Thoughts on Victim Blaming

Those of you who know me are probably aware that I'm a staunch advocate for domestic abuse victims and survivors, and especially those who have been disbelieved by the "Christian" community. Some have even been wrongfully blamed for the terror they've suffered, as well as disciplined by their churches or even excommunicated and black-listed to prevent them from finding help and solace from another congregation.

Before I go any further, I will say that I am a Christ follower, a student of the holy scriptures and a person of devout faith in God. I hesitate to call myself a Christian of late because that proclamation, and it's meaning seems to have become "relative," and therefore it's meaning is as diverse as those individuals who proclaim it. Many have absolutely no idea what it means, nor do they know what scripture says about what it means to follow Christ.

That being said, I want to be perfectly clear on where I stand on abuse (and by abuse I mean when one person exerts power and control over another person with intent harm physically or mentally). Abuse in one's own home, by someone they love, is NEVER, EVER the fault of the victim. Nor is sexual abuse, sexual assault, or rape the fault of the victim. These behaviors originate in the mind of the perpetrator, and are then acted upon - by the perpetrator, willfully and purposefully.

The so-called Christian school of thought has gone to great lengths to convince victims, and the world, that perpetrators of violence of this kind are not to be held accountable, and that most assuredly they must have been provoked into it by their "loved" one. In my experience, when someone is hesitant to hold another accountable, it almost always is due to being guilty of the same or very similar actions in their own life.

Anyway, I was listening to a teaching on the radio this past Thursday by a teacher I have followed for years. He was talking about King David in the Old Testament during the time the king saw Bethsheba bathing on her rooftop. The story is recounted in 2nd Samuel chapter 11 as follows: (King James Version).  

11 And it came to pass, after the year was expired, at the time when kings go forth to battle, that David sent Joab, and his servants with him, and all Israel; and they destroyed the children of Ammon, and besieged Rabbah. But David tarried still at Jerusalem.

2 And it came to pass in an eveningtide, that David arose from off his bed, and walked upon the roof of the king's house: and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon.

3 And David sent and enquired after the woman. And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the daughter of Eliam, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?

4 And David sent messengers, and took her; and she came in unto him, and he lay with her; for she was purified from her uncleanness: and she returned unto her house.

Here's the rub, this radio teacher stated that although King David sinned when he committed adultery with Bathsheba, that she too was complicit in that she was bathing on HER rooftop, HER own property, which was immodest of her to do. Wow! That is akin to saying that if your attractive neighbor forgets to close the curtains after dark while changing into her pajamas, it's okay to go and take her to your bedroom and do as you like!

Verse 4 above, clearly states that the king "sent messengers, and TOOK her. And if you think this was okay, keep reading about the continual mess in the king's family due to the consequences of his terrible and shameful behavior, (even though he was remorseful and cried out to God for forgiveness).

We all have made mistakes, at times even on purpose out of selfishness, or rebellion, and those things have caused painful consequences at times that we've had to endure. And those things caused pain and suffering to those we hurt, offended or betrayed.

The right response is never to blame those we have hurt. The right responses would be humility and self-examination so we can do better next time, and to make amends, or at least attempt to. I say that because those whom we have hurt are not obligated to forgive, or to continue in relationship with us. Remorse is real and proven by our respecting their right to do what is best for them.

God bless.
~Deb

Home

 

The faces are just like any other faces

At least – that’s what I tell myself

But they are unfamiliar, alien to me

Or maybe

I’m the alien.

                                                          How did I get here?

 

I watch the leaves fall

From trees I know the names of

But they aren’t the same leaves

I used to see

In my old back yard.                        

                                                          Then I realized…

 

Home isn’t just a place

It isn’t just a building

Nor is it the people who live there

Or the belongings inside,

Home is all of that.                          

                                                          And none of that.

 

It is how you feel when you are there

And what you feel when you leave.

Mom

 The 11th of this month marked the 40th anniversary of my mom's passing.  As I posted the photo above to my profile on social media I noticed her smile.  When she smiled you couldn't help but smile too, and her laugh was infectious.  The next thing I noticed were her red beads, and then the memories started to flow.

I grew up in the 60s and 70s and money was tight in our home. Mom raised my brother and I on her own, and although I never felt poor because we had all we needed and more, she seldom spent money on herself.  

Beads, however, beads of all colors and shapes, were her go-to for "sprucing up" her outfits.  They were affordable and added "pizzazz." She was a bookkeeper so she worked in an office environment throughout her career.

One of the apartments we lived in had only two bedrooms, my brother had one and the other was shared by mom and myself.  It worked out well enough...except during summer vacation from school.  There were two things that annoyed me to no end, two things that were a part of her daily morning routine.  

Every weekday mom did the same thing, at pretty much the same time.  First was coffee and toast, then a cigarette.  Next was showering, hair and makeup.  She only wore a little bit of blush and lipstick, and in my opinion that's all she needed.  This part of her routine allowed me to sleep in for another half hour or so.  Then came the annoying part.  

For one thing, she would start rustling around in our shared closet looking for something to wear and then over to the various containers on her dresser where the clicking sound of beads being rummaged through woke me up - every single day of summer vacation!  I would sleepily plead with her to just pick one please!  

Secondly, she would spray her cologne on and the scent would invade my nostrils like a swarm of flies on a garbage can.  I learned not to open my eyes until the aroma faded, for fear of burning my eyes, which was interesting if I had to pee since I would need to feel my way to the bathroom with my eyes closed.

We laughed over those memories many times.  

Mom was funny, kind and courageous.  She always said that she would defend me to the end if I was in the right, but if I was in the wrong I'd have to "pay the piper."  She taught me that actions have consequences and that I would have to suffer them, but that she would be there for me while I did.

She went to bat for me at school over stolen text books, teachers who swore at students and played favorites, and unfair rules that were discriminatory or punitive.  And she never lost.  She just simply laid out the logic and made her case.  She was a force.

I remember going to family picnics or reunions where we would play a friendly game of softball.  Mom could hit a home run and run all the bases, in her 40s.  I learned how to hit the ball from watching her, and I also loved to run those bases.  Sometimes I'd get going so fast that it felt like my feet were ahead of the rest of my body.  And mom would be routing for me from the sideline.  

She hand-made costumes for Halloween, hosted scads of other people's kids for birthday parties - and made the cakes too.  Our Christmases were always special.  I remember she and my uncle talking about the trips to the city searching for the toys on our lists.  I never knew until much later all the effort that she put into making our Christmas wishes come true.

We recounted those memories thoughout the years too.

All the memories are so very precious to me now.  I was just 21 years old when she passed and I miss her dearly every day, but when I look back I can clearly see how blessed I was to have a mom like her.  She taught me so many things, some of them obvious to me, and others I'm sure I'm not even conscious of.  They are all part of what makes me "me."  Most importantly, she taught me how to care, to care for others and to care about doing the right thing.

I love you mom, until we meet again.

If I Were Brave Enough I Would...

 

Politics

1

b : the art or science concerned with guiding or influencing governmental policy

c : the art or science concerned with winning and holding control over a government

3

a : political affairs or business; especially : competition between competing interest groups or individuals for power and leadership (as in a government)

5

a : the total complex of relations between people living in society

<office politics> <school politics> <family politics> <church politics>

Definition of activism

: a doctrine or practice that emphasizes direct vigorous action especially in support of or opposition to one side of a controversial issue

Definition of tolerance

: willingness to accept feelings, habits, or beliefs that are different from your own

Now then...

If I Was Brave Enough I Would...

If I was brave enough I would - say who cares what a political candidate or self-promoting celebrity says or does on any given day! We all have a responsibility to do whatever we can to make a difference in this world. We each have a circle of influence in our jobs, our communities, our lives that is unique to us alone.

If I was brave like Dorothy Day, I would - do something for women in abusive relationships and not just talk about it. I would open my home to hurting women and offer them friendship, care and support, like she opened her home to the hungry and homeless.

If I was brave like Dorothy Day, I would - gather a team and go to Washington to promote awareness of causes I believe in. I would risk being arrested and jailed for those that so desperately need to have their voices heard, and I would be that voice.

I would - publish a periodical as did Ms. Day with “The Catholic Worker” that could be a vehicle to spread a message of hope and compassion to the oppressed and powerless; and a message of conviction to a hardened society that pretends not to notice that which is “unpleasant” in our world.

If I were brave enough I would – offer my time and resources to bring about changes in the justice system like Alice Paul did when she personally held signs and picketed outside the White House numerous times in the early 20th century. She was motivated by her outrage at the fact that American women had been denied the right to vote. And the fight for women’s rights is sadly still going on today.

If I were brave enough I would – advocate for improvements in the way sexual assault victims and their cases were handled in the courts. Rape is not a crime about sex. It is a crime about power, intimidation and violence. It is about reducing another human being to that of an object – with absolutely no regard for pain and suffering. So why would we, as a society, even think of not only asking, but compelling a fragile victim who has already been traumatized in the most unimaginable way, to face her oppressor in public, open court?

If I were brave I would – request discourse with leaders of some churches and ask them why they continue to extol and protect abusive spouses and plead for forgiveness on their behalves, from their betrayed, brutalized wives and bully them into agreeing that “it’s the right thing to do.” Especially when the very vows that clergy propagate, witness and solemnize have been made a mockery of by the perpetrators of domestic abuse.

I would shout in frustration that victims of offenses, both large and small, are cajoled and sometimes downright bullied into making up, shaking hands, forgiving and my personal favorite – to get over it.

I would - ask the questions that beg to be asked.

Why are we not calling out the perpetrators?

Fear? Laziness? Apathy? Perhaps.

Why are we adding insult to injury by minimizing the original actions and invalidating the experience and feelings of the victim? Because it’s easier than standing up to the bully? Because they too have behaved in abusive ways towards tender hearts? Because they are in denial that such evil is possible?

I don’t know.

What is a victim?

: a person who has been attacked, injured, robbed, or killed by someone else

: a person who is cheated or fooled by someone else

: someone that is harmed by an unpleasant event

: one that is subjected to oppression, hardship, or mistreatment

: one that is tricked or duped

A victim suffers for no reason save the motive of the perpetrator. Greed, hatred, selfishness, amusement, among others.

If I were brave enough I would – write letters to my representatives asking them why administrative salaries are so top-heavy and yet there isn’t enough money to pay an adequate number of trained caregivers, and as a result patients are dying when life-sustaining medications run out, and staff are stretched so thin they don’t hear the alarms. Nor is there ever enough money to pay and retain qualified educators, and as a result the futures of our students are forever placed on a different trajectory – one where hope will be scarce.

And if I were brave enough I would ask – what do we really and truly value in this present culture? But sadly, I already know the answer. We value that which produces or whomever can produce, wealth.

And if I were brave I would admit - that I was not born with the gift of making money. My strengths are in language and art and music, but not so much that I will reach celebrity status in this life. I am not very good at business or selling anything. However, I still want to be valued for what I do possess. I want to be understood as an individual. I want to be tolerated, if not forgiven, when I screw up. And I want to be heard.

I am not brave enough to do all that I wish to do. But through the love of God and His spirit within me I will strive every day to be a light in this world, one choice, one word, one act of kindness at a time.

Jolene's Maiden Voyage

 So this past May I took my first road trip in my 2019 Jeep Cherokee, affectionately dubbed "Jolene" by my two adventurous, creative and totally amazing grown daughters.  Naming our vehicles is a three generation tradition begun by my mom decades ago.

Not only was it Jolene's first road trip, but was also my first time visiting Myrtle Beach, SC.  It was a solo adventure, (as is most often the case these days), but was a refreshing and fun time.  Jolene served me well as we travelled through six states, stopping in Virginia for a couple of days to take in some sights and (winery) experiences.  

After sleeping in the first morning in Virginia I ventured up the steps and into a local winery, where I found the welcoming lobby and a young host.  I requested a tasting of their offerings and she escorted me to a large room with hand hewn wooden beams and chandeliers that hung over a long U-shaped bar.  There I was greeted by a young, very pretty brown-skinned lady with a warm smile.  Turns out her name is the same as my youngest daughter - even the spelling was the same!  She was friendly and kind, making me feel welcome.

She made her recommendations and I chose a flight of white wines, which she prepared and suggested that I may like to enjoy them on the wineries wrap-around porch.  This was a no brainer for me!  I headed for the porch and sat down at a table facing their luscious gardens.  The winery itself stood on a hill, far from any traffic below.  It was so therapeutic sipping delicious wines under the shade of the huge trees that surrounded the property, taking my time for a change.

From there I retreated to my hotel room and relaxed while planning my excursion for the next day.  For dinner that night I didn't want to venture far and found a nice family style restaurant.  The host there also turned out to be my server, and I lucked out again.  She was polite, attentive and quite young.  I found myself wondering about the lives of the people I had met that day, wondering if they were happy, healthy, and if they were loved.  I hoped so.

I had decided to go to the botanical gardens which was only a 20 minute drive from my hotel.  It's something I try to do whenever I go to a new place.  I've always been enamored of the beauty of flowers and things that grow out of the ground.  I had an uncle who had a stunning yard with manicured beds filled with all kinds and colors of flowers like roses, peonies and Asiatic lilies.  There was also a group of tall hollyhocks in assorted colors that brightened the view out of his kitchen window.  I remember there was a double swing in his yard that my grandmother and I would partake of on warm sunny days.  I digress...

The botanical gardens were massive, much more than I could walk in just one visit. What I did see however was magical.  It wasn't only the botanicals that fascinated me, but the hardscape as well.  There brick arches, wooden trellises, obelisks with deep purple clematis climbing upon them, reaching for the sun and it's brightness - no doubt.  Since I love to build things exploring places like these give me tons of ideas!  Walking along the fine gravel path through the gardens I happened along an adorable sculpture of a squirrel eyeing an acorn on the ground.

After another good nights sleep (as good as it can be away from home) Jolene and I set out for our final destination...my brother's new home.  I hadn't seen him since his move about 10 months before.  It was longest I'd gone without seeing him since he was in the military when I was little.  I had missed him and was looking forward to seeing him and his wife and their new house, and daily walks on the beach of course!

As I got closer and closer to the coast the smell of the air shifted from the grit of the highway to the fresh, saltiness of the ocean; and this girl was more than ready to experience it in every way possible.  

It had been a long, cruel winter back home this year and shoveling snow, and then unburying poor Jolene from under the heavy piles of that white stuff was not how I wanted to start my days...believe me.  Sore, screaming muscles hounded me for much of the season too.  

But this is vacation time!  As I drove down my brother's street, he and my sister-in-law were out in front smiling. This would be my home for the next five days, and I was delighted.  They met me with hugs and then we went inside for the tour.  Jolene stayed parked in their driveway until our departure five days later.  My brother drove me to all the popular places - all close to the beach of course.  He and his wife also took me to the best places to dine, ones that they had already checked out for great food and service.  I ate and I ate and enjoyed every mouthful, and especially the company of my two fellow diners.

I met some of their new friends, fellow inhabitants of this quaint 55 and older community.  They were all just delightful, and heartily invited me to relocate nearby when I retire in a couple of years.  Their warmth, humor and kindness makes it hard to resist.  That, daily morning walks with their dog and evenings out on the porch too.

For now though I'll take the memories home with me...until next time.

Just Me

 I have struggled to figure out what direction to take with this blog, with what "theme" to focus on.  I am a woman of many passions, and a long time (a really, really long time) student in the school of life.  During this life I have learned many lessons that, if I were to admit it now, I wouldn't trade for anything.  So it occurred to me that my blog should be the place to share who I am and what I've learned with you.  My hope in doing so is to encourage and offer insight, maybe help solve a problem or even make you smile or laugh!

I turned 60 this past March, and many people have asked me how I feel about it.  Well I feel great!  Not that I don't have my share of health issues that go with this stage of life, or that I don't have sorrow at times, or grief from the inevitable losses that come along...but life is so much more than the hardships and heartbreaks.  It is rich, and precious.

Stay with me...I'm no Pollyanna!  I'm not going to tell you how you should always think positive, and pretend not to feel bad when circumstances are anything but bad.  I only want to tell you that I've learned to appreciate how great it is to be alive, even when I get hurt or disappointed; and that life is great even when someone I love dies, which has happened more times than I want to remember.  

Previously I spent years feeling sorry for myself because it seemed that one "bad" thing happened after another.  I remember being asked many years ago what my idea of happiness was, and I promptly answered, "when there are no problems in my life!"  The thing is problems will come and if I can only be happy when there aren't any then I'll never, ever be happy.  What a thought!

The trick for me is not to let the problems that come along color everything in my life with shades of grey.  I used to do that, and it made me think, I'm just an unhappy person, but that's not true.  I don't believe that.  That was other people's words.

It has taken a long time to get to the truth of me, and I am a happy person.  I love the scent of lilacs in the spring, I thoroughly enjoy my first cup of coffee in the morning, and I am fortunate to be able to feel love, and to give it, whether it is reciprocated or not.  That makes me a happy person.

Abuse Widow

 Disclaimer: The following is my experience and it no way means to minimize the loss, by death, of a beloved spouse.  If you have experienced that my sincere condolences go out to you.

 I am an abuse widow.  My marriage died and it nearly broke me.  It’s been eight years now and the grief still lingers at times.  I was talking with a friend recently and she spoke of a common acquaintance who had just lost her husband.  As my friend relayed the symptoms this poor soul was going through, I couldn’t help but think of how much they mirrored my own.

I too have cried myself to sleep more nights than I can begin to count.  I cried so loudly, many times I feared my neighbor across the hall from me just might complain to the landlord.  I was embarrassed and humiliated by it, but nevertheless, had no power to stop the flow of tears or the agony from which they came.  I have suffered the loss of a child within the womb, the loss of my mother while I was pregnant for her first grandchild, and other harsh blows in my lifetime, but none came even remotely close to this kind of pain.  Pain from knowing that hope for change, hope that he would one day understand 
how his words, his cruelty wounded you, made you feel unloved, unworthy and small.

I too have cried in the middle of the day, in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of trying to do my job.  To onlookers, there was no apparent reason for my outburst of sorrow, but all it takes is one thought, one memory, to trigger the flow of tears for all that is gone.  If I tried to hold them back, my stomach began to churn, and a large lump would form in my throat until I gave in to the inevitable release.  There is no dignity in this grief.  And when that grief is caused not by death, not physical death anyway, there is no consistent remedy offered or available to the grieving.  I lost my home, the family I had loved for more than half of my life, my church and many friends.

There were no sympathy cards.  There were no flowers.  No one brings food or sits with you, holding your hand or your limp, numb body in their arms of comfort.  There is just a paper document stating life as you knew it, is over, it is dead... and judgement. No CPR can revive the life you thought you had, the life you worked so hard to build and make work. 

It's okay to grieve.  It’s okay to feel angry, and it’s okay to cry...  for all of the injustices, betrayals, and gossip.  You will overcome this.  And you are not alone.

 

Hands

my hands are not manicured

neither are they manly

they are worked...and worked...and

at times much overworked;

roughened

scraped

cut burned bumped because

there is not another pair in sight or in house.

my hands are not manicured

polish doesn’t play well with

dirt...or tools...or demolition

nor with plumbing leaks or torn shingles;

blown

ripped

smashed when

precariously attached tree limbs crash down on them.

hands that aren’t manicured gather limbs

and shingles and

other people’s trash when it

relocates itself onto my modest plot;

they gather and carry

unwanted discarded decomposing

things to the place where

such things, no longer useful things, belong.

hands that aren’t manicured hurt

but they don’t stop can’t stop

there is so much to do...so much to feel

to give that comes through hands;

gentle sensitive yet strong hands

sporting scars of wear and war

but also full of memories...

of what it feels like to touch.

Just Another Day

 

I woke up that morning not feeling “right.” For someone who generally wakes up with a smile on her face, feeling so melancholy was very strange. I felt like I was choking back tears for no apparent reason, although outbursts of tears still came and went...this was not that.

My mom had died a little over a year ago, when I was eight months pregnant for her first grandchild so I had cried a lot since then, but this was different. My sweet daughter was 15 months old now and I was 12 weeks pregnant. It was a surprise how easy it was to get pregnant this time, unlike the agonizing struggle it was the first time.

Something wasn’t right, and I could feel it in my bones. I told my husband how I felt, and that I was scared for the baby I was carrying. I asked him to stay home with me, begged in fact, to no avail. He insisted everything was fine...

How would he know?

I composed myself and watched him walk out the door. I was on my own as always. I called my obstetrician and was instructed to rest and keep her updated if there were any changes in my condition.

Later that morning I began to have spots of bleeding, nothing substantial so I continued to take it easy, hoping, and praying, for the best. I fell in love with this child the moment I knew he or she existed inside me, and I didn’t want to lose my baby.

It’s my job to keep them safe while they grow and develop, I thought.

How could I rest with a toddler to care for? I couldn’t lift her. Not up to the changing station, not into her highchair, not anywhere. I was paralyzed with fear all...day... long. I suffered bouts of sobbing amidst queries from my little girl about what was wrong.

He finally got home, late as usual, with no call, no contact throughout the day. That’s how it was, complete oblivion to what might be going on at home – with me. He said that morning, “everything is fine,” that I was “worrying for nothing,” so that’s how it was, period. He was the one who dictated reality...

We talked about what to have for supper and I began to bleed, heavily. My uncle lived nearby so I called him and he came over immediately. He and my husband helped me get into his truck while my aunt stayed behind to care for my daughter. I remember the blinking of his four-way-flashers on the dashboard as my uncle sped the 22 miles to the hospital in the dark.

I also remember the sensation of feeling of being drained, emptied, from the top of my body to the very bottom, and not willingly. I had worked in the medical field all of my adult life, but I had never heard anything about what the body goes through during an abrupt miscarriage.

After a full-term birth there is a kind of shock to a woman’s system. Some women report having the shakes, an uncontrollable full body shaking that can go on for as long as a few hours. Some say they feel feverish, going from chills to sweating. But this, this was not that. This was not full term and most definitely not normal.

A pre-born baby had died inside of me, and everything in my body was desperately trying to hold on to that life while the life sustaining fluids were making a dramatic exit from the womb...my womb, carrying with them my baby. I would never even know the babies’ sex, never get to name him or her.

At the hospital the staff quietly spoke to my husband and then a gentle nurse came to my bedside and asked me what she could do to make me comfortable until the doctor arrived. I just cried and asked if I had lost my baby. She said she couldn’t answer that because she didn’t know for sure. She held my hand for a while.

When my doctor arrived he said that after reviewing my chart and considering all the bleeding it was probable that the pregnancy was over. I certainly didn’t feel pregnant anymore either, but actually giving up and accepting his conclusion was heart wrenching. He said I should have a D & C to make sure there would not be any infection...

From carrying death inside me all day, or more? Is that what he meant? If I did what he said that would be the end of it for sure.

He put me under for the procedure so there would be no pain – at least physically. Just some soreness afterward that would last for a few days he said. By the time I was discharged in the wee hours of the morning there was another shift on duty. None of them knew what I had been through except by the reading of my chart. I looked for the nurse from when I first got there, but she was gone. It was just another day.