Soul Song For Survivors
Sexual Abuse Recovery
Title: Healing Tears
by Diann Messer
Healing Tears
I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat back in my chair
as I pondered the events of the previous two days. “I’m not sure it was
even baked beans,” I thought to myself. “Beans or peas, or carrots, what
does it really matter?” The fact is my parenting wounded him. Nothing else
mattered.
My older son and his wife had just come for a visit; an event
I always looked forward to and thoroughly enjoyed. Since they live 300
miles from us, we don’t get to see them as often as we would like. There
is always something special about a first-born child. I remember watching
his every move, just soaking up every little thing he did and said. He
has always been such a delight and joy to me. On this visit, I had given
him a box of memorabilia from his childhood. In preparation for our own
up-coming move, I was cleaning out closets and decided it was time for my
sons to have their carefully prepared baby books and the tiny outfits they
each had worn decades ago. I presented this now-grown son with his box
and as he began pulling out each piece and examining it, I knew he was receiving
the message I had intended. “You are special and precious.” I was glad
I decided to give him his box and was even happier about it two days later.
My heart still aches from the words he spoke at the table that afternoon.
I could hardly believe my ears. Here was my precious boy, whom I love more
than words can say, telling me about a horrific experience he remembered
from his childhood. It wasn’t really an abuse, but to him, it felt like
one. In the end, that was all that really mattered…how it felt to him.
My parenting wounded him and my heart was grieved.
It seems that on this
occasion, I had insisted that he eat a vegetable that he didn’t like. He
recalled the incident from an entirely different perspective than I could
recall it. He recalled it from his own perspective as a child. He told
about gagging on the ‘baked beans’ that I had forced him to eat. He described
how he had to wash them down with sips of water and how he still could not
stand the thoughts of ‘baked beans’ even now. His vivid childhood memory
painted me in a very dark manner. It was evident that he was wounded by
this small trauma in his childhood. I carefully and tactfully explained
this event from my perspective as a parent. I told him how I made him take
a few bites of his vegetables because he had stopped eating vegetables altogether.
I was concerned for his health and general well being. Making him eat the
dreaded ‘baked beans’ was not designed to be abusive or punishing, but was
a legitimate concern for his welfare. He seemed somewhat comforted by my
explanation and our conversation moved on to other things.
After I went
to bed that night, I realized that something deep inside my own being ached
terribly. It took a while before I could put my finger on the exact cause
of this pain. I cried uncontrollably for hours before I could begin to
express to my husband the source of this deep soul-pain.
I knew in my
mind that I had not abused my son. This was simply one of those childhood
memories that most of us have of being made to do something that we would
prefer not to do. Eating chocolate cake comes naturally to children; sometimes,
eating vegetables does not. Although it had been unpleasant for him and
he had responded to it in a negative manner, I knew this was not an abusive
act. So why did my emotions take me on this roller coaster ride? Why
did my emotions not get into agreement with my thinking?
Underneath all
the heartache and pain, I discovered a deep wound from my own past. It
seems that whenever I displeased my mother, she would withdraw from me.
I had become ‘unacceptable’ and ‘unworthy’ of being in relationship with
her. My deep-seated fear was that my own son would respond to me in the
same fashion. I could not bear the thoughts of having my son withdraw and
decide that I was unworthy of being in relationship with him. It was a
pattern from my childhood that was repeated many, many times until the relationship
with my mother had finally ended. This fear of being rejected by my own
son was more than my heart could bear. Everything in my past experience
taught me that this is how people respond whenever you displease them.
I had displeased my son and now I was facing the fear that he would respond
to me in the same way.
I cried some more and asked God, “How can this
deep wound ever be healed?” The immediate thought was just to continue
to cry it out…”these tears are healing to your soul.” Healing tears.
I lay there in the darkness beside my husband and allowed the tears to flow
freely. My emotions, once again, had a mind of their own. I gave them
permission to express the pain and eventually the tears began to mend the
wound in my soul. Before daylight, I found that my thinking and my emotions
were once again lined up and in agreement.
I took another sip from my
morning coffee. I had not abused my son and I knew it. My emotions also
knew it and rejoiced. I also knew that I was not in danger of being rejected
by my son. I prayed and asked God to heal the wound in my son’s soul as
He had healed mine. Then I thought about the box and all the memories of
this precious baby boy that God had sent into my life. I knew I had given
him that box at just the right moment and I knew it would be instrumental
in healing his childhood “baked bean” wound.
I Corinthians 13:11 (NKJ)
“When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought
as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”
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