A Letter to My Younger Self

Dear Child,

I know what happened; I was there. Your innocent heart was like a rosebud, a pure white flower in a crystal vase. Then an evil hand came and smudged one of the petals. In your innocence, you were soon able to forget and go on with your play.  

You didn’t know this wasn’t normal, you didn’t know this was wrong but you kept it to yourself, why?

Maybe because it made you feel uncomfortable, maybe because you were afraid he would find out and get upset.  But it continued, one petal after another was smudged then crushed until one day the flower withered and died and the water of joy that had been feeding it had also drained away.

As a young child, you soon learned to be afraid of—him. By nature, you would have been carefree, but a shell that some called shyness was developing around you.

Time passed and you gradually became more aware of right and wrong. You saw younger children still carrying the beautiful bud of innocence but yours was gone, faded and dying. It was then you began to realize that the delicate vase that was in your heart had also been crushed and the broken pieces were piercing you, causing much pain.

Is that the end: a broken heart, a dying flower?

It seemed like. In fact, the cuts festered over the years as you learned this was not normal and many were going through life happy because no evil monster had snatched away the flower of innocence and left a broken heart.

By now, those pieces have embedded deep into your heart but you observed others were acting ‘normally’ so pretended to do the same. How can a person be ‘normal’ when the slightest memory brings pain and bad experiences would cause the old wounds to start bleeding away?

How can you go on like this? But you did, year after year, you raised a family, had a caring husband …and prayed…

I keep ‘seeing’ the Great Physician hovering over me while I write; He wants me to remind you how He removed those crushed shards one by one and poured in the healing balm of love.

I know: and am grateful for what He has done, but there are others who are still suffering. Give your heart to Jesus let Him remove the broken pieces. It will not be easy but will sure be a lot easier than having them remain there.

I may have lost that flower of innocence at too young an age but it’s okay, now, because the Great Physician gave me what feels like a Garden of Eden in return.

www.marilynshistoricalnovels.com

Hope for the Hopeless

Tired, always tired, and gaunt, you wouldn’t look in the mirror if it was thrust in your face because you knew what you’d see and it isn’t a pretty sight.

Faded, unwashed hair straggling around your face is the least of your concerns, but the eyes…Oh those eyes, the dark look of hopelessness looming there is what makes others look away, it is so, so…what it is? Only you can say for sure: lonely? Despairing? Filled with a lifetime of pain, heartache, and grief?

You are plodding down a crowded street, shoved or avoided by the hurrying throng that you hardly notice, but you need a fix: that is your consuming desire, a fix, a fix, but that is exactly what you wanted to avoid at all costs.

 For ten, fifteen, maybe even twenty years or more your life has been a mess of addiction, prostitution and other details known only know to you but where oh where can you get your next very fleeting thrill from a pill, a bottle or a needle?

Natalie, yes, that’s a real person, was facing 

the same desperate situation once.  After serving time in jail, you can imagine what for, she had nowhere to turn, no place to live but, maybe with her sister.

She had been wandering, drifting for so many years that she absolutely loathed it. After reaching the empty apartment Natalie wandered out to the balcony and thought of ending her life by jumping down, but it wasn’t far enough. 

Across the normally teeming street was a new building going up with scaffolding high in the air. That’s where she was headed: that would be a good place to leap from. For some reason there was no one around which was very unusual, as she crossed the street, however, a small black man came out of the shadows and handed her a handwritten letter while saying: ‘Jesus loves you’. She paused to read it and one thing lead to another until she found out about Heart Seasons.

If you live in New York City maybe you have heard about them.

Natalie found a group of people with as bad a history as hers. She found other ‘sisters’ who had tried to recover countless times from addictions, but here at Heart Seasons there was hope. Yes, there really was.

This center was different than many; it focused on Jesus as the only answer. The program was strict, really strict for they were expected to take part in several hours of Bible study every single day, and were not allowed to ever leave without an escort.

After a year and a half or way longer if they wanted, if a person stuck with the program they could graduate, if they were ready. Being ready meant being able to rent an apartment and have a job for at least three months. Most were terrified of leaving, but of course, they weren’t abandoned, they had their support group, and best of all they had Jesus.

Are you like Natalie, desperate, despairing and certain you have tried every ‘solution’ out there?

There is hope. There truly is. Jesus can be your anchor from drifting back into sin. There are friends of Jesus who would love to reach out to you, also.

 Contact me, if you want and I’ll see what I can do to help. Look up Heart Seasons in the telephone book, or elsewhere. I’m trying to find an address for you.

P.S. I tried to find the website for you but the link appeared to be broken: try this:

The Bowery Mission Women’s Center at Heartsease Home

Whatever you do, never, never, never give up; there is hope.

Mommy LOVES You

I don’t know your name, or your exact story, but I do know you’re hurting, sad. Just a few years ago you looked at ‘them’ with wide, uncomprehending eyes. You were a child, innocent, bewildered that people could do such things. Even in your childlike way you know they were being bad. But they kept on being bad, and when you cried they hurt you, too. You were a child, innocent and uncomprehending. For a while you would block it out because you couldn’t understand it anyways, sometimes you would even forget long enough to play a little.

But that didn’t last. As the abuse got worse, and they started to do it to you more and more often, you became afraid, it became harder to forget the cruelty and other things you didn’t know the names for.

After a while you were big enough to go to school. Someone saw your round, horror-filled eyes and they knew. They knew you had seen too much, suffered too much, but they didn’t know what to do.

That happened to me. I saw a little girl on the street once, she looked at me, I looked at her, and I saw. I read the message of pain in her eyes but felt helpless to do anything.

I still feel helpless, and want to do more, so, so much more. Sometimes I cry when girls just like you tell me the terrible things that bad ‘Daddy’s’ do to them.

I know you are afraid to share with me and I know why. You have learned not to trust adults. I want to let you know I care, I will believe you, I will LOVE you. When you are ready you may contact me on Hangouts. Others have. Remember I love YOU and I’m praying for YOU. Will you give me a call so I can show my love, and pray more effectively?

Just call me

Mommy

The others do.

Alone and Suffering

This poem is my gift to you  if you feel all alone and as if no one cares.  If you can, print it out and tuck it in a safe place where you can always find it.

You are the one

That needs a home

A mother's love

A Daddy's care

You are the one

Who haunts my dreams

Disturbs my sleep

With your sad stare.

You are the one 

Who will be sighing

In some dark place

Alone tonight.

You are the one

I'd love to find

Take to my heart

And hold you tight.

Oh Precious Child

Just pray to God

And trust in Him

I know He cares

Oh Troubled Child

I pray someone 

Will Find you soon

And call you theirs.

Music in the Dungeon

I don’t suppose it would be very much fun being  locked up in a dungeon, would you? As a matter of fact I can’t think of one thing pleasant about it. Just listening to the background noises would be quite disturbing to say the least. Hear all that screaming? Without a doubt someone is getting a beating with far more stripes than most crimes could ever warrant. Then of course there is the bitter quarreling, curses and terrible groans of agony…and the mean, nasty, long teethed rats…

                Enough for the sounds: what about the smells? Maybe we shouldn’t even go there, it reeks like, like  an old fashioned outhouse . Enough said, right, because there are people living in that filth.

                There’s plenty of prisoners confined tonight in those dreadful quarters and it is pitch dark. No one can see their hand, even if they put it right in front of their face. That is enough miseries right? But things are about to get worse. The whole stone building begins to tremble and shake, and this is in the black of night, mind you. All other sounds are drowned out by the blood curdling screams of a hundred captives.

When the ruckus dies down a bit, the strangest sound can be heard. It is of singing. Singing? In a dungeon? In the dark of night? During an earthquake? Yes, and it was as soothing as a canary’s melody in a coal mine.

Who are those singing under such dire circumstances? It is Paul and Silas., not that you can see them, mind you, but they are the two confined by stocks.

I also am confined against my will. It is the prison of my flesh which urges me to do things I really shouldn’t, and makes it difficult to soar like an eagle to heights of power and victory in Jesus like I long to. Someday my chains also will be loosened and so, meanwhile I can sing in prison!

Acts 16:23-26  www.biblestudytools.com/kjv/

Nightmare World

We live in a nightmare world. I’m sure there are people right at this moment who are surfing the net while trying to block out terrible memories. Maybe they are hiding behind the shame of having been brutally beaten. Maybe they have been verbally abused so many times they half believe the lies that are told them. I know a little girl who is constantly being bullied. I try to help but what will be the long range results of such cruelty? I also know a woman who was physically abused as a child and it carried over into her first marriage. She managed to escape when he threatened to shoot her and the children, but the second marriage was just as bad in different ways. Are you caught in the same sort of trap and no one seems to care and understand?

What are you being called? Do you believe the lies? How have you been treated today, this last week or month? Are you the victim of an alcoholic or someone who is mentally ill? Are you too fearful or ashamed to admit it? Do you have anyone to go to that you feel safe with?

I’m not sitting in an ivory tower somewhere and tossing down bits of advice to you. I’ve been in the gutter also. I have felt the anger, the hatred and depression that comes from being molested. But I have also learned how to forgive and the healing that eventually comes with it. It wasn’t easy. I suffered emotionally for many years because of what happened, but now I am free. Now I want to reach out a helping hand to you and let you know there is a way of escape. There is hope and a light at the end of the tunnel.

To start with I’d like you to repeat these words at least ten times a day.

I am precious in the eyes of the Lord. I do not deserve to be abused. God does not want me to be abused. I am a worthwhile person.

We can’t see the future so from one day to the next it might not seem like anything is changing, but if you trust God to lead you, someday you will be able to look back and see that things have gotten better. And remember I am praying for you.

marilynfriesen.blogspot.com

Grieving Mary

Excerpt from my book: Mary's Diary, the Life of Jesus through His Mother's Eyes

Dear Diary;

I am so distressed! There is something in the air! I can feel it! The

animosity towards Yeshua is as thick as an ominous cloud. I know the

religious rulers are planning evil against Him. I know He is not safe

here. Oh, Yeshua, Yeshua, I wish You hadn’t come. I wish You would

flee like a bird to the mountains! I wish that HaShem, God would somehow

hide You like He did when they wanted to cast you off the embankment

in Nazareth! I fear for You! I’m so afraid the Great I AM will not save

you, this time.

Oh, El’Elohim, have mercy, please, please have mercy on my Son.

231

Eventide

Of the same day

Dear Diary;

Yeshua and His talmidim, disciples went to a friend’s place to celebrate the

Passover. I would have given all that I have to have been there with Him.

I spend much time on the rooftop gazing at the darkening sky, my

hands clasped in prayer. I think I saw Him leave John Mark’s house

and head for the Olive Orchard. Oh I wish He would stay where it is

safe . . . a little safer, at least.

Later, much later; I saw soldiers with torches heading that way.

It can mean no good. Oh, that my eyes could see in the dark and

penetrate through trees, so I could know what was going on. Someone

tell me, please, what is that hubbub in the streets all about? At this

hour. Oh, what is going on? Tell me, please, tell me what is going on?

Oh, Yeshua, Yeshua! Are you safe? Is it well with You?

Dear Diary;

A man is running down the street! Would He be coming to this

house? He runs like Yochanam (John)

! He sees me! He is calling my name! He

wants me to come! It must be because of Yeshua!

I must go!

20th Nissan

April 12th

Dear Diary;

They crucified my Son, today. I can hardly bear to sit down and

write, yet if I do, perchance there will be healing for my spirit. Nay

there cannot be healing. Nothing can heal my torn, bleeding, broken

spirit. There is no grief as insufferable as losing a tinoki in such a cruel,

Just Pretend to Change

“Claudine, don't be so hard on yourself,” a childhood friend pleaded as she handed her a basket after the guard had left. “Just give lip service to their demands.”

If You Have a heart This Letter Should Break It

If you have a heart, this letter should break it. If you have eyes, it should cause them to weep. I am about to share with you the text of a final letter from a dying Christian prisoner to his mother.

So important were its contents that he refused to post it for fear the censors would tear it up. Instead he entrusted it to a fellow prisoner who had four more years to serve. But after four years, he was not released. He memorized it and passed it on to a friendly guard, who told a soldier friend who was on his way to Tibet. The friend told his mother, who telephoned the prisoner’s mother with the text of the letter—five years after it was written, and three years after his death!

Oh, my mother, dear mother!

I have not been a good son! I have brought disgrace upon you and all the family. I hope you can forgive me. I am dying.

You brought me up to be a good boy. You gave me food, love and affection. And what did I do to repay you? I daubed an antigovernment slogan on the wall and got life imprisonment. Life imprisonment when my life was only eighteen years old. You raised me for more than this. I am sorry.

And now your son is 31. He will not live past 33. I have cancer of the intestines, and my jailers will not pay for the operation. Instead of working underground in the mine, I mind a tiny storage shed full of rusty tins and tools. I retch all day. No one comes near.

But at least I can look over the desert and watch the shifting of the sands. For eight years I never saw the sunlight. I was taken from the barracks through a tunnel to the mine. A room, a corridor, and a shaft were all the worlds I had. Now my world is bigger but it is coming to an end. There is no hope.

And so I have sat on my stool and thought for many hours. I cried many tears, mostly for the things I never did. I never kissed a woman. I never owned even a toothbrush. Never received a pay check never ate a gourmet meal, never built a kite for an excited child. Above all, I never said how much I owed you and never said how sorry I am to grieve you—until now. Boys were not made to bring their mothers such sorrow; otherwise no one would have them.

I have come to two conclusions: One is that this is not the only world there is. I cannot believe I went through the miracle of birth to live a life like this, I believe there is another world where there is a table I can choose to sit at, sip the finest wines, eat to my heart’s content, make friends with whomever I like, speak without fear, and not be marched away when the half-hour gong is sounded.

And I also believe there is someone there—who is also here—who sits at the head of that table. A fellow prisoner told me of one who said, “My yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” I do not know what that really means. All I can say is when I heard the words, I felt a relief, that my death was not the end, and my life was not in vain.

My dying charge to you, my mother, is find out who spoke those words, so that we may dine together with Him. Your poor son.

support@emypeople.net