Silent Cry (28 page)

I got out of the car, locked the door, and went inside. Debbie was already there,
and I was grateful.

“Where would you like to sit?” Rebecca asked. Simple question, right? But I froze.
Should I choose the love seat or the chair?

“Dorothy?” Debbie reached out her hand. “Where would you like to sit?”

At first, I wanted to sit next to Debbie on the love seat, close enough to hold her
hand, because I was so afraid. But somehow I knew if I sat next to Debbie, I would
be dependent on her. I wanted to be independent.
If this is going to work
, I thought,
I'm going to have to do it on my own. Debbie is not going to be able to come to every
session with me
. I looked at the chair, standing there by itself — it was independent
and strong, and it represented courage. I sat down in the chair.

Rebecca suggested we pray together, and that really helped me. She encouraged me
to talk about anything I wanted to talk about. I assumed this was how it worked:
I would tell her everything, and then she would tell me what I needed to do to fix
it. I rushed through my whole life story as fast as I could, wanting to get it all
out and be done with it. I talked fast, my nervousness causing me to speed up even
more.

As I shared, tears welled up.
I cannot cry
, I told myself.
I
cannot cry. If I start
crying, I might not be able to stop.
That was the last thing I wanted. I swallowed
hard and forced the tears back inside. I just wanted to get through this.

“Dorothy,” Debbie said gently, “it's alright to cry.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “No, if I start, I won't be able to stop.” I had not
cried in a very long time. I believed I needed to be strong. I didn't believe I should
take time crying over things I couldn't change.

As I continued sharing my story, so much pain came to the surface — more than I ever
expected. I kept stopping to gain composure. It felt like the floodgates were trying
to open, and I was terrified that if I allowed myself to cry, I wouldn't be able
to stop.

I wanted to finish my story. I wanted to tell the whole thing in one session so I
would never have to do it again. I didn't ever want to think about these horrible
things again. I figured if I could get all this out, then the next time I came, Rebecca
could tell me what I needed to do to fix things so I would no longer feel stuck.

When I finally finished, I looked at my watch — it had been almost three hours. I
knew I had bounced around all over the place as long-buried memories came rushing
out, but I had done it. I felt relieved.

“So, are you going to be able to help me?” I asked Rebecca. “Is this going to be
a quick fix?”

Rebecca smiled at me and said, “Let God decide how long it's going to be. If you
will commit, then I'm willing to do whatever I can to be a vessel for God. I just
need a commitment from you.”

“What type of commitment?” I asked. I wasn't sure what she meant.

“Well, why don't we just schedule next week's visit,” she
said, offering me no clue
about the length of time we might work together or how many sessions we would have.

I was exhausted. I sat outside in my car for thirty minutes trying to compose myself.
I could not believe I had just told a complete stranger my whole, painful life story.

I flipped down the visor, touched up my makeup, and took a deep breath. I had scheduled
dinner that night with a friend who was going through a difficult divorce, and I
needed to put myself back together. I shifted my focus to my friend and didn't give
my experience with Debbie and Rebecca another thought. I was an expert at separating
myself from painful things and dealing with the matters at hand.

The next week, I met with Rebecca again. Then we scheduled additional weekly meetings,
but I wanted a quick fix. I wanted her to give me the steps to getting unstuck so
I could follow them like a diet or exercise plan.

The problem was that I couldn't open up anymore. Rebecca encouraged me to talk about
whatever I wanted to, but nothing came. I felt guilty about taking up this woman's
time.
There must be other people she could help if I wasn't taking up the appointment
time
, I thought. Session after session, I kept coming back, but I could not bring
myself to open up again.

“I'm so sorry,” I told Rebecca in one session. “I am wasting your time. It has been
four weeks. You shouldn't be wasting your time on me because I'm going to be okay.
I'm a strong person. I've been through terrible things, but that's all in my past.
There are other people you can help. You must be impatient with me just showing
up and not being able to talk about anything.”

I was upset that I had dragged Debbie through my story. I was worried I might have
damaged her as she sat through my entire spill. I wondered what she thought.
Would
she judge me?
Would she see me differently?
I regretted that she knew my past. I
wished I'd never agreed to come in the first place.

I genuinely felt like I had told Rebecca everything in our first conversation and
there was nothing left to say. Taking up her time made me feel selfish and guilty.
Every appointment was a major struggle. I didn't want to go, but God gave me no release.
I showed up, but I wasn't engaged. I was resistant to everything. The more difficult
I became, the sweeter Rebecca was. There seemed to be no end to her patience.

One afternoon, I came home from work on a day when I had a session scheduled for
that evening. I prayed, “God, this is just not working out. It was sweet of Debbie,
but nothing is happening. I'm wasting this woman's time. I feel guilty, and that
is certainly not helping me feel less stuck. Other people need her. She can actually
minister to them. I'm going to cancel. Okay?”

Nothing. I didn't hear a yes or a no — just nothing. I decided to take a long, hot
bath and stay home. I would call Rebecca and cancel. I ran my bathwater and put in
a CD that Gateway had given out for Mother's Day. It was a mix of music and voices
reading Scripture. It relaxed me. I sunk down in the water, letting the Word wash
over my soul. Wait — I recognized that voice! Right there on the CD was Rebecca's
voice reading Scripture to me. I couldn't believe it. I could not escape!

I got out of the tub, got dressed as quickly as I could, and hurried to her office.
“I know you want me to be there, God,” I prayed. “I feel guilty, though. I don't
understand the purpose for going. I don't want to go anymore. Help me know what to
say to Rebecca tonight so I won't hurt her feelings when I tell her this is my last
session.”

I got to Rebecca's office and told her what happened in the tub. She smiled. It was
a turning point. I can't explain it, but it was true.

Continuing with the sessions was the hardest thing I had ever done, but Rebecca was
persistent. She was easy to talk to, even when what we talked about seemed totally
irrelevant.
How could I not want to be here?
I thought.
Oh, well
,
I guess I'm not
a quick fix after all.

Session after session, Rebecca was consistent and patient. She never gave any indication
that she was bored or tired of listening to me. It was a gift. For as long as I needed
it, she was there. Other people would have given up on me long before now. And she
wouldn't allow me to pay her. Rebecca had prayed about it, and God had told her there
should be no exchange. He told her to minister to me from her heart, not for pay.
If I had been paying her, I would already have spent thousands of dollars — and I
knew I would have quit. God knew I needed Rebecca. For my entire life, I had always
been the giver. I had never been the recipient of anything like this.

As my sessions with Rebecca continued, anger began to surface — anger that I had
stuffed down and pushed away and convinced myself I didn't have. I was shocked by
it. I was a Christian, and I loved the Lord. I wasn't supposed to feel like this.
I had forgiven Nate, so where was all this anger coming from? It got to the point
that my anger began to consume me. Every moment of my day, it was there with me —
ugly, taunting, tempting me to explode. I was ashamed of it. I couldn't comprehend
how I had lived for so long with all of it buried so deep, not even realizing how
much space it had occupied in my subconscious.

To remain focused on my job and my care for King, I gave myself “containment time”
during the day — time when I would allow anger to surface so I could deal with my
issues. Then I would dutifully push it to the back of my mind so I could function.

One evening, I was in a session with Rebecca, but I was still holding things back.
I didn't want to deal with one more ounce of anger. I believed I had talked about
so much already that God would surely do whatever needed to be done in my life with
what I had already shared.
Did I really need to bring up one more thing?
Then finally,
breakthrough came.

I started to cry. First a few tears — then it was like a dam broke, and all the backed-up
tears burst forth. I cried so much that I thought I would never be able to stop.
I didn't realize there were so many tears inside of me that needed to be shed. It
was a sweet release.

I had felt dirty from the moment I agreed to have sex with Nate before we were married.
I had never felt pure and whole again from that night. I had suffered so much. I
had compromised. I had made bad decisions. My boys had suffered. I had lived with
shame.

As I cried, the tears cleansed me. God showed me that no matter what my life had
been before, he could make it new again. The tears kept flowing. I felt completely
poured out — emptied of all the guilt, sorrow, and shame. I was at last free to receive.
It was as if the Holy Spirit took complete control over everything, and I was finally
free. I didn't feel guilty anymore. I was overwhelmed by God's love. When the tears
finally ended, I was completely spent — and completely at peace.

Rebecca prayed with me, and God showed me a vision of a girl in a plain, white dress.
It was raining. I was in the mud, and my dress was getting dirty, yes, filthy. The
weather got worse, and it turned into a storm with thunder and lightning. I cried
out to God, and the rain stopped. Soaking wet, I looked up to the sky, and the clouds
began to break. I twirled around and around, holding my arms up to God.

I looked up into his face and began thanking him, still
twirling. As I twirled around,
my dress got beautiful. I got beautiful. Suddenly, there was no dirt anywhere, just
green grass and sunshine and the Lover of my soul.

My entire body reverberated with gratitude. God loved me so much. I could feel him
with every breath. I could sense him in every heartbeat. He had collected every one
of my tears, and they were precious to him.

“Rebecca, can you see things pouring out of me?” I asked. “Can you see the joy? Can
you see the love?”

It was then that I realized God did have great plans for me. I wasn't disqualified
because of my past. My past did not define me. My whole life stretched out before
me — a lot of living to do. I was God's vessel, pure and sanctified. I was holy,
set apart for his perfect use.

I was free.

CHAPTER 30

New

And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make all things new.

Revelation 21:5

I
was totally free from my guilty past. I no longer felt ashamed about the choices
I
had
made. I thought I had forgiven Nate — I thought I had forgiven a lot of people —
but I had much to learn about forgiveness. Most importantly, I had to learn to forgive
myself and accept God's forgiveness without any strings attached. It was much deeper
than emptying myself; it was God filling me, equipping me.

I had never walked away from God, even in the most difficult times of my life. My
relationship with him had been strong, but it had been incomplete because I closed
off part of myself, not allowing God's forgiveness to free me from shame. I had not
received all he had to give. Now I freely surrendered every part of my heart, soul,
and mind to him. We were inseparable, and I was filled with a joy overflowing.

For six months, I had met with Rebecca weekly. After the breakthrough came, we met
less often. We spread out the sessions to every other week, then monthly, and finally,
quarterly checkups. I was a completely different person. On April 1, 2010, I met
with Rebecca for my quarterly checkup. It was a God-ordained meeting. During our
session, my cell phone rang; it was my brother, Mike, calling. Mike and I hadn't
grown up together, but we met when I was in college and had grown close over the
years. My biological father was sick, and I had been making monthly trips to Maryland
to visit him. Mike was calling to tell me our father had died.