I Am Not Garbage

I AM NOT GARBAGE

MY LIFE’S JOURNEY…

HEIREINA REIN JOHNSON

I’M NOT GARBAGE: My Life’s Journey

Rein Johnson

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 Heireina Johnson

ISBN: 9781311303882

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews.

Dedications

I dedicate this book to my sister and best friend, Desiree Lowe-Johnson. Before you left this earth, you read my secret stories and letters, and you told me that everything was going to be all right. Indeed it is. I miss you sorely. I know that you are flying overhead. I feel you in the wind. Rest on my dearest sister. I will see you again.

I dedicate this book to my own children, Paris, Pierre, and Caleb who are now my legacy. I thank you for your unwavering and unconditional love as we have grown closer together. You all mean the world to me. Mommy loves you endlessly.

I dedicate this book to my siblings and to my mother because you have allowed me to share these stories despite the impact on your hearts, minds, and souls. Thank you for letting me heal, but more than that, I am grateful to God for healing us together. I decree every generational curse bound by the authority of the Holy Spirit. Today, we live a new legacy of freedom.

I dedicate this book to my grandmother Leonora Triggs. It isn’t only because of you that I suffered. It is because of you that I lived. I miss you from the bottom of my heart. I only hope to be a powerful legacy that changes what your past has named you and to one day tell your story too.

I dedicate this book to the late Mother Ruth Ella Langston. So much of who I am today, I owe to you. I long for one more conversation with you, but through my tears I can say to you in spirit, Look mom, I did it! I finally got it right. Rest in peace. I will see you again.

I dedicate this book to every lost soul seeking change, growth, and transformation. All things are possible if you believe.

In Loving Memory of

my father, Huey P. Johnson Sr.,

my grandmother Leonora Triggs,

First Lady Ruth Ella Langston,

and my sister, Desiree Lowe –Johnson

CONTENTS

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1

The Shadow Man: Encounters with the Dead

Chapter 2

The Lady Sang the Blues, and So Did I

Chapter 3

Jesus, Savior, Pilot Me

Chapter 4

I Knew Him as Daddy

Chapter 5

Ready or Not, Here Life Comes: Sex, Rape, Lies, and Abortion

Chapter 6

But I Need To Be In Control of Something

Chapter 7

When the Past is Present

Chapter 8

Suicidal Tendencies

Chapter 9

Ashes to Ashes; Dust to Dust

Chapter 10

Transformation by Default

Chapter 11

The Dating Game:

Chapter 12

Transformation Revelation: So what is it anyway?

Chapter 13

I Am Not Garbage

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

We appeal gently when evil things are said about us. Yet we are treated like the world’s garbage, like everybody’s trash –right up to the present moment.

1Corinthians 4:13 New Living Translation

Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is--his good, pleasing and perfect will.

Romans 12:2 New Living Translation

Introduction

If you are anything like me, when you purchase a new book on a topic of interest, you skip right over the introduction to get to the heart of the matter. Since you stopped here, let me first thank you, and then let me express how grateful I am because I have some important things to say that shouldn’t be skipped over. That is, they are important for me to say, and I hope that you see some benefit as well.

Scars

Scars are very interesting things. By definition, they replace normal skin and result as a part of the biological process of wound repair. I won’t get theologically deep and seize the opportunity to insert a sermon about healing here; instead, I’ll simply suggest that when a wound has been inflicted upon an area of the body, depending on how deep it is, it may heal over, but some wounds leave clearly defined marks behind as a reminder that a wound once existed there. It often takes some sort of reminder, like a glance or someone else noticing it, touching it, or making reference to it that sends us all the way back to the time we sustained the initial injury. It’s funny how the memory can conjure up vivid and even emotional detail, which often transports us into the very moment we fell off that bike, received that whipping, tripped, or hurt ourselves in some other significant way.

We can almost feel it happening to us all over again, recalling easily that sting, burn, and searing pain. Don’t let someone call us into explaining how we obtained that scar. We can go on and on with such detail and recall, sometimes crying and/or laughing along the way. Every emotion we felt then becomes so clear in our verbal depiction that the hearer is pulled into that brief moment in time along with us. We become a verbal and visual memory for the moment. Still, when all is said and done, we run our finger over it and simply move on to the next thought.

I imagine it is the same with the psyche and the soul. In life we sustain many emotional injuries, some are deeper than others. Sure we mature, and it is true that in many cases time heals even emotional wounds, but there is something about an emotional puncture that just doesn’t leave you the same as you once were. We have a tendency as human beings (because we dislike pain) to fold up those memories, pack them into our emotional suitcases, and stack them high and deep within ourselves never noticing that story peeking through that zipper or that issue spilling out from beyond that garment bag latch. We can’t always perceive that emotional garment that has fallen off its hanger and is weighing us down making our daily journey heavier.

Much like physical scars manifest upon the skin, emotional scars deeply invade our lives creating more and more history sometimes traumatic and consequential. Our personal stories and chapters greet and wave willingly (and often unknown to us) at everyone we come across in life through our actions, behaviors, emotions, or lack thereof. We tell our stories and reveal our scars in the way we dress, the way we think, the way we move, and even in the way preach and encourage or discourage others. Like that scar on your knee, on your hand, on your arm, or on your head, emotional scars have a lingering presence and often show up at the most unwelcome, unexpected and inconvenient times in our lives. They walk with us on our jobs, take a seat next to us in relationships, and even have the audacity to help us raise our children, passing their genetic history to them, scarring them unfairly and inappropriately.

It’s no wonder we try to hide them. I’ve seen and even considered tattoos to cover physical scars, tried covering them with cosmetics, and I’ve tried hiding them behind my diva-ness in flawless attire. There’s an unspoken rule that scars are flaws and the less of them that you can present to the world, the more perfect you may seem. However, that’s a lie. Just like that physical scar will be revealed with less clothing or perhaps in nudity with that spouse or sexual partner; emotional scars will inevitably spill from the psyche, leak into the heart, and eventually spill over into our words and behaviors. This is what we fear most—being exposed and vulnerable to the world.

If you are anything like me, you have a ferociously religious background, not one that is fanatical per se but is deeply rooted in strong principles of faith and appearance. In my religious background, to admit that you were wounded and were struggling to heal those wounds was almost a sign of spiritual weakness, perhaps you had not surrendered to God enough or really left your all on the altar. If you were still carrying these pains, it was implied that you enjoyed being the victim. So, you learned how to wear a mask of hope when spiritual and emotional (and in some cases physical) death was imminent.

Like most of my spiritual counterparts, I hid my scars and packed away my issues and mounted the pulpit to preach my sermons and sing my songs never noticing that the residue of my past was transferring onto others who sat eagerly in front of me in such vulnerable states. The passion in my words and the depths of my anointing could not cover the scars that were tucked away within. No matter how sweet my songs or how pure my worship, I was broken and transferring my brokenness onto what I perceive as a spiritual big screen for all the world to see, except it was without my permission or having signed a release of my rights to advertise or publicize. The proof: every minister or man I fell as prey to, my low self-esteem, and the mere fact that I came to church, fell out, preached under the anointing, operated in my gifs, and still left… the same.

Looking back, I thank God for the mercy and grace that covered me and everyone exposed to me at that time in my life. I had a responsibility to my call, but I also had a responsibility to my healing and wholeness that I would come to know much later in life. I was grateful to be called to preach and evangelize, lead and sing at such a young age (seven to be exact), but it certainly came with its price to pay for me and for others.

I’ve finally learned in my life that when emotional scars make public appearances, they do so because they need to be healed. The marks may always exist but the tenderness subsides when we allow ourselves to mend appropriately. Haven’t you ever heard someone speaking and felt a level of intensity from their words that suggested there was some deeper issue that needed to be resolved within them? You may have even deeply wished they’d shut up until they got some personal help! Guess what, we all have emotional scars that make their way into our atmosphere. Someone somewhere is having those very thoughts about you! It may be your spouse, your children, other family members, friends, coworkers or church members, but it’s being felt and spoken about you.

Why I am writing?

There was a time that I shared my story with others because I needed a form of love, compassion and attention I felt robbed of in childhood. I shared my stories and my songs in anger and caused myself to be more depressed. Then, I shared my stories, songs, and pain, with the God that I know as a Healer. Today, I share my stories as triumphant and victorious over them, no longer a victim or merely as a survivor, but as a woman who has come to know real transformation and healing.

My journey to wholeness is never ending – as you will find yours to be, yet there is a difference between telling a story, living a story, and giving a story. Telling it is expressing it (not necessarily healed from it); living it is feeling it (not necessarily healed from it); giving it is telling it and living it, and healed from it (through new perspective) with a level of love and forgiveness that has the power to heal others.

Scars don’t have to be ugly and unsightly despite the ugliness of the events that caused them. They don’t have to be the foul marks of a legacy cultivated in dysfunction, pain, suffering, and abuse. Scars can actually become a beautiful part of our his-stories and her-stories when we allow God to transform them, our perspectives, and our very selves. We can learn to view them from the eyes of love and forgiveness and live with them as beautiful adornments that make us who we are and most certainly who we will choose not to be.

I am chosen by God to write and share my story with you, because my story isn’t only my own. I will not suggest to you that God instructed, affirmed, and fashioned the abuse, rape, and other heinous crimes against me, but there are some things I was inevitably exposed to through family connections and personal choices. God, being all knowing, fashioned an answer to all those things by causing my own transformation and then fashioned an answer for you, by naming me catalyst and vessel for your transformation through my testimonies. We overcome by the blood of the lamb (Jesus Christ) first, and then by the words of our testimonies (see Revelations 12:11).

I never imagined when I was going through any of what is shared herein that I would ever be writing about it for the world to know and see. It certainly didn’t come as an easy task, but I learned that when God brings us through anything, it’s not only for us, but is for so many others. Our healing is rarely ever just for us (see Romans 8:28).

When I was experiencing these things I needed a book like this. I needed someone who had been through these things to be transparent. I needed someone who would not be ashamed of their emotional scars or afraid of facing their past demons to be healed enough and whole enough to rescue me by sharing. For years the pain on the pages of this book haunted me, and my voice was stifled. I was afraid to speak out. In my healing and transformation, there is no way that I can sit idly by, free, or silent, while another is bound with some of the same issues.

General research statistics show that 4 of 5 adults have experienced some form of sexual abuse; 90% of the predators who molest children admit to mimicking the acts they saw in a pornography film; Roughly 33% of girls and 14% of boys have been molested before the age of 18 and the numbers increase each year; only 35% of molestation activity is reported; roughly 1/3 of sexual assaults that are reported involve minors; 52% of women obtaining abortions in the U.S. alone are under 25 with teenagers making up 20% of that percentage; one in four women (that’s 25% of women) has experienced domestic violence (and this is only what has been reported). Many of these stories are my stories or are similarly and painfully close. More importantly, I found a way out of the grips of this kind of pain and emotional torment and cannot look around at those still in chains behind me, turn my back to them, and shout and worship, and move on as if these people suffering don’t exist. Silence (in this case) would be a weapon formed against them.

I was practically raised on a pew in a church, and I never had my questions about these types of issues answered. I hadn’t felt and/or experienced that personal healing so often spoken about in a sermon. Maybe you feel or felt guilty because you couldn’t figure out how to be released from past pain. You may have heard multiple sermons about a God who saves and changes things while it seemed your prayers had never been answered. Maybe you don’t have a personal relationship with God at all. Either way, it is no accident that this book is in your hands.

My words in the stories and phrases on this and the coming pages were divinely structured and appointed to be the catalyst for an answer to many of your questions whether they were raised in prayer or into the atmosphere. This book was divinely assigned to you, for you, or for someone you know or have been praying for. I pray that in following my journey you will learn something about your own journey or someone else’s. Sometimes answers and insight come from the least expected places. I challenge you to not take for granted our divine appointment together through this book. You and I are bound by a force greater than we can imagine or see. I was chosen by God to tell my story, and I am honored to do so.

How it’s written

These stories are written very candidly exposing many of the details. I admittedly tried in earlier writings to find some creative way to tell my story weaving it seamlessly into a sermonic fashion that might cause you to shout, but it was really just an attempt to avoid the pain of my truth. I was trying to be politically correct, when God reminded me that it was a politically correct mindset that stifled my healing. In all of my speaking engagements, public appearances, music recordings, and sermons, what I found is that transparency is what the world is crying out for, and it has always been my transparency that has helped so many including myself. Sometimes recalling the details and saying what is simply candid, vivid, and true gives others the opportunity to have their own voices heard through you.

As a writer and creative artist, I believe in telling stories as they naturally flow through me. In some cases there is straightforward dialogue and in other cases prose and monologue that express the same sentiment. I understand myself to be a vessel appointed divinely and to be called to tell it like it is in my own voice and in my way. To all the acclaimed authors, English teachers, and Editors who may have a copy of this book in your hand, let me just say, Thank you for tolerating my style(s).

Family

It’s never easy to tell stories about family issues that involve family members that are still alive, as well as other relatives who are close to them. I want to thank all of my family for supporting me and allowing me to tell this story in a very real way, understanding that it is a journey from the past and not to it.

My Grandmother

I want to say something about my grandmother whom you will come to know only in the context of my writing. I wish that I could tell you more about her life and her pain so you would understand things more clearly, but this book is not assigned for that purpose. However, I am looking back as I said, and back isn’t always pleasant-- as you will note. The little I do know about my grandmother’s journey confirms that our stories are not that different. It is possible to be so wounded that you misinterpret the reappearance and resurgence of pain as an opportunity to inflict it upon others. Therein is the danger of trying to find solace in substance and intentional forgetting, which is what my grandmother tried to do all of her life.

My grandmother could never forget her wounds when she looked upon me. When she looked at me, she saw herself again and again as that helpless little girl in the flesh. In writing my own stories here, I felt an overwhelming amount of pain in the recall, that I imagine she felt everyday of her life. While one hopes that loved ones find the strength to heal, sometimes they don’t before they die. Her legacy however lives on in me, and I would be remiss not to acknowledge a deep and profound love for her that flows through my veins with a resilience I could never ever resist. I may wish that I could undo many moments, but I love her nonetheless, and I can freely and openly say that I forgive her. The scars she left upon my skin and on my psyche, and even the ones in my heart, I have come to understand just as I was writing this book.

I don’t see my grandmother as a distant or dissolved part of my past history. I am not only my story; I am her story as well. Today I bear the marks as a sign of the pain she could never heal from, but I am also honored to be the voice that she could never raise. I have to believe that the silence she suffered through that couldn’t be resolved in a bottle, a cigarette, abusive acts, or in her mind can be released (even as her soul flies in the atmosphere) through me.

If I could say anything with certainty, contrary to stories of abuse, I can say that she loved me. I don’t perceive her as a Satanist who was incapable of loving me. I’ve lived too many moments where I saw the pain and guilt in her eyes to believe that. I cannot express enough how important it is for you not to hate her. Back then I thought I hated her as much as an adolescent knew how. I came to know that what I hated was what was in her. In my fear of growing up to be like her, I had come to despise everything about her. God; however, revealed to me my own fears, and reached deep within me to cut away some rooted hurt, and today I’m proud to be in her lineage because I have a tremendous opportunity to make her namesakes greater than she had ever lived to see them. No, I could never hate her. I am sad for her. I long for her. I want to physically tell her that I understand, and that I forgive her. I have accepted the idea that she was sick and in need of healing.

My grandmother was the blues. That’s just her truth. I am her new song. Most likely, I am the one she could never let herself sing no matter how badly she desired to.

My Stepfather

My stepfather was an interesting man. It saddens me to see a man who lived always on the edge of greatness teeter until he fell head first into the cave of a darkness that would overwhelm him for years.

I remember his prayers. He prayed to be a Godly man; he wanted to be a good father and husband. Sometimes when we pray for things, we are so often unaware of what God has to do to answer us. Some things happen instantaneously while others are a journey first to rock bottom. God always has to expose what is in you for the making of your character. We make the choice everyday between what is right and what is wrong. We choose to walk in the light or to dwell in the shadows of darkness. I cannot say if he has completed his instruction at the rock bottom level because we have no contact. Some things are beyond repair, but nothing is beyond God’s ability to heal.

Last I saw my stepfather, his brother had died. His brother was my favorite uncle, so attending the funeral was not optional. I recall rarely looking at my stepfather; I closed my eyes and sang I am just a prayer away. Call my name with your heart, and I’ll hear every word you say; when you cry at night I’ll wipe the tears away. Just pray my love; I’ll be there right away. I secretly hoped the purity of my worship mixed with the evidence of my pain would carry him into a freedom he hadn’t yet come to know. When he looked at me he looked surprised to see me so grown up and mature. He even said, Hello. I’m not sure that he remembers what he did to me. The man I saw was hollow and low, buried in a sea of lost behind very empty and sad eyes. Today, I pray that he finds his way. He will never be my father, but it’s not too late to be my friend. My mother took the necessary legal actions against him, and I forgive him. That’s all there is to say on that matter.

My Mother

If you should wonder where my mother was as you read these stories, she was around. I was primarily cared for by my grandmother daily, but my mother was always there. Like most children being abused, I was afraid to tell her anything. I was afraid of what the truth would cost us all. Some of it was my age and in later years, I believed that I bore the responsibility of keeping my family together.

I celebrate my mom because as these things come pouring out; I know that it is not easy for her to hear. God in God’s faithfulness allowed us the opportunities to share in ministry and to share with each other long before I began to write things down. I feel no need to defend my mother’s position, but I feel it necessary to say that I did not grow up without her and that clinging to my silence didn’t position her to do anything about what I was experiencing.

As a child I blamed her for working, I blamed her for being away from me during times of abuse, and I blamed her for many things that she said in life because everything I heard was under the weight of my own oppression and emotion I could never express. As a parent, my mother would have worked three jobs if she had to in order to ensure that we had enough. She was tough on us, but I never doubted her love for us. I wish that as a young child she could have been there for me more, but I understand that she was doing the best that she could with what she had.

Growing up, I could see how much my mom wanted better for us. Living with my grandmother was not her desire. I recall hearing her pray very often. Because I heard her prayers, I learned to pray myself as a toddler. My mother would eat last or not at all if there wasn’t enough. She sacrificed to make sure we had Christmas gifts under the tree, and would spend hours sewing my Easter outfits, and listening to me practice my Christmas and other holiday speeches.

Unfortunately, being the passionate and sometimes outspoken child I was, she also spent countless hours talking to teachers and counselors about some political exploit or cause I had taken on, some injustice I decided to fight the system on, or protest. She attended as many school events and summer events I would participate in as she could. My mother’s presence countered my grandmother’s. She was harder on me than I cared for most times, but I often longed for my mom, especially during times of abuse. Part of me felt too dirty and ashamed to speak up as I thought it was my fault and that I deserved it.

When my stepfather began to sexually abuse me, I didn’t have the heart to tell my mom. I couldn’t destroy her happiness; after all she was my hero. At fourteen I was raped, and when I found out I was pregnant, everything including the abuse came pouring out of me like tea from a tilted kettle. I had grown tired of my secrets and my shame. I’ll never forget how my mom treated me like an adult, prayed for me, and sought the help that I needed to get through it when I finally released it. I felt horrible putting her through all that, but she worked diligently for me by supporting my choices, registering my former stepfather as a sex offender, and getting me the counseling I needed to deal with the rape and the abortion. Parents aren’t perfect, but there is one thing I can say about my mom, and that is, I had and have a great one.

I want to take a moment to encourage parents right here. Pay attention to your children. Sometimes we can get caught up in trying to make our lives and the lives of our families better while making them worse by not giving the time and attention children need. I have certainly been there as a parent, and I am not proud of that. I’ve learned to listen to my children, and they’ve learned to share things with me more. Children will only feel comfortable sharing their troubles with you if you create the atmosphere for them to do so. It’s never too late to do that. More interaction with my mom as a child might have relieved some of my own fears in telling her the truth about what was happening to me.

If I can encourage anyone who may still be suffering any abuse, please get the help that you need. Silence has consequences far greater than you can imagine. God does not intend for you to live under horrific cycles of abuse. Someone somewhere is capable of helping you with what you need. Silent sufferers often spend years in pain. Wherever you find yourself, get the help that you need.

So let us come boldly to the throne of our gracious God. There we will receive his mercy, and we will find grace to help us when we need it most. -Hebrews 4:16 NLT

God is our refuge and strength, always ready to help in times of trouble. So we will not fear when earthquakes come and the mountains crumble into the sea. -Psalms 46:1-2 NLT

Youthful Intelligence

As you read the stories, you may feel that I was too young to feel and know all that I express. That does not surprise me; However, I was a child who was reading Anna Karenina , Tale of Two Cities, and other books that should have been well beyond my comprehension at the age of three and four. I had an overwhelming intelligence for my age and a properness that came from my imaginary living. I could memorize anything you put in my hands no matter how long it was, and I was called to preach at seven years old and could give insight on the Word like I was a seasoned saint.

None of it came without my youthful flare and understanding, but I was extraordinarily wise beyond my years. If you had asked me at four years old what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would’ve told you a singer and a traveling evangelist, and that is exactly what I am doing now! Everything I wrote, I lived, felt, and knew. There are minor embellishments to make the points, but I want you to understand that I was a special child that had a destiny the enemy wanted to destroy before I could really get into my adolescence good. I repeat almost exactly what I felt and understood then even if the definitions of some things had to be learned later.

The leading priests and the teachers of religious law saw these wonderful miracles and heard even the children in the Temple shouting, Praise God for the Son of David. But the leaders were indignant. They asked Jesus, Do you hear what these children are saying? Yes, Jesus replied. Haven’t you ever read the Scriptures? For they say, You have taught children and infants to give you praise." -Matthew 21:15-16 NLT

Why the title: I Am Not Garbage

Garbage is disgusting, it’s filth, it bears a stink, and we do everything we can to avoid being around it. Much of what we throw away had some value at some point to us, but when its value seemed to deteriorate, we discarded it without thought. This would come to be a stronghold for me as I spent much of my life (consciously and subconsciously) feeling discarded and easily dismissed… like garbage.

Largely in my toddler, adolescent, and even adult life, I felt repeatedly thrown away. Early on, I was consistently put down by my grandmother, and although I knew deep down that I couldn’t possibly be the bad person she said I was, I still learned to believe that I was unworthy of my mere existence.

The power of a lack of self-worth can be extraordinarily self-destructive. Because I felt given away, dismissed, neglected, and hated by a primary caregiver (my grandmother) who placed me in the hands of other predators, I learned to believe that I was no more than common trash. When my stepfather began to molest me, these thoughts were further confirmed in me.

As a young adult (and adult) I would come to make many choices that were unhealthy sexually and emotionally despite my Christian upbringing because deep down inside (no matter how much I tried to pretend or to affirm myself) I felt worthless.

As God began to deal with me about my past (and present), I was able to identify the root causes of my low self-esteem, which instructed my actions in life; and I was further able to proclaim that I am not the garbage that I felt I was and that I did not have to live out my life begging to exist. God saw me as worthy to be something more than I had become in certain areas of my life, and I needed to see that as well.

The title of this book is therefore a declaration of what God has spoken in me. I am not garbage, and neither are you.

Inclusive Language

God has traditionally been described using masculine terms in Christian scripture and theology; however, it is widely understood in Christianity and in scholarship that God transcends gender. For that reason, I have chosen not to assign a gender to God in my writing in most cases.

Use of Names

Except where permission to use actual names has been given, fictitious names have been used to preserve the privacy of all parties involved.

Prayer for the Abused

Gracious God, it is no accident that this book is in the hands of this reader. I do not know their story or the story of their friends and family members, but You know all the gory and painful details, and You have the ability to heal each wound one by one, memory by memory. I pray that in the pages of this book they can follow my journey to a path of their own transformation.

I pray that every ounce of pain they have felt and every abuse they may have suffered be transformed and translated into abundant blessings upon them. I pray that forgiveness and love become profound and magnificent within them and that they be used to heal someone else. I pray mightily for their peace dear God. As memories are sparked, as pains are recalled, as hurts are explored, and as emotional wounds are exposed, I pray that they come to know Your presence like they have never known before, in a healing way that ceases the haunting that comes and closes deep cuts properly. I pray against the anger that lingers, and for an openness that heals, transforms, renews, and sets them completely free. I pray for an unwavering accepting of the process You are initiating within them and that they come to know gratefulness for Your grace that followed them through it all. Show them what it means to be their Banner and how You have been there all along.

I pray against the spirit of shame and guilt and ask God that You be the force that drives them into a place of understanding, new perspective, and revelation. God, time does not always heal all wounds, and the difficulty of forgiveness and letting go of our issues can be as scary as facing our demons and as real as learning to live without them. Victims are often borne out of victimization. If a victim mentality exists, release them now. Forgive them and teach them what You intended them to learn, so that that they will not continue to live in the pain that others have willingly and carelessly placed upon them.

I pray for every abuser that came against this reader or against someone that the reader knows. I pray that the abuser(s) understand the depths of the pain that they are inflicting upon others and that they find healing and help.

God I pray for this reader and the journey that they are on. As they say, Yes to transformation and healing, it will not come without great pain and suffering in some cases. I pray for Your added strength to them and that You will be a relentless Guide as You have been for me. I pray that You will be a source of comfort and unwavering rescue from the pains of the past. Give them a new song that is one of hope and joy. As You expose and dispose of each painful memory God, let them rejoice in their newfound healing. Give them the cognitive and spiritual strategies they need to remain healed and fill them with your capable and unrelenting love. Give them peace that passes all understanding and teach them how to love Your way.

God I thank You for this, the first step, and bless You for every step that is to come for this reader or someone that they know.

Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in thy sight O Lord my strength and my Redeemer. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The Prayer of Salvation

I do not want to take for granted that every reader of this book has come to know Jesus as their Personal Savior. That means, that you have willingly opened your heart and your mind to accepting that Jesus exists and you willingly and readily accept the experience of God in your daily life.

Listen, I believe that God and Jesus absolutely exist because of the experience I had when I opened up my heart and my mind. Yes, I grew up in church, but that is not why I let God into my heart. I did so because I needed something other than the pain of the present, and because I wanted to know for myself if there was really something better than all of the abuse that I am going to talk about in this book.

It may seem like believing in some source you cannot see is impossible and almost silly. Consider this, how often do we hear about the future? We make plans for tomorrow, even deciding what we want to be when we grow up because we just believe that a future exists for us. We can’t see it or even feel it, we just believe it. It is the same with God, except you can absolutely feel God. Imagine the wind. You hear it, you feel it, but you cannot see it. Again, it is the same with God. It’s not crazy. You just have to be open to the idea that God is real.

You may still be angry about some things, or you may not be so willing and ready to release, let go, or to forgive just yet. God understands that and wants you in whatever state you find yourself in now (see Matthew 11:28). God wants to show you how to live beyond the pain, beyond your feelings, and beyond your past. I could not tell you about it had I not experienced God’s ability to do it. There is an assurance that I walk with every day. There is a peace I feel about my life situations that I did not feel before, and there is a resolve to help others that doesn’t exist because I am perfect and generally good. It exists because it was given to me and lives within me. It was placed inside of me by someone greater than me, God.

LORD, You will grant us peace; all that we have accomplished is really from You. -Isaiah 26:12 NLT

For the mountains may move and the hills disappear, but even then my faithful love for you will remain. My covenant of blessing will never be broken, says the Lord, who has mercy on you. -Isaiah 54:10 NLT

I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a peace the world cannot give, so don’t be troubled or afraid. -John14:27 NLT

If you are willing, I want to pray this prayer with you in hopes that you will come to know God in a very real way. Nothing happens that is magical; all God needs is your openness and God will do the rest.

If you have a Bible, I encourage you to read John 3:16. It simply says:

"For God loved the world so much (that means you) that [God] gave [God’s] one and only Son (to death as a sacrifice for you), so that everyone who believes in [Jesus, God’s son] will not perish (die from their struggles or in the present state they are in) but have eternal life (life with God after death).-John 3:16 NLT

Romans 10: 9-10 says:

If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is by believing in your heart that you are made right with God, and it is by confessing with your mouth that you are saved.

Romans 10:9-10 NLT

We will now pray a Prayer of Salvation:

God, I am confessing with my mouth that Jesus is the Lord of All and that I believe in my heart that He exists and that you raised Him from the dead so that I could be saved. I may not understand everything or see how things are going to change for me, but I am trusting that You will show me the way. I desire something better. I want to be something better than I have been. I want to know life better than I have known. I ask that You come into my heart, into my life, and into my mind and make me someone new. I thank You for your love, and I receive it in my heart. Guide my heart, my thoughts, and my steps from here on out, and help me to understand more about who You are and what You desire of me in a way that is clear to me that it is You speaking. Lead me into a place of fellowship with other saints so that I can grow in You. In Jesus’ name.

Amen.

I welcome you into what we call the household of faith and celebrate you as a new Believer! Now that you have invited Christ into your life, He will want you to enter into a true sanctification process with Him so that He can begin the process of molding, shaping, and transforming you. He will want to transform your human mind into a more spiritual mind by placing right thinking into it (see Romans 12:2). If that sounds complex, it is not.

Your job will be to get into God’s Word (the Bible) to find out exactly what it is God is going to want change about you. You will learn what Godly qualities that God wants you to put on and what ungodly qualities God will want you to put away. You will learn about the nine characteristics of God that God wants you to resemble. They come directly from God as you allow yourself to be transformed.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control. Galatians 5:22

I am giving you a big hug right now, and I want to encourage you to find a church where you are comfortable and can attend regularly so that you can get to know Jesus better! If you are unaware of one, pray for God to reveal where you should go and have the faith that God will show you. God always makes a way.

Make conversation with God every day, and I guarantee God will show up. Even if you are unsure of what to say, just make the time and make yourself available. In your meditation God will be there with you.

I love you with the love of Christ, and I am thankful for your newfound freedom and life in God! It is wonderful! I’m excited about what God is going to do for you on your journey.

Conclusion

I release you now from this introduction with the hopes that it has shed some light on understanding what is to come as you read these next chapters of my life. I bless God for the journey you are on and thank you for following me along mine. Remember: This book was divinely assigned to you. Ask God to reveal to you all the reasons why. Be blessed.

-Rein

Prologue

~

I always knew the cavalry would come, I just didn’t know when. In my fantasizing about the day they would show up, there was always a great shaking that occurred. I could hear the rumbling steps of swift horses, shouting and war cries of a massive army riding fiercely toward me and for me. Their white banners flowed behind them as if the wind was visible. Their swords were raised and their fists were clenched as they chanted my name. The mighty trumpet sounds of the front lines cracked the walls of the house of misery that held me captive, and as I looked down, I could see the floor begin to dissolve into massive dust clouds and broken cement like waves rolling furiously into a waterfall. Around me windows began to shatter, but the glass never touched or cut me. Walls caved in, chandeliers burst, potted plants and paintings flew, kitchen cabinets released their contents and gas gushed out of pipes with a terrible whistling sound. Wallpaper melted and the clock simply dissolved, retreating into the dust.

I stood helplessly against a remaining beam almost floating on the nothingness the world around me was becoming. Then, there was light, always light. This light was the most beautiful and purest of any kind I’d seen, whiter than snow. There wasn’t a space it didn’t fill, even in me. In my quest to determine where it began and ended, I saw him, my biological dad who had passed away before I was born. Standing before me, he was well over ten feet tall with four sets of wings that spread far into the east and west. He was so pure and so luminous that I was completely drawn to him. As I reached out for him, he opened his mouth and let out a ferocious sound. His voice rolled like the thunder as he roared like one hundred lions in pain. I was thrown backwards by the winds that were his breath, and I became afraid. I could feel that sound within the depths of my entire being, and that’s when I realized he was making the sound I could never make. He was the voice I had never had. I cried and fell hopelessly to my knees at the realization.

In his right hand he held my predators, each one shamefully afraid. He reached deep inside me and pulled out enormous piles of hurt and confusion exposing my predators to all their sins against me. Like the feast they had once made of me, their own thoughts and behaviors were displayed before them. The echo of their terror could be heard for many miles. It was the cry of guilt that I imagine could be heard even if I were standing in the center of the earth’s core.

I watched on as his left hand transformed into a mighty gavel ready to announce to each of them their punishments at my command, but I didn’t want revenge. It wasn’t because I was saintly or because I was that well-adjusted. I didn’t want revenge because I loved them. They were mine. They were my people. Some of them were my family. What I wanted more than anything was for them to stop seeing me as their daily bread and to start seeing me for what I truly was, just a helpless girl who had done them no wrong and intended them no harm. I wanted them to hear me and to feel me. I didn’t hate any of them. I didn’t understand them, but I didn’t hate them. I wanted them to expose their hearts, minds, and eyes to the wounded girl on her hands and knees with a useless rag desperately trying clean up an endless and boundless emotional spill that they had left behind. I wanted them to see themselves as the never-ending flow, and I wanted them to reach over and turn off their faucets. I wanted love.

To the reader, it may seem like a pointless story brought on by too many fairytales and maybe an over active imagination, but to me, it was very real. It was a fantasy that kept me hopeful for something better out of life and one that kept me alive. For every minute of abuse, I packed my emotional bags and traveled into the recesses of my mind never having to actually feel any of it. They were abusing my physical body and mind, but my soul was sitting on an internal porch, and I adamantly believed that if I could keep that porch light on, my cavalry would know exactly where to find me. Every day I wrote, S.O.S, on my countenance, sat down inside myself, and I waited… and waited… and waited.

Chapter One

~

The Shadow Man: Encounters with the Dead

One of the things I have been gifted with is phenomenal recall. God gave me an astounding ability to memorize things and to recall vivid details and events moment by moment and I have been able to do so as far back as seven months old. The memories are sketchy but they are very real. I remember him, my beloved shadow man.

I was seven months old when he visited me for the first time I can recall. I was lying blankly on my back in my crib barely awake from the sleeping stupor I had been in. I opened my eyes and it took a minute for them to focus and see things more clearly. As the white haze fell away from my sleep encrusted eyes, I was suddenly conscious. I stared up at the ceiling for a few brief moments until I realized that I was alone and wanted the comfort of someone to hold me. I grabbed my pacifier and sat straight up in my crib. I remember its white bars all around me and I felt trapped. I could see the floor, but I had not yet mastered climbing out of the bed so I sat there.

My eyes shifted to the door in front of me. My crib was situated against a sidewall, and the foot of the crib faced the door that was the entry to the room. It was a door that seemed to go on forever. It was an ordinary stark white door with four large wooden squares carved into the back of it, and it seemed to extend so high above me. On its silver knob hung a flowered dress that was green and yellowish in color. I would later see it again in the baby pictures my mother had taken of me. Under the dress was a yellow shirt hanging on a wired hanger. It became apparent that the door stood between comfort and me. So I did as I always did after surveying the room and realizing I was alone, I cried.

I didn’t have an ordinary cry. For some reason, when I opened my mouth to signal that I wanted attention, I actually yelled. I remember even now the deep breaths I would take before letting out a horrendous yell from the depths of my belly. You would have thought I was in tremendous pain by the way that I cried, it was so dramatic and loud.

As I sat up in the bed for what seemed like long moments alone and getting no response, I became infuriated. I stopped for a moment, stood and took some deep breaths with a sad face and wet lashes before beginning my deep and sorrowful cries again. This time real tears rolled down my face in complete and total disgust that no one had come and attended to me. I didn’t have the words to express it back then, but I was furious. I wanted someone to come see about me, and I wanted them to do it quickly. Just as the tears really began to well up and roll down my face like steady rain against a window, I saw him, the shadow man. I refer to him as that because he visited me for a few years and I learned the word shadow based on only the black figure of him that I could see.

I stood up along the side of the crib and proceeded to shake the side of it as if I were going to succeed at pulling it completely off, I began to stomp my right foot while yelling at that big white door when a black figure glided into the room and came immediately over to my crib. I cannot explain, but I knew him. I knew his voice. It had a bass sound that had become familiar to me from the time I was in my mother’s womb. It’s ok, he said to me as I looked at him extend his arms to me. My tiny hand reached out to meet his long fingers and my crying