RAVEN'S JOURNEY BEGINS

was born into an upper lower class family, which eventually worked its way firmly into the middle/middle class. My father was in the military and for the most of my childhood my mother was a stay at home mom.
My younger childhood was rather peaceful and unmarred, though I had some very profound moments as God was working in my life even then.

In what I thought for years was my earliest memory, I can still see myself standing in front of the little house in New Jersey, where Dad was currently stationed, looking at it and thinking "Why am I here?" I was not referring to why I was standing in the front yard, I knew that... I had just come from once again saving our family from the large population of ants which lived in the vacant field next door. I was petrified of these ants but, since I was sure they were dangerous, I had to destroy their homes so they would devote their time to rebuilding and thus leave my family alone. Of course one can only be heroic in small spurts at that age and when my fear overwhelmed me I would run back into my front yard to gather my courage for another mission.

This is what had just happened, so the thought, which danced across my mind, was instead one, which was very profound for any age and remarkable for the preschool child. I wanted to know my purpose in life.

Nothing and nobody answered that question for years. In the meantime, my irrational fears grew in number as my life stopped being the safe place I had once believed it to be. My father developed a fondness for alcohol, which changed him into a very spiteful and unstable being. I would lay awake at night and listen to my parents argue periodically.

Though as I got older those episodes got more and more frequent, they were still, in my more tender years, not so frequent. I also had developed a fear of storms.

One evening, while we lived in that same house, I became petrified as a thunderstorm ravaged my yard after dark. The branches of the pine trees battered the sides of the house and I was sure some evil thing was trying to get in and do me harm. I ran crying to my mother. I love my mother, she was great when you were sick and always took my side when I fell out with friends (and later on, my husband). But she was not overly sympathetic when it came to irrational fear. She sought to push me away, but realized I was having none of that until I was placated so she thought of something, which sounded comforting enough but would not give too much credence to my fear. It was quite effective, despite her lack of thought about it. She told me to go to bed and if I got scared again, ask Jesus to hold my hand.

I slunked off to bed, not feeling understood, but when the next round of thunder crashed and lightning flashed outside my window, I hung my little hand over the side of the bed and prayed for all I was worth. And sure as you are reading this I felt a warm hand wrap around mine. I felt loved and safe and went right to sleep despite the storm outside. I also lost my fear of storms that night and they are to me one of the greatest displays of God's power imaginable. I have yet to take the lightning picture I want to take, but I keep trying because I love the storms so much.

I can look back now (due to my outlook on things) that all the bad things that happened to me in the following years helped to make me into the person I am today—not just the wounds and scars but the deep healing process also, which has been a blessing in disguise. But you couldn't have told me that during my school years, I'd have thought you barking mad. I learned that I was strange. I learned that I was bully bait and I also learned that not all other adults were safe, as I was the repeated target of pedophiles. Not all were outside the family either, as one of them married an aunt whom I love dearly. Knowing that he is mentally unstable helps me forgive to an extent, but it doesn't fix the damage.

I retreated inside myself and inside a fantasy world. I also came to question the faith of my parents. It may have worked for them, but it also caused them to fight allot, even when they were not drinking. It did not fix my father's alcoholism; it did not fix my mother's various neuroses; it did not protect me from harm and it did not provide for me the way other children had been provided for. It also never answered (yet) that burning question from my preschool years.

Sooo, I set out on my own. This would have been upsetting enough for them if I'd grown up and rejected everything I had been taught. But instead I took this step in 6th grade, at the height of my puberty and adolescent hormonal struggles. It was alot for them to watch but I am grateful they did not try to force me to comply with their beliefs. At first, I was fascinated by the occult and dabbled in quite a few things. I studied various mythological systems and various paranormal things.

Some of them I tossed to the wayside rather quickly (like Dyanetics and pyramid power) and others I did not. I eventually developed my own, self-styled form of Wicca based loosely off of old Celtic mythology. I also found a few "white witches" to hang around with for a while (we fell out soon enough though) but I only practiced this sort of thing for about a year as it did not "reach" me the way I needed.

I read the Koran, but decided I was not a Muslim (much to my father's relief) and found a copy of the Kabala in my library and read it. It led me to regular Judaism...

I practiced pretty much in secret, though I had to tell my parents about certain things as we ate a good deal of shellfish and pork as a family and they had to know why I wasn't eating the meat. I withheld the whole truth and just told them I was reading the bible and found the restrictions there. Since it was the Bible and not some occult text, my mother seemed to go along with it without much of a fuss for awhile. Then she figured out what I was doing and her concern for my soul shifted back into high gear.

In the meantime, I had joined a group of girls known as the Rainbows. It was a kind of sorority thing, which was sponsored by the Master Masons and Eastern Stars. My Uncle was a Mason, so my parents figured this would be good for me. I made a few nominal friends there my age and was befriended by the "Mother Advisor" who was very young. She invited me to her wedding when she got married.

There she introduced me to someone who I thought was the perfect male specimen. A former boyfriend of hers who was studying to be a minister... I was attracted and apparently he liked me also. He asked my father for permission to take me out, even though he knew my theological stance.

I had been having problems with my parents and it seemed perfect. He was attractive and other than him being Christian, everything I thought I wanted. But he was a Lutheran, which pleased my father and a seminarian, which pleased my mother. Even though I question the whole concept of missionary dating, I am grateful now that it happened.

He proceeded to set before me one theologically uncomfortable situation after another and, of course, I had to go to church with him each Sunday.

Usually I went Sunday nights, which were more "interesting," as he had a habit of taking me to Charismatic services. He took me to one in particular, even though I had gone with him that Sunday morning. He was attempting to "witness" to another friend of his by taking her. The preacher was discussing how Jesus fulfilled all of the Jewish feasts. I was quite uncomfortable. I guess the other gal was too, as she left to go to the bathroom right about the time that the evangelistic altar call started.

I don't think I have to this day heard "Just as I am," and "For those tears I died," sung as many times as I did that night. The evangelist kept saying that all who were appointed to come had not come. I sat in my chair and groaned, forehead on the chair in front of me. I glanced over at my boyfriend. He seemed to be looking toward the bathroom. Then he left. The congregation sang the songs again and then the piano played a verse and everyone was silent.

The evangelist said, "if you haven't come up and you were meant to come up before, please stand up." Nobody stood at first and then a few people did and began weeping but I barely noticed. Instead, I felt something hot on the top of my head and it felt like warm water was running over my body and my legs went weak. I felt the urge to run, but was glued to my seat. The evangelist said, almost in a whisper, "stand up," and I felt like I was being pushed to my feet. I looked around at the seat where my boyfriend had been and it was empty. I looked behind me, nobody was there for at least three rows but now I was standing up.

I was shocked, scared and about to be outraged at my behavior when my heart shattered. The person who was appointed that the preacher was waiting to come was ME. I cried. I remembered Jesus holding my hand. I remembered that I had lived through a horrible illness when I was about 5 years old that very few had lived through before called Stevens-Johnson Syndrome (People do live through it now, but at the time, nobody knew what it was. Doctors took pictures of me and my boil covered body for "science.").

The answer to "why am I here" was not answered, but I knew it would be one day. I also knew that this was an essential part of it. I was MEANT to believe and it didn't matter that my parents' faith was less than perfect or that I had walked away. Jesus had died for me and I belonged to Him.

I was 17 years old. Since then, I have travelled many roads looking for the answer to the question I asked when I was 3. I haven't found it, other than in the traditional answer in the Catechism (To glorify God and enjoy Him forever), but I know that knowing my own purpose is not as important as knowing the God has one for me. I have come to believe that trusting God through the journey to the end is more important than the end itself. At least to the human... the end, of course, is ordained by God and very important to Him.

I've also learned that each negative thing, each piece of trash we encounter in our lives is just another chance to grow and trust Him for the strength to live through it. Avoiding or denying the dark times only makes them darker and makes them last longer, while embracing them as a lesson, as a chance to be a better person allows the shadows to do what God intends for them to do in the first place. It recognizes God's sovereignty in the lives of people and rests in the hope that God knows what is best, not just for us but also for the whole of the universe.

Knowing about, embracing and expecting without surprise, the less than happy times takes away Satan's ability to cause despair when they show up. Though I've had to learn how to do so in a godly way, I swim in my emotions and learn whatever lessons are to be learned when darkness falls around me. It's all part of the journey I do not say so glibly, as I've been through many trials in my life. I've seriously contemplated suicide and have participated in self-destructive behavior. I've struggled against myself, the Devil, the world, and even at times the body of Christ. I know that I will do all those things again if I live long enough, and, in Christ, I will be "enough" to face them.