Broken Vessels (eBook)

Chapter 2

A flawed start on a good foundation

My parents always struggled with their finances, and it seems like we were always in debt. Since both my parents had to work and could not afford childcare, I lived a lot with my grandparents. I was always considered by them to be “their baby” or youngest child. They raised me as their child. They were “old-fashioned Pentecostal” ministers who believed in God and in the power of prayer. We lived in the church parsonage next door to the church my grandpa pastored. My grandpa would go to his church after lunch each day. There were days that I would lie in the grass outside his office door, playing in a clover patch. As I played, I always heard him crying out in prayer, asking God to protect his children and grandchildren. He would call each of our names out loud. After praying for his family, he would pray for every member of the church, their families, and any additional prayer needs. As a small child, I would find myself praying, asking God to hurry him up so he could play with me. I never realized that during these times, a hunger and love for prayer were being imparted to me. I picked up his mantel of prayer and the love for prayer for those God has laid on my heart.

I remember my grandparents praying over me, especially at night before bed when I was missing my parents. They would pray for peace and asked God to protect me, to keep His hand upon my life. God was faithful to their prayers. It has been evident all through my life, as you will see. God has protected me and continues to direct my path. I didn’t know a lot about God, but I knew He was love and that only real love came from Him.

As I grew older, I was taught not to partake in the things of the world that were sinful and against God. I was taught to guard against the sins of the flesh so that I would be able to live a “life of holiness.” I was taught to remember that God’s word teaches us, “If a woman has long hair, it is a glory to her; for her hair is given to her for a covering” (1 Cor 11:14 NKJV). I will explain later why this verse is so pertinent to my life and to my path toward healing and freedom. I was taught that to love God is to honor Him and His word and that we must be servants for Him to all, especially those within His church.

However, I was never taught how to deal with the hurt and pain that people caused me, especially those I loved so dearly. I was taught to endure suffering quietly and without complaint. I was never taught how to process my emotions or discuss painful events. I don’t remember anyone teaching or preaching John 14:30 (Amplified): “The prince (evil genius, ruler) of the world is coming. And he has no claim on Me—he has nothing in common with Me, there is nothing in Me that belongs to him, he has no power over Me.” As a young child, I did not understand how to guard my heart against evil or how to keep the evil one from having a claim on me. I held a very simple belief that long hair was my covering. I never questioned what I was taught, and I retained their words of instruction within my heart.

I loved the time I was living with my grandparents, but I do have a few strong, painful memories that have stuck with me. The first memory I have is of a Sunday morning service when I was around four years old. I was told that I had to sing a solo accompanied by my aunt Sharon playing the piano. I did not want to participate, but with my grandma’s persuasion (bribe), I agreed. I got about halfway through the song when I overheard two ladies in the second row laughing out loud and saying, “Oh, she is so cute but can’t carry a tune!” I can distinctly remember how humiliated I felt! I stopped right then, crossed my arms, cried, and stomped away. I told my grandma I didn’t want her gift (her bribe). I made a vow that I would never do this again. To this day, I still remember this experience every time I open my mouth to praise the Lord. Thankfully, through God’s healing work in my heart, I have learned to laugh at the enemy trying to close my mouth again, and I sing louder!

The second painful memory is more devastating. My parents would come by for visits, typically over the weekend. At the end of the weekend, my parents would sneak off so that I wouldn’t make a fuss. They would lie to me, telling me they weren’t leaving, but they always did, and I would be crushed. I recognize now that these actions left me with abandoned issues later in life and with the inability to trust my parents in any capacity.

As our family grew, my parents had two additional children. It then became necessary for me to spend more time living at home with my family. In birth order, I am the firstborn of three children. There is a seven-and-a-half-year gap between me and my younger brother, Jene (the middle child), and a nine-year gap between me and my youngest brother, Jeff. Being the firstborn and only girl in my family, I found myself in the responsible position of “parenting” my younger siblings. Both of my parents had to work, so a lot of the childcare responsibility fell upon me, and I welcomed it with open arms. I don’t remember being resentful of the responsibility, but I was no longer able to spend as much time with my grandparents as I would have liked. I went from being “Grandpa’s little princess” to becoming an eight-year-old mother and maid, or so I felt.

When I was nine, my dad decided we should move to California so we could experience the “good life.” At that time, my mother was pregnant with Jeff. Jene, the middle child, was always getting sick, requiring a lot of care from time to time. I remember that life was very difficult during that period of my life. My mother cried often, saying she wished she were dead and not pregnant. She didn’t want another baby, and she wished he would die. I thought if she really felt this way about this unborn baby, she must feel the same way about Jene and me. I had a hard time understanding this since I was taught that a child was a gift from God.

It wasn’t too many months after moving to Modesto that my mother gave birth to Jeff. Being a child myself, I never understood the mood swings due to the “baby blues.” After coming home from the hospital with the baby, my mother was very disturbed emotionally. The very afternoon she came home, she became hysterical and took off walking. She said she was leaving and never coming back. I took my baby brother and held him in my arms, along with my brother, Jene. I promised them that they didn’t have to worry. I would always be there to take care of them, even if Mom decided to never come home. Dad found her, but it took three days before he could convince her to come back. During this time, I took on the responsibility of “mothering” my brothers.

Things continued to get worse, and we soon moved to Los Angeles. Dad decided he wanted to live by the ocean and thought he could get a better job in L.A. We lived in a one-bedroom house that was falling apart, but it was clean. My mother always demanded a spotless home. Our home was located outside of the “Watts District” of L.A. This was during the late 60s, the time of the “Watts riots.” The house had an enclosed front porch with a glass upper half. The porch was my bedroom. There was a bed, but no drapes or curtains. I would lay in my bed at night and see buildings burning from a distance. My dad was very prejudiced against black people. He continuously fed racial fear into my heart. The riots seem to validate and even amplify those fears.

When I was in the third grade (this was the third school I had attended that school year), there was this little black boy who sat next to me. He was so cute, and he asked me if I would be his friend. We would spend our recess together playing dodgeball. A few days later, my dad asked me how things were going at school, and I told him I had met a little boy who wanted me to be his friend. I told him he was black. The next day, my dad went to school and demanded that this little boy, my only friend, be moved to the other side of the classroom. My dad was loud and expressed his anger and prejudice without regret. I was so embarrassed by my dad’s behavior. My dad didn’t want any black person talking to me, much less sitting next to me. I was always very shy, and since we moved around a lot, it was very difficult to make friends. This was so unfair, and I knew it was wrong. At that moment, I purposed in my heart that I would never be a person given to prejudice.

Several months before school was out, my mother started to keep me home from school. She was working long, hard hours and couldn’t afford childcare for my brothers, so the only choice was for me to stay home and care for them. I would keep the doors locked and the draperies closed. The school officials would send a social services person to check my house since I had been absent from school for so long. I was always terrified they would arrest my parents or, even worse, remove me and my brothers from our home.

My dad finally found a job and went to work for the Mattel Corporation. He was allowed to purchase toys at a discount, but even at a discount, we couldn’t really afford them. One day, he brought home two new toys that he just had to have. One was an “Ouija Board,” and the other was a “Magic 8 Ball.” Dad really enjoyed playing with the “Ouija Board.” He was always saying, “This thing really works. It answered my questions truthfully!” Or, so he thought. Dad’s bringing these specific toys into our home had a detrimental spiritual significance that I will discuss later.

Things continued to get worse, and my parents decided it was time to move...