7 minute read
What You Believe
What You Believe
Charlene Miller
As I wrote this, I struggled to think of a lighthearted, witty, funny anecdote to begin my testimony. And while I have many such stories, just talk to me after church to find out about last Easter with my son and Target, try as hard as I could, there was no way to fit a fun anecdote. My husband advised me to prepare you for the heaviness of my testimony and I quote him, “some of these things you could say to someone would suck the breath out of them.” Even when I retell these stories to my husband, who has lived some of this with me, his eyes get wide as I charge straight on through. So, you’ll have to forgive me if I am blunt because this was my life. This is what God rescued me from. There’s no soft way to tell it.
I recently read this quote from Tish Harrison Warren’s recent book, Prayer in the Night, that really struck me, “We have to decide what we believe about who God is and what he is like.”
Growing up, my parents informed my beliefs of who God was and what he was like. My parents separated when I was in elementary school, and my early memories of God were from my mother falling to the ground and wailing to God, “Why have you cursed me with such horrible kids? Why God?” She had just finished choking me, and this was her response—to cry out to something for her misfortune. Looking back, I now know my mother had an unmedicated mental disorder that caused violent episodes like this. For a ten-year-old, this was all very confusing. God had given me this mother who could not take care of me, and that was scary. And more so, it seemed he was on her side.
Between the ages of 10 and 14 years old, my visitations with my mother dwindled. And eventually she moved away when I was 14, citing that I was too much of a burden to be around. I remember thinking, how could there be a God who gave me this mother who doesn’t love me?
On the other hand, my father raised me to be a good student, a hard worker, to say my prayers, and to fear God. My father was an abusive alcoholic who I was afraid of, but he believed in God. And believed God had dealt him a bad hand. He believed in an angry God and perhaps was angry with God himself. Those high school years, because of the physical abuse, I went to school in long sleeve shirts and had a rotation of friends who bought me school lunches, because at home I was not worthy of those things.
A dear friend noticed me and began to invite me to church house groups on Sunday, where they served free lunches and gave me an opportunity to be away from my own home. This led to an invitation to a weekend high school retreat at a swanky (to me) hotel, again with food and safety. The reason for the retreat—getting to know God more—was very far from my mind. But fortunately, I wasn’t far from God’s mind. This retreat was the first time I heard the gospel. I heard of a loving God, who cared about me, and there was nothing I could do to earn that love. This was the first time I learned about Jesus and what he did for me. And what he can continue to do in my life. That a relationship with God was active and living. I could participate. And I so wanted to. I was filled with the joy and hope that the gospel brings.
Coming home from retreat was a different story and where things went sideways for me. My father did not understand what was going on with me. He is convinced to this day that I joined a cult. I continued to suffer abuse at his hands, but this time I could cry out to God. I could say you know the plans you have for me, thy will be done, and wrestle with what it meant to honor my father and mother.
On early Easter morning, my dad, after a night of drinking, threatening and verbally assaulting me told me that I had to leave and never come back. He did not like my newfound faith in Christ. At 2 a.m. Easter morning, I left my home with my coat and my wallet and started walking. The Lord reminded me of a family that lived in a different town whom I had visited once, and my dad didn’t know. As I knocked on the front door, I saw a light was on. The husband answered the door and let me in. I later found out the Lord had woken him from his sleep to come downstairs and do some late-night work. Had he not come downstairs, the family wouldn’t have heard me knocking. The Lord is good.
To this day, this remains a turning point in my life. Talk about trusting God, turning from mother and father, being persecuted for your convictions. It’s not something I would wish on anyone, let alone an 18-year-old who hasn’t graduated high school yet. But what an opportunity to trust in the Lord to provide for your needs as he does the sparrows. It strengthened my faith and continues to in the way I relate to and lean on the Lord. The Lord continues to be my Father, my provider, my Savior. I had to trust him to meet my needs because there was no one else. I graduated high school and college and learned to consider the church my family.
If you’ve gotten to know us this past year we’ve been at College Church, you may have noticed that I have tactfully avoided talking about my past. It’s hard. Vulnerability is hard. I would go so far to say it is hard to be surrounded by people who have generations of whole and solid Christian families. That is not my story. But it is the hope for my son’s story. My hope is that he will know the gospel and know the church as his family.
Just as God saw me through my own proverbial Egypt, I know he will see me through this current season of an undiagnosed medical condition. I wake up not knowing each day whether my legs are going to be able to walk. Whether one side of my body is going to go limp, and I will be rushed to the ER to check for a stroke. As I lay as still as possible in a big CT machine looking for errors in my brain, I have a small nagging longing for my mother and father to come and take care of me and remember that they can’t.
I re-mourn. But a wave of peace washes over me as I remember my God has provided for my every need, and he led me to this church body. And I rejoice in his goodness!
Growing up, no teacher, no lawyer, no counselor, none of my friends’ parents saw the abuse I was facing, but God saw, and he became my rescuer. You may be at a point where you need to consider what you believe about God and who is us. Is he good? Merciful? Is he a father to you? A friend? Healer? The beauty of God is that he is infinite. He reveals himself in different ways to us in different seasons.
So, what do you believe about God and who he is?
