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It was a typical family holiday scene: My daughter snuggled close beside my sister, sharing the exciting news of her wedding proposal. My niece leaned in to get the scoop and to see the ring. In the kitchen, my mom hummed an off-key version of a Christmas carol while she loaded dishes into the dishwasher. My dad lounged in his faded blue recliner, while my husband and brothers talked about the football game on TV. The younger children played cards at their feet.
Wait a minute! When did we become a "typical family"?
Chaos at HomeMy past will never resemble a Norman Rockwell painting. My mother was an emotionally fragile woman who lost a baby at age 15 and was physically and verbally abused by her first husband. She fled that marriage at 20 and started over.
On her own with her second child and pregnant with her third—me—Mom met a good man and remarried. They had three more children, but her emotional baggage took its toll on our family and was compounded by the mood swings caused by Mom's medication for acute asthma.
She often threatened suicide. One day she actually put a gun to her head in front of us. I was 13 at the time, weary of wondering if she was going to carry out her threats. I remember whispering under my breath, "Just do it."
Five siblings lived in our small house. We each reacted to the dysfunction in our own way. I played the part of protector, taking my younger brothers with me wherever I went. I watched out for them, often running into a room and stepping in the way of a belt when I thought things were out of control.
My younger sister learned never to ruffle feathers. My elder sister was the complete opposite. She fought back verbally and physically and left home at 16. My little brothers were too young to know how to respond. The youngest, a toddler, would hide in the closet. My other little brother climbed into bed with my sister and me at night, afraid of nightmares that wouldn't go away.
Time Keeps on TickingThose events occurred 31 years ago. Today I'm 46. The youngest "child" is 37. Our family no longer resembles the characters in our once-chaotic household. We grew. We changed. And God entered the picture.
When I was 15, I went to church with a friend. I didn't believe in a supreme being; I went because my friend wouldn't quit asking. I challenged God that day, asking if he was real. I didn't expect an answer, but God gently reached past the tough shell around my heart and let me know he not only existed, but that I mattered to him.
This new relationship changed my life. I found comfort and hope in Scripture. My world expanded as I hung out at friends' homes, seeing healthy families in action. Church became my sanctuary.
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