. It’s a little lengthy for a post, but it will be well worth your reading as you strive to become more effective in ministry. It follows:
Cindi’s Story
How can anyone who has been abused horribly in every way by an earthly parental figure, buy into the Christians ideals on God as a Heavenly Father. Furthermore why would they want to? If an earthly parent abused them physically with beatings, emotionally with threats and vile language, sexually before they could even comprehend what sexuality was, with neglect, lack of food, complete loss of love or caring. How does that person come to believe that there could be a Heavenly Father who cares so much for them that he would sacrifice His Own son for them? How is it possible for a church to lead a person who has suffered this lack of love to feel loved enough to accept Christ as their savior.
I am not able to answer that question for all abused and battered people. I can enlighten you on how I was affected by Christianity thru my abuse as a child, as a teenager and then finally as a saved individual. How I threw away the knowledge at first, how I was jealous of those who were being comforted by God, why I felt God did not love me and then why I finally came to believe it could be a gift for even a miserable individual such as myself.
When I was very young, ages five through nine, we, meaning my brother and my sisters were expected to attend the Catholic Church a few blocks away from our home. The four of us children walked there every Sunday morning. Occasionally depending on our mothers mood she would drive us there and participate in the service. St Justin’s was a beautiful Church. The stained glass windows, the gleaming pews and alter adorned with gold were an extremely impressive sight for a young child. The nuns were so kind and sweet always calling me sunshine, and pulling mints from their robes for me.
I enjoyed catechism class. I learned my rosary and all required prayers quickly hoping to dazzle the God the nuns prayed to with my dedication. I wrote an essay in third grade that gave me a chance to be a procession leader before the beginning of mass. I had figured that if I was in the same line as the priests and alter boys; perhaps God would notice me then and finally hear my prayers. I enjoyed the peace and the safety in the Catholic Church. I admired the nuns immensely---even wished I was not such a wicked nasty child, as I would have loved to serve their God with them.
But no matter what prayer I prayed or in which tone I pleaded, the God they prayed to refused to hear me. I recognized that it was indeed due to the fact that I was a vile creature. My mother hated us and the stepfather in our home took great pleasure in hurting us every possible way. Thru daily beatings when we had done nothing to deserve them, thru screaming and repeating the ways we disgusted them as parents and people who were “stuck” with us, we were worth nothing. We were not worthy of the same food as him, nor even enough food to keep our stomachs from growling. We ate things the dog in the yard refused to eat. We cringed when he walked by us, one sister wet herself if he came too close. My brother refused to speak. They believed he was a mute until age five.
The fact that we were worth nothing was compounded by the fact that our mother never stopped him from hurting us. Neither did any relatives. I was not sure how we had started out so far away from this gentle loving God they spoke and sang of, but I knew of the daily events that kept me from being able to reach for him. I was vile.
In sixth grade my mother decided to change churches. She had been excommunicated from the Catholic Church for remarrying and she did not like being unaccepted. The Priest in the parish told her she was unable to have communion because she had remarried. Nothing about how she treated her offspring, nothing of the cruelty in our home that transpired daily disqualified her---just the fact that she had remarried.
At first I believed they knew how the stepfather treated us, and they were trying to help us. But it was simply a policy on receiving the Eucharist and not about being a better person. So we started traveling to Bloomfield to St Stephens Episcopalian Church. They accepted her in the manner she wanted. She was important and the stepfather was so smart the preacher there, Father Gray, and he found they had much in common. I found that the preacher was a pedophile, who made me nauseous by just being around him.
I felt guilty knowing that I had made this man of God do such evil things. I understood God’s wrath towards me. I stopped begging for his help. Unlike the calm I had felt in the nun’s presence I was always nauseous in the Episcopalian church, in the presence of their “man of God”. I thought if this was the best that priest could do in my presence I really should step away from the church. It wasn’t that I did not want that peace and unconditional love that the people who God loved spoke of, I fervently wanted it.
I knew that God did not want me on his team. I was most certainly an outcast. By the time I was twenty-two I was suicidal. My life meant nothing. I was a useless part of society. I was filled with guilt and had no place where I felt truly loved, complete or wanted. I was petrified I was going to destroy my marriage and everything I touched. I had so very many secrets that I was positive that should I walk into a church, the walls would shake.
After much prodding a neighbor convinced me to go to a Wednesday night service. The way she described it sounded so wonderful I thought well lets try again. It was described as casual, so after I set my children up with their Grandma, I left to go and sit in the very back of this church. The Southern Baptist preacher had much to say about the debt of our sins and what price we were to pay for them. I was positive he knew all about my life all the rotten things I was and had done and was speaking directly to me. I tried to slink out after the service. Before I could make my escape a hand was on me. "Young lady …are you aware that wearing men’s clothing is an abomination to God?" I could not speak. He misunderstood. These were ladies clothing, my clothes came off the woman’s rack at the store. I knew it was me under the clothing that was the abomination to God. I hung my head and left.
For the sake of our daughter my husband and I had started going to a large interdenominational church. My logic being that in the larger church I might be able to hide amongst the good people until my daughter was part of the people whom God loved. I wanted the God the good people loved to love my perfect child. So we brought her there for months, dedicating her as the church instructed. Happy that the church did not see me for what I was and that they were bringing my daughter into the circle of those closest to God. I was sure it was because I was pregnant that they could not see me in my guilt. During several alter calls, my husband watched and held our daughter as I went to kneel and beg the Living God to forgive me.
Soon my son was born---not without complications. The doctors told my husband and me that our son would not live thru the next twenty four hours. We were devastated. We leaned on everything that we had heard about God’s rules to save our son’s life. We prayed together---being as two or more. I prayed out loud, not figuring God to hear me, but more so that others would hear the pleas and pray for our son. Surely someone in the group was worthy of God hearing them.
We called the elders of the church that they would come and lay hands on our son. When they arrived at the hospital I left them alone with our child not wanting to confuse God about whom to listen to. I went to find my husband and found him on his knees in the hospital’s chapel, praying out loud on his knees. Pleading and begging God to save his son. I wept watching him beg God, knowing he was probably in this mess because of my sins.
My husband offered to cut off all his hair, which at the time was to his mid back. Yes, he was a wonderful fun loving hippie of sorts. We clasped hands together and prayed fervently until the elders came to find us. They looked at my kind gentle husband and informed him that our child was sick and dying because of the sins of the father. I can’t remember what else they said. My heart and head shut down.
It was not my husband’s sins; if it was anyone’s fault I knew it was mine. Along with all the other evils I had been involved in …now my son was to die because of it all. From out of nowhere came a preacher, not the one from the church we had been going to. Out of nowhere... This man told me not to believe what I was seeing. He said that God had already healed our son. That we were in the midst of a miracle. All we had to do was to believe God was capable, of this act.
I knew God was capable of anything I had watched him in other people lives. I clung to that thought and never stopped the belief; I shared what the man had said to my husband. I remember he asked about the elders, who we should believe. The punishment we deserved or the gift. I wanted the gift so badly I quietly kept thanking God for it. I praised the works of God thru the next six days as we watched our son come back from deaths door. We rejoiced and celebrated and for the first time in my life I felt a twinge of hope that God did not hate me.
Over the next several years, I was allowed to become friends with a man who knew Gods words well. And had enough patience and kindness to show me how to come into the path of Gods plan for me. Thru the gentle softness and the quiet kindness in this individual I was shown thru a very tattered and loved Bible, all the places God talked what God had to say...What His real plans were.
This individual did not question what I had done, never asked my sins. He just simply and quietly told me the secret of how to have God expunge those scars from my life. This person was not fake, nor were there any fronts. I wondered why he cared enough to share the information with me. I am grateful he did. Today I try to tell others like me, the downtrodden, how to reach out to God. I tell them what I was, how God chose to save me.
In the past few months she’s finally started writing down some of the things she’s had to battle with for most of her life. It has been very difficult for her---gut wrenching, even---nauseating (literally). She’s had to dredge up so much of that filth that appeared buried. But it was always lurking underneath the surface and often times, like some loch nest monster, it would rear its ugly head to torment her. She’s gradually been working through it and exorcising some of those ugly monsters but it has been a long and difficult journey for her.
The reason I wanted her to come down was because of the topic I had decided to preach on. It was a combination of two concepts, actually. The first had to do with outreach. As a church it is obvious that outreach is important to us or we would not have put that into our name. I fervently hope that we can be effective in reaching out to our community to bring them comfort and encouragement and to meet needs and to teach them the good news of Jesus Christ and him crucified. The second concept had to do with safety and making our church a safe place to worship and fellowship and to comfort and support one another. If we can do those two things well, I believe we will reach many people in this community for Christ---perhaps several hundred. (Wouldn’t that be awesome?)
So, I brought Cindi down because I believed that she, because of her horrific experiences, could share with us about her life and about her experiences with “church” people, and by so doing we could have a better understanding about how to reach out to those on the “outside” and how to make our church a safe place---a safe haven---for those who might come into our midst.
I spoke for a little while about the things I’ve mentioned above and a few other things and then I asked Cindi to come to the front to read her vastly cleaned up (PG rated) version of her life story. I’ve printed it below for your personal “enrichment”. It made quite an impact on our church and it blessed Cindi greatly as well. It’s a little lengthy for a post, but it will be well worth your reading as you strive to become more effective in ministry. It follows:
Cindi’s Story
How can anyone who has been abused horribly in every way by an earthly parental figure, buy into the Christians ideals on God as a Heavenly Father. Furthermore why would they want to? If an earthly parent abused them physically with beatings, emotionally with threats and vile language, sexually before they could even comprehend what sexuality was, with neglect, lack of food, complete loss of love or caring. How does that person come to believe that there could be a Heavenly Father who cares so much for them that he would sacrifice His Own son for them? How is it possible for a church to lead a person who has suffered this lack of love to feel loved enough to accept Christ as their savior.
I am not able to answer that question for all abused and battered people. I can enlighten you on how I was affected by Christianity thru my abuse as a child, as a teenager and then finally as a saved individual. How I threw away the knowledge at first, how I was jealous of those who were being comforted by God, why I felt God did not love me and then why I finally came to believe it could be a gift for even a miserable individual such as myself.
When I was very young, ages five through nine, we, meaning my brother and my sisters were expected to attend the Catholic Church a few blocks away from our home. The four of us children walked there every Sunday morning. Occasionally depending on our mothers mood she would drive us there and participate in the service. St Justin’s was a beautiful Church. The stained glass windows, the gleaming pews and alter adorned with gold were an extremely impressive sight for a young child. The nuns were so kind and sweet always calling me sunshine, and pulling mints from their robes for me.
I enjoyed catechism class. I learned my rosary and all required prayers quickly hoping to dazzle the God the nuns prayed to with my dedication. I wrote an essay in third grade that gave me a chance to be a procession leader before the beginning of mass. I had figured that if I was in the same line as the priests and alter boys; perhaps God would notice me then and finally hear my prayers. I enjoyed the peace and the safety in the Catholic Church. I admired the nuns immensely---even wished I was not such a wicked nasty child, as I would have loved to serve their God with them.
But no matter what prayer I prayed or in which tone I pleaded, the God they prayed to refused to hear me. I recognized that it was indeed due to the fact that I was a vile creature. My mother hated us and the stepfather in our home took great pleasure in hurting us every possible way. Thru daily beatings when we had done nothing to deserve them, thru screaming and repeating the ways we disgusted them as parents and people who were “stuck” with us, we were worth nothing. We were not worthy of the same food as him, nor even enough food to keep our stomachs from growling. We ate things the dog in the yard refused to eat. We cringed when he walked by us, one sister wet herself if he came too close. My brother refused to speak. They believed he was a mute until age five.
The fact that we were worth nothing was compounded by the fact that our mother never stopped him from hurting us. Neither did any relatives. I was not sure how we had started out so far away from this gentle loving God they spoke and sang of, but I knew of the daily events that kept me from being able to reach for him. I was vile.
In sixth grade my mother decided to change churches. She had been excommunicated from the Catholic Church for remarrying and she did not like being unaccepted. The Priest in the parish told her she was unable to have communion because she had remarried. Nothing about how she treated her offspring, nothing of the cruelty in our home that transpired daily disqualified her---just the fact that she had remarried.
At first I believed they knew how the stepfather treated us, and they were trying to help us. But it was simply a policy on receiving the Eucharist and not about being a better person. So we started traveling to Bloomfield to St Stephens Episcopalian Church. They accepted her in the manner she wanted. She was important and the stepfather was so smart the preacher there, Father Gray, and he found they had much in common. I found that the preacher was a pedophile, who made me nauseous by just being around him.
I felt guilty knowing that I had made this man of God do such evil things. I understood God’s wrath towards me. I stopped begging for his help. Unlike the calm I had felt in the nun’s presence I was always nauseous in the Episcopalian church, in the presence of their “man of God”. I thought if this was the best that priest could do in my presence I really should step away from the church. It wasn’t that I did not want that peace and unconditional love that the people who God loved spoke of, I fervently wanted it.
I knew that God did not want me on his team. I was most certainly an outcast. By the time I was twenty-two I was suicidal. My life meant nothing. I was a useless part of society. I was filled with guilt and had no place where I felt truly loved, complete or wanted. I was petrified I was going to destroy my marriage and everything I touched. I had so very many secrets that I was positive that should I walk into a church, the walls would shake.
After much prodding a neighbor convinced me to go to a Wednesday night service. The way she described it sounded so wonderful I thought well lets try again. It was described as casual, so after I set my children up with their Grandma, I left to go and sit in the very back of this church. The Southern Baptist preacher had much to say about the debt of our sins and what price we were to pay for them. I was positive he knew all about my life all the rotten things I was and had done and was speaking directly to me. I tried to slink out after the service. Before I could make my escape a hand was on me. "Young lady …are you aware that wearing men’s clothing is an abomination to God?" I could not speak. He misunderstood. These were ladies clothing, my clothes came off the woman’s rack at the store. I knew it was me under the clothing that was the abomination to God. I hung my head and left.
For the sake of our daughter my husband and I had started going to a large interdenominational church. My logic being that in the larger church I might be able to hide amongst the good people until my daughter was part of the people whom God loved. I wanted the God the good people loved to love my perfect child. So we brought her there for months, dedicating her as the church instructed. Happy that the church did not see me for what I was and that they were bringing my daughter into the circle of those closest to God. I was sure it was because I was pregnant that they could not see me in my guilt. During several alter calls, my husband watched and held our daughter as I went to kneel and beg the Living God to forgive me.
Soon my son was born---not without complications. The doctors told my husband and me that our son would not live thru the next twenty four hours. We were devastated. We leaned on everything that we had heard about God’s rules to save our son’s life. We prayed together---being as two or more. I prayed out loud, not figuring God to hear me, but more so that others would hear the pleas and pray for our son. Surely someone in the group was worthy of God hearing them.
We called the elders of the church that they would come and lay hands on our son. When they arrived at the hospital I left them alone with our child not wanting to confuse God about whom to listen to. I went to find my husband and found him on his knees in the hospital’s chapel, praying out loud on his knees. Pleading and begging God to save his son. I wept watching him beg God, knowing he was probably in this mess because of my sins.
My husband offered to cut off all his hair, which at the time was to his mid back. Yes, he was a wonderful fun loving hippie of sorts. We clasped hands together and prayed fervently until the elders came to find us. They looked at my kind gentle husband and informed him that our child was sick and dying because of the sins of the father. I can’t remember what else they said. My heart and head shut down.
It was not my husband’s sins; if it was anyone’s fault I knew it was mine. Along with all the other evils I had been involved in …now my son was to die because of it all. From out of nowhere came a preacher, not the one from the church we had been going to. Out of nowhere... This man told me not to believe what I was seeing. He said that God had already healed our son. That we were in the midst of a miracle. All we had to do was to believe God was capable, of this act.
I knew God was capable of anything I had watched him in other people lives. I clung to that thought and never stopped the belief; I shared what the man had said to my husband. I remember he asked about the elders, who we should believe. The punishment we deserved or the gift. I wanted the gift so badly I quietly kept thanking God for it. I praised the works of God thru the next six days as we watched our son come back from deaths door. We rejoiced and celebrated and for the first time in my life I felt a twinge of hope that God did not hate me.
Over the next several years, I was allowed to become friends with a man who knew Gods words well. And had enough patience and kindness to show me how to come into the path of Gods plan for me. Thru the gentle softness and the quiet kindness in this individual I was shown thru a very tattered and loved Bible, all the places God talked what God had to say...What His real plans were.
This individual did not question what I had done, never asked my sins. He just simply and quietly told me the secret of how to have God expunge those scars from my life. This person was not fake, nor were there any fronts. I wondered why he cared enough to share the information with me. I am grateful he did. Today I try to tell others like me, the downtrodden, how to reach out to God. I tell them what I was, how God chose to save me.
I try to continue to pass the gift along. I cannot do it as eloquently as the person who helped me get saved, but because of his trying I try as well. I care and that seems to be the ticket, Gentle caring not screaming, or admonishing, or tearing down someone already downtrodden. Gentle kindness that is genuine in nature. That is what saved my life. Cindi
I thank God for this great friend who has touched my life in such positive ways for such a long time. I am so blessed to be able to say that I had the privilege to baptize her in Lake Arlington about 20 years ago after several weeks of Bible study. Even though she is only about 10 years younger than me, she honors me by sending me a kind greeting each Father’s day (she says I’m a father figure in her life (unlike her other ones)). She takes care of my rent houses and is one of those rare people who I trust completely in handling my money from rent houses (even if it was all cash). She is a true blessing and I thank God for her---often. I hope her story blesses you and helps you to be more effective and more loving as you reach out to the lost around you. May God bless you as you do so. Sincerely. Dennis
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This is Dave Berkey.
Have you Facil
Well said Annie. Amen!
When I