Relax. It's a "safe house."

Is there no qualification for the calling of God? How great is His mercy to allow me a chance to do what I did there? What courage did He put in my heart to walk the halls as I did? And thus, and henceforth, and therein. . .

The fear I felt. The knowledge that I was going where the battered fled, but having no peace about where I was fleeing, as a refugee in my own country from the man whom I swore I'd love, who swore to love me.

How do you flee? How is it that you rip yourself apart? How great must the agony be? It is a fanatical blur. I was intoxicated with desperation for God on a level I had never previously known. How can you carry children when you feel smallest of all? Somewhere inside you, you feel the twinge of spiritual muscle growth and you put one foot in front of the other, and you move. You move and you breathe in slowly and painfully, or you die.

HE WILL KILL YOU IF YOU ARE FOUND!

The darkness will EAT you ALIVE!!! MOOOOOOOOVE WOMAN! FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE!

Dear, GOD?! Where do I run?

To me, child. And don't you dare let your eyes wander. 

FIX your eyes on me. 

My love is deadly for the wicked.

It's too much.

They SHRIEK in fear.

But not you.

No, not you.

I will protect you. I will hold you. I will keep you safe I SWEAR! 

I am the LORD your God. You have nothing to fear.

And every day on my KNEES I went before God, crying buckets from the depth of my soul, my eyes so swollen I could not blink. 

Inside the walls of a "safe house," you find nothing safe. What baggage one woman carries, what demons ONE girl possesses, are enough for an army to battle for a lifetime. The depths of sin....

....but "the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."

Her shirt was so skin tight, you could see the rise and fall of nipples so scared they may as well crack. Skin so tense you could scarcely tell if she had been shooting up or had merely been beaten so much her skin froze on her body in that awkward taught fashion out of terror. Bruises. Bruises on her psyche. Hair in a mat. But she kept her air about her. False pretenses of bleach blonde hair brushed meticulously and tossed above a sleek black body suit formed to her petite legs, so glamorous behind her bold black glasses and high-end lip gloss. Her lips pouted that quarter inch apart, enough to attract just about any man, but that must not have been her goal.

Dear God, why would any woman want to chase after another man while running?!?!

Two bags. Two bag limit per person. I'd be damned if that didn't include two bags for my puppy.

Roused suspicions permeated the windows streaked with their tears and their shadows. Their hindered prayers were visibly caught in cobwebs. What can live and move and breathe in such a dungeon? Demons love these places, and you can feel them crawling across the sheets while you sleep.

Can you imagine?

Cabinets were haphazardly filled with food labeled with names of past residents who fled again too quickly to take their food items with them, and then some "house" food that may have been years old.  A big refrigerator was stuffed with awkward and half spoiled, on-sale bologna that frightened you to touch the packaging of. There were shelves with labels for residents, too, but the moment I put my own items in there, because I insist on buying organic or as close to non-gmo as I can, mine were stolen. More than once, this happened. Too many onions were placed hospitably in a milk crate in the garage in order to ease the stress of "nowheredom." Why? Who wants onions on their own? Eat them like apples? No one in such a situation wants to make a crock of french onion soup. Nomadic. Grievous. Apostate veggies for the misfit women of traditional life in a modern culture; wishing, dreaming, woefully resenting. But really, that's insoluble. I was the only misfit woman of traditional life residing there: That is to say, I was the only woman with traditional values and morals. I slept the least and worked the hardest toward my goals. I had more children and I appeared to have more to smile about, as well. Outspoken, eager to survive, eager to find solutions, eager to serve. My wings were most definitely clipped but I was itching to get through this time.

There was the one resident whom I called "Mrs Craigslist," for example. Bad situation, but she found her solace in contacting strange men from CL to self-medicate. I couldn't understand. She even used the safe house phone for hours and hours. I heard the guy's voice. I told him he was a fool and had no idea what he was getting himself into. Same for her. My admonishments were blunt. What did I have to lose? Nothing. I can't understand why people in bad situations gravitate toward such great folly. It all made me hate the world and all its inhabitants. Disgusting sinners, wretched hearts. Alas, that was my own wretched flesh talking, struggling with my own salvation, working it out moment by ugly moment, trying to remain optimistic, confessing and repenting and confessing and blessing.

I was the oldest resident for some time, and the only one who was fleeing from a marriage for safety. I prayed for protection over my family and prayed for the protection of angels and rebuked demonic forces. Adieu! Back to hell they obviously went, because in a matter of less than 24 hours, every resident left! I mean out of nowhere, packed up and bolted. It was incredible. For about five days following that event, I was alone in that big house. And I was scarcely monitored by any staff person. This safe house had cameras and a coded door and alarms, but I was on my own more or less, and I loved it. I was able to defrag and cry and pray. The climate changed. It felt peaceful, relaxed, and manageable. Something had been in that house that was purely demonic.

Then, the silence broke, and older women came. Some were far more disturbing than the younger generation that had just left. I pushed myself much harder to get out and relentlessly networked with whomever I could. I didn't fit in with anyone at all, but even still, I wanted to listen to the women who came in the door. Some looked for quiet. Some could not handle quiet. Some were busting at the seams. They didn't permit themselves to scream, so instead they rolled cigarettes, chain smoking enough to build a chain-link fence by connecting the buts: no ands, ifs, or buts. The alarm was deafening at night when they'd forget about the auto-set at midnight. Sleep was a miss and I was not happy about their laziness or disregard for other residents in the house with young children-- primarily, no, exclusively myself. Why is courtesy so hard to come by these days? 

I cowered at what I saw. Why did this safe house, for example, have a drawer with condoms in it? It was a sick joke. Like a small girl, I just wanted to cry in the arms of a strong, protective man with strong arms and let my tears soak their shirt and their neck and breathe all over them and fall asleep drenched and really not give a damn. But, that's what I needed to be protected from. When you're THAT vulnerable, the only one equipped for the job is Jesus, and Jesus is all I had, and Jesus remains all I have.

And I often hate that, and then I resent hating that, because He is immeasurably perfect. But I am human. I am a woman. I am feeble and weak, but mostly just weak, and weakness isn't so bad, nor does it last, because this writing builds inside me tons of strength. There is power in story-telling. Non-fiction. This ain't your grandma's parable.

The safe house I stayed at was not suited for a safe house. It was originally built in the 70s, if I recall, as a group home for adults with disabilities. This meant showers had bars to hold onto and windows were large and did not open. They forgot to install a cooling system, so when the heat picked up to 100 degrees, my sweet children and I were left sweating, aching for the freezer so we could take turns letting the film of sweat we'd frivolously applied [involuntarily] freeze for a moment. Then back to the grind. Back and forth.

I made more weekly goals while I was there than all of the residents put together. My case manager never had a word to add. She was afraid I was making too many goals, actually. She asked me if I was able to find a way to rest and take time for myself. 

I knew I'd crash if I didn't, but I did not feel safe enough to crash until all of my goals were met. So every day what I did was push myself to the extreme. Push harder, every day. Get up. Doesn't MATTER how tired. Push push push. Get out of the place you're in.

Some residents who came wanted to be around me a lot. They sensed light. I went behind their backs and threw away books I saw in the communal living area that touched my spirit in volatile ways: One called "Obsession" and one called "Dancing with Demons" or somesuch. I knew that if I were to be reprimanded for any particular reason, I would not mind that being the reason.

I prayed relentlessly. I anointed the door posts and the walls and the windows with oil. I sang worship songs. I praised God verbally in front of the residents who were loster than lost. I did not care. I felt strongly that I HAD to use this place for the kingdom. I HAD to take advantage of the opportunity I was given to witness to these other abused women. Was I not sought by His own hand? Did He not use someone to reach me? Was I not ripe for the picking, knowing my sin?

I know from what darkness I have come. I know that even in my darkest moments, He is there. I know that when He is there, the darkness cannot win. It is an impossible feat.

So that's what I did. I met my goals, I made a thousand of them, I was still using a breast pump exclusively, I was managing my little lost household in one little bedroom, and I was surviving. And I hated it. But I smiled. I put on my big girl pants every day and I said to myself "I must affirm myself even though I don't believe a WORD of it. I must do this to honor God because He made me and I am His and I must remind myself of that truth until the truth of that fills my whole being with the joy of His salvation. I must get it back. I must fight against the demons who strike my right and my left. I must win."

My relationship with my oldest began to deteriorate here. He was jealous, confused, hurt, resentful, and lacking in foundation while I crumbled and clung to dangling ropes of affirmation. I was punched, bit, kicked, and insulted and screamed at to my face. He would hold onto things while I tried to pick him up and carry him to bed. Every night he'd get out of bed about six times, and throw massive fits. What was it about? Daddy. He was acting out in the only way he knew how to process and it was so ugly. I hated myself a lot because of this. How could I have failed my son so much? I did by not leaving sooner and not putting my foot down more effectively. You know? I should have taken the belt from my ex husband if it meant him not using it on our son, but then he'd lock himself with our son in the bathroom and go at it.

I was reminded, and this had to be drilled into my brain by quite a few people, that his actions were normal, and that they'd subside, probably by the time school started, as long as I was consistent. So then I was terrified that I wouldn't be consistent. Again, even in this, the Lord proved faithful. I prayed that He would help me to be consistent. I still pray that every day. He entered into domestic violence counseling and I did for myself, as well. I could not dare to hurt my child. He'd seen WAY too much already. I was going to be his safety net no matter what.

And I kept up the habit. That's how I get through my days now, too. I am diligent, self-controlled, goal-oriented, practical, frugal, and I wait on the Lord for everything. I answer only to Him, I long for more, I confess my longings, and I wait. I grit my teeth and I breathe and I cry and I laugh and I wait. 

And He delivers me from myself.

And He loves me.

And I don't have to earn His love.

I'm good enough for Him to love with His perfect, holy righteous love.

And I like it.

His love for me is more intimate than the dawn I crave every morning upon my lashes, breathing life through my veins, opening wide the chasms of hurt I know too well so that He can heal them with His heat.

It is good.

I'd tell you specifically what else happened there, but I dare not break confidentiality, even if I never see those residents again. I witnessed to them. I held them. I allowed them to cry upon my shoulders and talked them through their panic attacks the way I wish my ex husband had done for me when I had mine. I was the friend I wanted to have and excelling in that area of compassion drove me further to pursue my own two feet, my own space, and my own sanity. I thought "well, maybe school." Believe me when I say I have stories. I have heard much. I have greater amount of empathy than I used to, for women and children, and also for men who have to endure the sting of battered women who desire love but have trust issues because of the poor excuses for men out there who boisterously walk about. I have SO much compassion for families, and though my heart is now very divided about some things pertaining to the military, I know I can serve broken and breaking families because of what I endured. I know more about functional love (but still don't ask me about falling in and out -- I'm so torn about that -- someone help me), and I know more about how to instill and enforce proper boundaries. Nothing is wasted. He gives freely. I'm nowhere near done processing, of course. I just love Him, I love those He's given me, and I hate evil, and that's why I persevere.

It was during this time, this small season, that I realized I was seven years exactly from when my ex husband had deployed and I accepted a position as an Overnight Resident Adviser at a women and children's homeless shelter. It was really something when I saw how the table had turned! What perspective! A major paradigm shift took place and the reality of being gifted such a full understanding rocked me. Now having been on the receiving end of such pale, staunch humility, I know the purposes it fulfills, and I understand the why and the how and the when and the "please, God, NO!" I know why women are too scared to stay. The very core property of a safe house is its admittance of transparency. Your true colors will come out whether or not you want them to, and you will have to face them. You'll tremble in terror at the realization of what you are made of AND of what you're not made of, and you'll have to choose between the scary unknown and possibility of losing yourself and your children if you don't "make it," or... you go back to the abusive situation. 9 times out of 10, women will go back, uneasy about independents, lost for self-confidence, and lost for resources. I think it's telling that I was ripped out of my situation with gusto and did not go back -- yet I had no resources. It's sobering and from the outsider's perspective, also sounds delusional. Faith can be like that, because women without resources are sitting ducks. Without self-defense, we are sitting ducks. And without support, we are sitting ducks.

But without God.... we are not even sitting ducks.   

I fought through the paperwork efforts necessary to win my children's hearts and the heart of the judge. Technically I did not even have a lawyer. I did it anyway, while many watched with twitching faces, wondering how in the world I was handling so much with a bit of grace. Sole legal and physical custody belongs to me. I prayed long and hard and even decided against pressing for child support. I felt strongly that there was no use in fighting for dirty money from a man I wanted no contact with at all. Why give him extra reason to harbor a grudge? (He'll find reasons enough.) I sat through family law classes. I sought legal counsel in two different states and two counties but could not get any legal advocacy because of interstate jurisdiction rules. Where I was could not represent me because of where I went, and where I went could not represent me because of where the case was filed. I went not two miles out of my comfort zone, but two hundred. And the Lord honored this. He granted me my heart's desires. The divorce went through without so much as a court date. My ex husband filed no complaint, responded not, and failed to contact me. It was incredible, and also incredibly stressful.

The one time I saw him, I was in the courthouse for the protection order hearing. I saw him and his service dog, who glanced over at me with her sweet loving eyes, although she knew there was a barrier she could not cross. I was with a few members of the police force and my church's associate pastor, as well as the bailiff and security from the courthouse itself. Yes, I had that many people surrounding me, strategically placed in the waiting area. When court was in session and we were both called up, the ex did not contest. The judge asked him four times in a row if he understood what he was saying. He said he did. You could have heard a pin drop. I was escorted out and instructed to call 911 if I felt I was being followed. Praise Jesus, I think He held the ex back. Justice. Oh, how I love Your laws, Lord!!

By this point, I had not been to my own house to retrieve belongings. It had been about a month, maybe a little more. I had written them as mine into the divorce summons, but had to wait a terrible length of time before I could get to the duplex. I had no idea what I'd find there and cannot begin to articulate the sense of uneasiness I felt at just the thought of going back there. There was evil in that house. A very real evil. And thus I was captive in crevice of sorts, between a rock and a hard place, cautious before everyone, stiff, eyes straight, anxiety explosive. I waited for the means to get my things out, as I had no idea how I would or if I could.

But God made a way for this too, and walking it out terrified me, although He was with me. Reconnaissance. Intelligence. Ten steps ahead of the evil one, I learned how to be cunning and yet harmless.

From the Acapella works of Eric Whitacre
http://youtu.be/p7nf1agjkBU

Go, lovely Rose-

Tell her that wastes her time and me,

That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied,

That hadst thou sprung

In deserts where no men abide,

Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retired:

Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desired,

And not blush so to be admired.

Then died-and gone

The common fate of all things rare

May read in thee;

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!