Gags, muzzles, screenshots, the evidence, a hole in my boat and a ‘farewell curtsy’…

The facts and the evidence should speak for themselves. But often they are muzzled or gagged into silence, while another narrative is written.

Sometimes a cry for help escapes from behind the gag… But it’s nothing a healthy smack in the face or a gun to the head cannot fix.

And the movie continues….

***

Since I don’t feel free to publicly post evidence, for various reasons, I have created a password protected web page where I am posting what evidence I have been given permission to share. It is not there to serve curiosity and cause destruction, but for pastors, victims (and their families).

Evidence includes parts of audio recording, testimonies of some victims including only those who have given permission to share it, screenshots of conversations, among other things. This will not be available until Tuesday evening, May 22, 2018.

UPDATE: REQUESTS FOR ACCESS ARE NOW CLOSED AND WILL NO LONGER BEING ACCEPTED AS OF 5:30PM EST, MAY 22, 2018. THOSE WHO REQUESTED, SENT THE INFORMATION REQUESTED (BELOW) AND FELL WITHIN THE ABOVE CRITERIA OF “PASTORS, VICTIMS (AND THEIR FAMILIES” WILL BE GIVEN ACCESS TO INFORMATION. 

  1. Your full name and address, and what church/ministry you are part of.
  2. Include a written promise that you will not download, print, leave on your computer screen or store in any format, or share with another person, or give any other individual access to this information. And promise that only your eyes will view it. Each individual must ask for his or her own permission to access.
  3. Explain the reason for your interest and concern, what your connection is to D and S, and what influence you believe you have for creating accountability for S.
  4. If you’re just curious, at least be honest and say so.

EVIDENCE TRIGGER WARNING: Should you choose to request access, be warned that the content – just quoting what D said to these individuals – is highly pornographic in nature and deeply disturbing. The risk for traumatization is significant for those who experienced these kinds of phone calls and messages. Those who took time to write out their experiences frequently shared it nauseated them.

I have been immersed in this now for four days and am completely burned out emotionally, spiritually and psychologically.  And I’m left to wonder how the church so blithely overlooks this abuse. Shame on us all.

If S and leadership can really turn a blind eye to this…  I don’t even know what to say. …

***

This has been exhausting – no doubt for others as much as for me – and the grief of what has been lost in the months since January is completely overwhelming. So kindly don’t spit on the grave before the dirt has even settled. I still care deeply for S, his wife and his ministry. If you comment, please be respectful. I won’t tolerate hate or attack against S (or his ministry). My heart is not and never has held hate. I am concerned about the wellbeing of vulnerable and victims, therefore I have spoken out publicly because the private conversation was much akin to spinning in the mud, and all the while public risk continued.

I urge you… if you, or your wife, or your daughter, or your friend were impacted by the grooming, the sexualized talk and questions by D…. Speak out.

And to those of you who have been through this, I’m sorry.

I am sorry no one told you what you should have been told many months ago. I do not regret telling you now. And I’m sorry that I can do no more at this time. The rest is now up to each of you who were impacted. You now choose whether you let it fall through the cracks, and let this kind of thing continue, or to rise up and let your voice be heard. There is nothing more I can do without you rising up with me.

I am here to support as I am able. I have audio files, paper trails and messages, but without those of you speaking out who were intimately impacted by D and the silence of S, things will go on as they were. If you have been muzzled or silenced, no matter what the excuse to not speak, speak out anyway. There are whistleblowers in many organizations, and they survive. On the outside, I can do my itty bit, but true accountability must rise up from the inside and those closest. That is the only way.

I urge you to speak out and let your voices be heard. Contact leaders of the Anabaptist Sexual Abuse Symposium with the stories you sent me. Contact church leaders. Contact the board. Let them hear your stories and your voices. Expose the abuse, the perversion, the affairs that wreaked havoc in your marriages. Be the voice for your sons and daughters who live with the aftermath you shared with me, and teach them to be the voice for the next generation.

And, if D spent time with your sons and daughters, ask them questions… And then do something. Don’t let others be victimized. Every time I speak out, new stories spill out, now reaching an alarming number, and yet I have never mentioned D’s name even one time. (I am creating a spreadsheet, but I am guessing the number who have been negatively impacted is over 100, or at least very close to it. Given I have never used his name, and that many people wrote, not to ask me the name but to tell me… that should trouble you. And those who feel anger toward me for speaking out, though I expected it, is badly misplaced.)

And to the leaders (whether the board of S’s ministry, the Symposium, or other affiliated leaders who have not heard or seen the evidence) I urge you to at least take a moment and contemplate looking into this thoroughly…

This silence cannot go on. And Symposiums change nothing if the patterns are happening, unchallenged and unchecked, in those who lead addressing them. I am all for this to be addressed, and I am absolutely for the Symposium, ( I planned to attend the event), but I have grave concerns when one of the lead people behind it is blatantly mishandling an extreme situation and refuses to hear people who bring it to his attention. It is every kind of wrong.

I do not believe this is beyond redemption. Yes, I am disheartened and weary of this battle. Tired in ministry… feeling like every bucket of water out of the boat (with church being the boat, and the water being all sexual abuse in church) is met with two buckets poured in on the other side from someone inside this boat, as yet another trusted leader looks the other way, or engages in abuse…

All the while the rain falls….

she died_because she trusted us

Yes, I’m tired…

But there is still hope…

There must always be hope…

***

And with that, I confess that all that can be said by me, publicly, has been said.  So I offer a curtsy, and bow out…

***

Proverbs 31:8  
“Open your mouth for those who cannot speak, for the rights of all who are destitute.”

As always…

Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2018

A wheelbarrow and a shovel… “Where to from here?”

It’s the same manure that stinks to high heaven,
and frustrates the life of the housewife who hangs wash on the line,
… Or her husband, if he did it for her, God bless his heart…
that causes flowers to bloom and gardens to thrive.
~ Yours Truly….
….from in the middle of the stink ~ 

***

I wrote “Part 1 and Part 2” of this blog and then, as I wrapped it up, I looked at it. And I realized “Part 1” was for my personal processing, and Part 2 is for posting. So that is what I am doing. Because Part 1 does nothing more than present evidence. For now I am sharing only this portion because I’m not sure any good can come from the other part at this time, and I am just not at peace with it.

***

Going public, while not fun, was the right thing to do. I have zero doubt about that. It was necessary. (It has, however, been my most successful weight loss ‘program’, with a record over 8 pounds shed in four days. But it is not a ‘program’ I recommend). And it has brought forward countless stories, each naming D by his full name, and giving those individuals a place to speak. It also brought some new allegations to light in other scenarios. The level of shame some of these individuals have carried is staggering.

So where to from here…

S and I have both acknowledged that trust is broken between us. Our positions are completely polarized. I do think if S and I could meet and share all the ‘evidence’ and ‘story’ we each have, we might have a starting point to work from. I am almost certain that if he saw and heard all the messages in my inbox, and if he would compare D’s word to me – which I would have him hear and see – with D’s word to him, and see if it matches what D told him, we stand a chance at progress.

I would like S to take breast-groping and butt-grabbing more seriously as a sexual assault than he has indicated in some of our communications, and as relates to the case with D’s victim. (Even if that was all he did – which isn’t accurate because I have a confession by him to doing more than that – it should be taken seriously and the damage to the victim acknowledged.) I would like him to meet with me and see and hear the evidence, and let it speak for itself. (Something I have struggled to even contemplate trusting him with since he went back to D with everything I already shared.) Yes, there is more to the story than the evidence tells, but the evidence is very incriminating. Under no circumstances will I send any of it to him because he broke my trust before I had opportunity to show him the evidence. I would hope that, if he saw the evidence, he would see the urgency that I see. And if he saw that urgency, I would hope he would publicly admit that he knew since September, and that his decision to be silent left many people vulnerable.

I acknowledge that he also does not trust me – more specifically he has said he does not trust the conclusions I come to, because he believes I see abuse scenarios through the lens of my experience. This is fair. I freely acknowledge that I do, and that every human does. S does too. I do my best to be consistent in how I respond from case to case. It means that clients whom I love and care about know that I will report them if they abuse someone. That’s the lens through which I function, and it seems to not be an adjustable lens. I would appreciate if S contemplated the reality of his own lens.

So, while I am willing to meet with S, I am only willing to do so with my pastor present – Pastor Dale Ingraham and ideally also someone like Dan Beachy of Life Ministries (whom I have never met and do not know other than the testimonies I have heard), and he could have whomever he chooses present for support. S and I are far too polarized to make headway without that.

We have had a pastor ‘in the middle’ for the duration of this conflict, and I appreciate him very much. (An interesting ‘aside’, his initials, like S and D are also a double of one letter. I am choosing not to disclose his initials because he’s been dragged into enough already.) Our temperaments and spiritual giftings are actually quite fascinating.  The pastor has an incredibly tender heart and would define his ‘calling’ to be to bring unity to the body of Christ. S has a very tender heart as well, but I have not heard him define his calling, so I will not attempt to guess. I do know he is firmly committed to what he believes. I am also tenderhearted, and tenaciously committed to my calling: To bring healing to victims, to expose the darkness of sexual abuse in religious communities, and to help offenders. Each of our gifts are valuable.

***

My first commitment is to support the victim(s) – whether the victim of the sexual assault, or the victims of D’s phone calls and the shame these individuals carry, not to mention the psychological aftermath. Numerous victims have suffered physical/psychological consequences such as panic attacks, nightmare or terrors, fear and trauma at the thought of ever seeing him again, and nausea at the memory of what he did. In whatever way I am able, I offer to help these victims find support. That is my first priority.

***

I sat for almost 2 hours yesterday with a man who molested a young woman years ago. I told him the same thing I just wrote… I will report all abuse, no matter who. No matter what. We worked through some ongoing identity issues. We dug deep. In the end he looked at me and, tears in his eyes, thanked me.

Maybe those who have offended, or are at risk of offending, actually crave someone to take them to hard places… Maybe we owe it to the victims first, but maybe we owe it to the offenders too.

This is my prayer for D, that he will take full ownership without *any* blame toward victims. That he will stop lying about “all the hurting who come to him… for support… for money… for ‘whatever” when the evidence trails proves he is writing people and offering them money and many are declining. It is my prayer that he will be surrounded by men who will walk with him

When I met D, I saw a tormented man. A man apparently helpless in the clutches of his own sins and crimes. Begging for forgiveness, drawing temporary relief from ‘forgiveness’, but never having had someone who would dare to also hold him accountable to face the legal consequences of his crimes.

I have had the opportunity to walk with tormented offenders as they turned themselves in to the law knowing they could be sentenced to prison. I have heard them express after that they ‘finally have peace’ even before the knew the outcome. And I have heard them say they are no longer tempted, having laid aside any perceived ‘right’ to protect themselves from those consequences. I would be willing to go with D to support him if he decides to turn himself in to the law for the sexual assault that he has admitted to (in writing and verbally to S in September 2017 and to me in March 2018), any other and other crimes he may have committed, or allegedly committed. I would be willing to arrange for him to have a support system should he be sentenced to prison, and to ensure he has support when he is released so that he is less likely to reoffend.

***

At the very root of the issue of sexual abuseand why it continues thriving in the church – not only hiding, but truly thriving, for a lack of better word – is a list of ways we mishandle abuse cases when the cost of dealing with it looks greater than the cost of blinking an eye. We would never say we are inconsistent, or show favouritism. Yet, when it’s someone close to us, or someone we trust – because they’ve never done that to us or to ours, therefore they would never do such a thing – we trust our feelings about them rather than entertain the possibility that they are predators, in some cases, or have molested.

I made a promise in about 2012 that I would not ask how wealthy an alleged offender is, how prestigious,  or how closely related to me or those I love. That may have been stupid. But I did it. No matter the story, I would do what I have always done as long as the victim asks me to confront it, or gives permission to report in cases where the victim is an adult. This means I’ve stepped on some toes that were gold-plated. I’ve confronted leaders. And I’ve confronted someone in a family one of my siblings married into. What I do is not popular when the offender is an elite, or close to an elite. When there is no ‘higher’ association, I do my work unhindered and undisturbed. And then there are times that there is an impenetrable power covering the offender. I still do what I am called to do. (It’s why I have a wheelbarrow and a shovel, not a bandwagon. The advantage is when it’s time to shovel…)

This is my  appeal to all leaders. Help the victim in seeking support. Expose the abuse and the abuser. Don’t do it to destroy them, do it to protect the people from danger and to make sure they cannot further harm others or themselves. (The hell they live with, knowing the damage they have done – for those who are not so narcissistic that they don’t care – is awful.) It is your God-given responsibility, to the best of your ability, to protect all the vulnerable, the women and the children. Don’t show favouritism. Don’t compare banning a sex offender from events or church with banning people who have other addictions, or who are divorced and remarried, or some other thing. These are not comparable, because the others do not pose a threat to the safety of vulnerable people.

Sex offenders need help and support, but don’t be afraid to tell them to seek help elsewhere if their victim is in your church, or if the environment of your event is one where many vulnerable people are present. If offenders are so arrogant that they demand seeking help in an environment where they make others unsafe, they are not repentant. Repentant sinners are humble. And repentant sex offenders humbly accept that they need to stay away from certain places and activities for the protection of others, and to ensure they do not commit those crimes. I have been thanked for helping them set boundaries to ensure that safety. This is our duty as leaders.

***

Proverbs 31:8  
“Open your mouth for those who cannot speak, for the rights of all who are destitute.”

As always…

Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2018

Steve Stutzman, Dave Denlinger, Strait Paths, Land of Promise

 

The Crossroads… (Part 3: The Fraud)

Eleanor Rosevelt once said,
“Do what you think in your heart to be right,
for you will be judged for it anyway.”
~ Sent by a friend ~

***

February 15, the day after I spoke with D’s victim, I received a phone call from a man identifying as a “Deputy Sheriff”, and identified the county with which he was associated. He had led members of the Mennonite community to believe he was a Deputy Sheriff and allegedly used this position for fraudulent activities most of which I am not free to disclose. However, one aspect of that was that he had led certain people to believe D was under investigation. And since they didn’t know yet that he was a fraud, it made perfect sense for those who knew of D’s sexual deviance, and also knew of my work, to recommend him to call me. One Mennonite couple who had known him since childhood or youth, did just that. He called me on February 15 and shared considerable information that first call. But he is not the first officer who has done that, so, while it caught my attention, I concluded it was to show good faith so I would reciprocate.

As we talked throughout the coming days and weeks, he told me story after story. He knew details about D, LOP and the LOP leader S, as well as other people. Lots of people, and a lot of details that were verifiable. S, he said, has a good heart and he trusts him. He said he’s been thinking of calling him and having a conversation with him. I told him I agreed that S had a good heart, but anything related to D, I would suggest holding off because I believe(d) they are too close and S might have blinders on. Furthermore, I knew D had sponsored women to attend LOP seminars (possibly others – men and couples – but I didn’t hear from any that I recall) and was concerned that could potentially cause blindness due to ‘loyalty’. The risk of S running back to D with everything was also concerning to me, and for that reason, I suggested not going to S (This would be confirmed some months later – namely a few days ago – when I shared information with S, and he went to D with it.)

The ensuing twenty day stretch alone would be enough to fill at least one third of a book, if not more. But, to make a long story short, in the next twenty days – which is the time it took for me to push past every question mark and call his Sheriff’s office to find out if the man was legitimately an officer – he strung me line after line. Something was always ‘off’, but I couldn’t place it. March 7 I finally called the Sheriff’s department and asked for the email address of this particular Deputy Sheriff. There was no such person on staff, they said, and after being ‘bumped on up the chain of command’, the Sergeant confirmed that he was not a legitimate acting Deputy Sheriff. He had been deputized, as a special deputy, but it was later revoked the Sergeant said. (Not long after  I was informed that ‘he fell through the cracks.)

And so began another saga.  One that has now been ‘confronted’ and allegedly, (according to law enforcement in that state/county) turned over to the FBI – and I have been given names of confirmed FBI agents to whom I may speak. It is also turned over to another investigation organization (Bureau of Criminal Investigation, I believe the officer called it) because of the conflict of interest to do an internal investigation. This has thrown considerable chaos into this situation because the not-a-Deputy made claims and allegations against D that, unlike what I was dealing with where we had hard evidence and a ‘confession’/admission from D, had no proof and served his own agenda. Thus, his fraud has caused considerable grief and frustration, and muddling through it has been emotionally and mentally exhausting.

This ‘fake cop’ has also given S seemingly valid reason to blow off my concerns – which is why I include it here – because he legitimately believes much of my information is not true. I have excluded all information acquired through this ‘not-an-officer-after-all’ dude. S has repeatedly told me I am being lied to. And I have repeatedly told him  I have copies of documentation from many different people regarding the allegations I have brought forward. If rumours start to fly that my sources are not legit, any reader is welcome to email me and ask questions. I am not afraid of being questioned on the ‘facts’ and am willing to share any evidence that I am given permission to share, and will do my best to respond to reasonable questions. I will not cater to nonsense, attacks, or demeaning comments or requests. I have not chosen this path frivolously.

…To be continued…

Proverbs 31:8  
“Open your mouth for those who cannot speak, for the rights of all who are destitute.”

As always…

Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2018

write your name in red, be true to your heart & dare to stand alone

Growing up, there was a lot of pressure to be accepted, to be in the in group, and to perform well. From peer pressure at school, to family life at home, to church rules and expectations, everything taught us to please people, to fit in and not be the one to break rank and stand out like a sore thumb. To do so meant to be excluded, isolated and looked down on, or be marked in some way.
It took many years to unlearn this, and find the courage to stand alone, hold tight to my values – and do so with grace for others – and risk the inevitable rejection. That learning process was painful, and at times I reacted out of my fear of rejection and let it all get inside my spirit, when the resistance came. But, having learned it (and continuing to learn it) I thank God for the freedom it brings.
I had been fairly warned, before doing my Masters, that secular education would possibly, even likely, leave me bankrupt of my values. On my first day in one of my courses in the program, we were asked to write our names on the board. Two dry erase markers lay on the ledge in front of the board, one green and one blue. At an awkward distance away was a red marker, and to use that one meant asking the prof for it. When it came to my turn, I chose that one, and added my name to the collection. The class continued with blue and green, and when it was over, my name stood out like a sore thumb.
names_Stand out
I chose the red that day to remind me never to lose myself in a crowd, to always be true to my heart before God, true to myself, and never prioritize blending into accepted norms. It probably felt more awkward to me than to everyone else, though I recall the professor looking surprised, and felt the class staring…. though it was likely more a ‘feeling’ than a reality. They didn’t understand why I chose red. Nor did it matter. In that moment I wanted to accomplish one thing, and take that one thing with me through my education, through my day to day interactions with people in my personal life, and ultimately through life.
To my intrigue, throughout the program we were encouraged to express ourselves and be critical thinkers, but also to honour others with whom we differ. There were some interesting and intense conversations, but there was respect. Contrary to what I might have anticipated, given the concerns shared, I came through the program more confident in my spiritual journey, not less. I embrace my faith more firmly than before. But I also developed skills in really hearing the other person, and honouring and caring for them without feeling like I need to endorse their beliefs.
I think back often when I ‘swim against the tide’, whether in religious communities, in university, or in my own mind and thought processes. And I choose again to pick up the red marker. Getting lost in a sea of other people’s expectations is a curse. Whether those expectations are secular society or religious performance, they steal something from us. Standing true to one’s heart (before God for the Christian), and to personal values and beliefs, while difficult, builds confidence, as long as it is done without attacking or belittling the other.
When I live life with that authenticity and grace, I can look at myself in the mirror and know that I am trustworthy.  This is my goal in life, to live in such a way that people experience compassion, love and grace in my presence, even when we are worlds apart on an issue or in beliefs, and even when we openly disagree.
I encourage you, don’t be afraid to write your name in red… to stand out in the crowd… to be different, and swim upstream. Let your name stand boldly for what your heart holds dear, and for the truth your spirit embraces. But, in that, let love for all be your mantra as you view them through the eyes of God’s grace, as worthy, beloved, and deserving of respect even in those difference.

As always…

Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2018

Why can’t you shut up about sexual abuse and get a life?

That question. Why can’t I just shut up? I’ve been asked this question in various forms over the past several years, by a variety of people. I’ve been unfriended (both in the real world and on FB) because I won’t shut up. One woman, a victim herself, who claims it’s had no impact on her and “it’s not a big deal” had a most condescending way of telling me to give it up already and find something better to do with my life.

Here’s the thing. With my personality, my nature, or the way I was trained – (I don’t always know where the ‘born this way’ starts or ends, and where the ‘trained this way’ picks up) – but in any case I would rather shut up. Yes, you heard me. I would rather shut up and pretend that sexual abuse isn’t an epidemic. And I’d especially like to pretend it isn’t in churches and faith communities. But it is. And I can’t.

In part I’d like to shut up because it’s not a fun way to spend my life. And I like fun. I love laughter and doing fun things. And I’d rather do them all the time than to even once get my hands bloody and feet dirty in the messy world of sexual violence against children. I’d rather plant flowers and manicure my lawn and sit in my flower garden and sip coffee, tea and water all day long in frivolous conversation with happy people. (Okay…stroke the ‘frivolous conversation’ bit. I don’t enjoy that.) And eat fruit. Because in The Garden it was supposed to be that peaceful and nice. But we don’t live in that Garden and hell has invaded our worlds in ways our first parents never imagined when they took that bite.

So the thought of sitting in a garden chattering with friends, laughing and playing games is appealing. Not gonna lie. No one would threaten to sue me.  No one would hate me. Everybody would love me. If all I did was sit in a garden with friends and never spoke another word of confrontation about sexual abuse and the agenda to cover up. Okay, they might hate me if I was super rich and if it was only an elitist group welcome in my garden. But if all were welcome and I simply served biscuits, treats and drinks, no one would hate me. Except maybe those who hate everyone and are always jealous. But mostly I would be loved. And that is my bottom line, based on my personality and who I am: I like to be loved and accepted. I am born for that. I am conditioned for it. Follow the rules. Don’t stir the water. Love everyone, and be loved back generously.

But I can’t shut up. And I can’t because every day children are conceived. Every day they are born. And every day they are molested, raped, brutalized and used. And every day I am aware that at any given moment, if I pause, a child enters the world, somewhere. And in that same moment another is being raped or molested in some way. And in that same moment an abuser, a church leader, a parent… someone, somewhere, is denying the horror that child lives. I cannot ‘un-know’ these things. They are as real to me as the breath I breathe.

But the real reason I cannot shut up is because I know there is hope for that child in spite of all that darkness and hell and trauma. And if just one child (whether an adult or still a child) hears that someone, somewhere is willing to fight for the truth and their hearts, then defying everything my heart longs for (peace, no conflict, Garden-kind-of-innocence, and to be loved by all) is worth it. Because that child might not commit suicide. That child might find the courage to heal and get help. And that child might not grow up to molest others, if that child knows that their story matters to someone.

So, go ahead, ask me if I can’t just get over it already, or move on or get a life. But first dare to picture the graphic truth of a toddler (male or female) being raped, an adult body forcing inside, and that adult getting away with it as a “member in good standing” because he said he is sorry. (Now recreate with a female offender). Too graphic? This is the reality of many children so we as adults better be able to handle it if we demand they live with it.

If you can physically step over that toddler, spirit torn and flesh bleeding, and keep on walking and literally ‘get over it’…. then send me your challenge to get over it and move on. But I can’t. And I won’t. Because I have ‘seen’ those little bodies left to bleed… I have seen them in the broken lives of struggling adults. I will continue to pick up those little bodies, wipe up the blood and bodily fluids that have left forever stains in their spirits – stains which remain, fluids which continue to spill, and blood which continues to flow from those scars for decades. And I will speak the love of Jesus over them, tell them who they really are and what they are worth. And I will confront boldly the dark sins hiding in our communities.

Because Jesus would. And He would say a whole lot more than I have courage or boldness or words for. And it wouldn’t be laced with an ounce of self-preservation or fear or wanting to be liked.

Matthew 18:6-9.

I invite you to speak up. Educate yourself about the truth. And fight for the lost children, stripped of innocence, and born into the silent sex-trade of what we call church and faith community.

Rise up. Join in transforming our communities so children are safe and offenders are called out and held responsible. Together we will create an environment where image means nothing and truth means everything. We need you. Even if the only ‘speaking out’ and ‘fighting for’ you can muster is on your knees in your room. The children need you.

Love,
~ T ~

© Trudy Metzger 2017

Setting Back Time (literally), Cake Batter Disasters, and Other Mother’s Day Musings

How soon it was, after we moved to Canada, that my parents bought that old daisy clock for our kitchen, I don’t recall, but I was enthralled by it. In my little mind it was the prettiest thing on earth, just like the real daisies outside. I would have one just like it when I was all grown up. Mom liked it too. So much so that when it stopped working, sometime around my late preteens, she set out to fix it.  There was also the little issue of not having money for frivolous things so what Red Green’a duct tape couldn’t fix, my parents found a way to redeem. Whether it was lack of finances or love for the clock, now useless, mom took it upon herself to fix it.  She pulled it apart, every little piece, and put it back together again. And, sure enough, it ran again.  Backwards. We kids laughed and joked about that for a long time.

Now, at 47, I look at the picture of that daisy clock and think to myself, if but for a moment, how I’d like to take the ‘clock of my life’ apart and put it back together differently. Maybe go back and do some things differently with a second shot at it. Especially as a mom. That’s me and almost every other mom, with presumably a few exceptions.

Not because of Mother’s Day, but just because of mothering and humanity, this topic has toyed with my mind more than enough lately. My failures stare me in the eye, time and time again, and more so with age. I see who my children have become and are becoming and I am amazed by God’s goodness in spite of my failures, but the awareness of generational sins, cycles and dysfunction are pretty glaring at this stage. So, yes, if I could pull down the old daisy clock, reset it, and go back with all that I’ve learned and…

Truth told, Adam and Eve would eat the apple again, and I would fail as a parent again. And we mothers would look back with regrets, losses, and wonder how God will ever redeem the impact of our generation, and the generation before us. Somehow he just would. Because God is amazing that way.

So that old daisy clock, which looks much less appealing today than it did then, can keep moving forward and I will choose to trust God to be enough for this generation and the next, even as He continues to redeem our generation and the ones before us.

And I’ll take a step back and look at the messy parts with new hope. More like that cake mom made when I was around 8 years old. The old yellow bowl was filled with batter and mom stirred enthusiastically, trying to beat out every lump. (So help us God if cake should ever have a lump in it…) And just like that, having been a bit too enthusiastic, she sent the bowl flying and chocolate batter spread everywhere on the counter, running down the counter and onto the floor. The bulk of it stayed on the counter, fortunately. We were not wealthy by any means, and wasting a cake would never do! So, after much fussing and gasping and exclaiming – while her children watched in humour – mom scraped the batter from the counter back into the bowl, cleaned up the rest of the mess, and baked a lovely cake for us. We kids who witnessed it, and those who heard the story, laughed many times over that moment.

Life is hard. Really hard, sometimes. And we moms have a habit of beating ourselves up pretty good. We look at our failures and see only the batter running down the cupboard and the mess on the floor. We forget that the bowl with batter running down it’s sides still has much in it to give, and what is spilled on the counter, God will redeem and make something beautiful out of it. The spills, He will wipe up.

Mother’s Day is the hardest for me to blog about, or write about, and I pretty much never speak publicly about my mom. There are so many unanswered questions, so many pains left in limbo, so much loss that I must give to God constantly, that it would be easier to look the other way. That is true in my relationship with my mom, and it is true in my own journey as a mom. And I’m not alone. I hear story, after story after story. I’ve chosen to forgive even where the story has never been acknowledged. When I see mom I hug her and tell her I love her, but my arms feel empty even as they are wrapped around her, knowing some things have never been and will likely never be.  Mom is old now, and because she is still living, I carry the story quietly within me out of respect. It’s something I did for dad, and it’s something I will do for mom. And when she is gone, I will speak, but I will speak respectfully as I have about dad. I bless her as she lives out her remaining days, months, years, and possibly decades (in fact probably decades… she’s pretty stubborn, or determined, depending on point of view). And I trust she has made peace with her God. I hear it in her, and bless her. But there are scars that cannot be addressed. So I trust God to wipe up the spills, scrape up the batter that remains, and make something beautiful.

This Mother’s Day, if you grieve for whatever reason, I pray for you. If you are the mom who failed and feels beyond redemption… If you are the mom who never had babies, or lost them all, or lost any… If you are the mom who is unappreciated, abandoned, or used and abused… If you are the mom who is in the thick of the mess of those early years, or struggling through difficult teen years (not all are, but some are)… If you are daughter or son who is estranged, rejected, or manipulated and repeatedly wounded… This day you are worth being celebrated.

And, this Mother’s Day,  if you are the mom whose life is idyllic, beautiful and ‘perfect’…. You are worth being celebrated.

Motherhood is a beautiful thing, made up of more joy and more pain than any human can possibly imagine exists in this world. Nothing has made the miracle of God and the wonder of spiritual life more real than motherhood. Nothing has broken my heart in deeper places. And nothing has caused me to reach out to Someone greater and say, “I need You. We need You!” And I trust that Someone with my life, my children, my mother and our intertwined stories, to bring something beautiful out of all things.

Happy Mother’s Day!

With Love, 
Trudy

 

© Trudy Metzger 2017

Denominations, Abomination & the Christ

Denominational barriers, in my opinion, are a bit like a certain proposed wall between USA and Mexico; we build the wall, and the other side pays. We’re in; they’re out. It’s a divisive ‘us v/s them’ mentality, when ‘denomination-as-an identity’ is what we focus on, rather than focusing on Jesus, and rather than blessing our neighbours who also focus on Jesus, but do it differently. That said, I’ve read several strong ‘anti-denomination’ articles and comments ranging from general anti-denominational rants to calling all use of denomination identifiers demonic, to healthy questioning. (Observation would tell me that those who are totally anti-denomination, are very ‘pro-my-belief-system’ and create the same barriers without the denomination name associated.) And it all made me think below the surface of this problem.

Isn’t the real issue from Whom/whom, or what we draw our spiritual identity? Is it from a denomination? From a leader? (dead or alive) Or from any other person or thing other than Christ? To whom do we look for validation and affirmation? Denominations are an unnecessary thing in and of themselves, granted, but I’d hesitate to call them demonic, as there’s no biblical evidence, nor current evidence that they are. But there’s plenty of evidence that they can be problematic. And that problem is old as the idea of Christianity and church. “I am of Paul, I am of Apollos…” they said in Corinthians, and Paul corrected them, to bring it back to Christ, and that is something that popularly ‘followed’ or ‘idolized’ spiritual leaders sometimes fail to do, as they watch their ‘tribe’ grow in strength in support of them, lifting them up rather than bringing it back to the simple gospel of Jesus. Good spiritual leaders will turn that ‘lifting up’ back to Jesus, not in false humility, but humbly accepting thanks and redirecting glory to God. Less than stellar spiritual leaders will absorb that ‘idolatry’, and as their name grows, the shift happens from Jesus to a person. (I would know… I’m “MENNOnite” by cultural birth, which wouldn’t be a big deal if it wasn’t a spiritual identity.) And as that name grows and if the identity becomes about a person or a set of beliefs held by that person, rather than about Jesus, divisions are inevitable. But the problem isn’t about the name, it’s about the position it is given, and the division it causes in the body of Christ.

That divisiveness is not good. But it goes deeper than denominational name, doesn’t it? Is the root not a baser thing than that? A thing of selfish ambition and fear of losing position if we don’t feed and absorb that place of being held high, or having our beliefs held high… even higher than Christ? We forget that the ‘positions’ we are given in spiritual leadership are sacred callings, and they are servant-hood; an invitation by God to do His work, and when He has called, He preserves our calling if we trust Him and humbly turn the hearts of people to Him. This is gracious spiritual leadership, honouring ‘the Christ’, whether with denominational ‘titles’ or not. And I have known men and women of great ‘position’, wealth, and wisdom, who have walked humbly with their God, and whose names hold significant ‘presence’ when referenced, yet always they hold their hands up, redirecting to Jesus, the worship, as did Peter and Paul on the streets, as told in Acts 14. These are men and women of various denominations, or no denominations at all, but they are true heroes of faith, and true spiritual leaders. Because spiritual leaders always lead the way to God; they are never an end in themselves.

I will grant it, I don’t like the whole ‘denominations’ thing much, and find it particularly unnecessary as a frame of reference as to what ‘kind’ of Christian I am. I’m either the Jesus kind, or I’m not one at all. But I can extend grace for the idea of it, because it dates back to the beginning of the church, from what I can tell, though often associated with cities, and now associated with beliefs. I don’t think it will keep people out of heaven, so I come back to the argument that strong labeling or condemnation of denominations seems a bit over zealous.

Revelation addresses unique church identities well, pointing out that each has something to offer, but with areas of deep need for transformation. So I question whether ‘ridding the world of denominations’ is the answer, or even possible. Rather, tearing down the invisible divides we create by holding high our own positions, or this person or that one, rather than lifting Jesus high… now that’s a mission I’m into. Because when Jesus is lifted high, people are drawn to Him. And when He is invited in, the demonic flees and people are made whole and the body of Christ is made whole, not divided. We humans tend to focus on solving a problem so the Christ can be portrayed accurately and we try to rid ourselves (or each other) of the demonic to invite Jesus in, but the reverse is the answer most times; when Jesus is invited in, the darkness scatters. Darkness cannot exist in the light. And Jesus does not fear that darkness. In His darkest hour, He opened His arms wide, welcoming the whole world into grace.

And that’s the problem with us… We tend to cross our arms and close our hearts, but Jesus opened His arms wide, and His heart wider. If we stop ‘fixing the problem’, and rather invite a broad shift in focus away from the denominations that exist, and away from the people who lead them, and collectively lift Jesus high, and walk in the way of His love, transformation will come. Barriers will come down. Walls will crumble.

Love,
~ T ~

 © Trudy Metzger

Between 2 Gods: a Quest for Hope & Truth, in the midst of Abuse & Violence

Announcement: For those interested, the cover of my book, Between 2 Gods, just came out this week. Last night I set up a Facebook page where you can join, and be part of prizes and giveaways that will be announced after the book is released, March 3, 2015. I am going to try to be creative about prizes, and go beyond giving out free books… so don’t miss out! On the BETWEEN 2 GODS page you can also get updates and share your thoughts and comments, or ask questions. (Click on the photo or the red link to visit the page.)

B2G

It’s happening! It is really, truly happening! The dream I dragged around, from place to place, at age twelve– in the form of lined-paper-leftover-school-books, hoping one day to publish my very own book–has become a reality, at long last.

I mentioned it casually, a time or two, in past blogs, I believe, but now we are doing the countdown. I’ve spent much of this past year writing my book, and now, here we are, only 45 days from the release date. That’s six weeks and three days. I’m sure I could find the minutes and hours if I wanted to do a Google search. But, hey, who’s counting? There are so many things I need to do, between now and then, that sitting here ‘counting the time’ isn’t really an option. Every now and then, however, it hits me in the gut, that feeling of anticipation, fear and everything else in the mix: It’s almost here!

And I am most definitely excited. One doesn’t have dreams at twelve, that come to life at forty-five without feeling that excitement. The part of the dream that I would never have imagined at twelve, is the content in my book: my life story… the stuff I was living, right then. I tell it as it was: raw. Though i have tried to  buff up the edges a bit, and withhold a bit of the harshness without altering the accuracy. Of the people who have read it, the response has been positive and encouraging, but feedback has consistently come back with the truth that it’s a lot to take in. Captivating, they tell me, yes, but jolting.

I’ve been honest in my telling of it.  Most readers will go through a whole gamut of emotions. One person, who does not come from a background of abuse, wrote about the anger she felt. She raged at abuse, done in God’s name. It was the fist such response and it shocked me, and scared me a bit.  Some wrote how they couldn’t stop laughing at certain places, in spite of harshness in other places. Yet others expressed grief and sadness. But all found the thread of hope intertwined with what could be a very dark story.  And then my heart was happy!

I would also caution that my memoir is not ideal for a young audience. While I have written discreetly enough to  disguise particularly heavy scenes, relating to sexual abuse, it is still too much for the young reader. If I had my way about it, no one under eighteen would get their hands on it without supervision, if at all, But, then, the Bible is full of some pretty difficult reading too, so I will leave this in God’s hands. I know I read things in the Bible, knowing good and well it was x-rated information and, in hindsight, I only wish I would have had someone safe to talk to about it. So, more than withholding my book from those under eighteen, my prayer is that they will find someone safe to talk to, particularly readers  who identify with my story, and work through their own pain.  And, given statistics, that identification will be the higher percent of the population, either from personal experience or a loved one close to them.

The previous paragraph, that’s a ‘warning’ that some of my readers will almost certainly be offended by some of the content in my book. To be honest, it was a battle for me too, to tell it as it really was. So much so that one day I said to Tim, “That’s it! I can’t do it! The book is off!” Tim calmly supported me, and gave me some time to reconsider. When I ‘recovered’, I spent some time asking God to help me say it in a way that is not destructive… to tell the truth, but not harm or destroy anyone in its wake.  And then I found peace. The verse, in Titus 1:15, plays in my mind: ‘to the pure all things are pure, but to those who are defiled and unbelieving nothing is pure; but even their mind and conscience are defiled”, and I realize it is not all on me.

If you find yourself offended by the content, I’m glad. You should be. I am too. And when it makes you feel sick to your stomach, imagine the little toddler who lives it, whose very spirit is offended by the darkness, and who has no voice to fight back, and no one to tell about it. Never mind words to express it. (If I had told someone safe at three, the things I saw and experienced, I might well have had a different story! But God had a redemption plan!)  Unlike you and I, who get to make adult choices, these toddlers and children simply absorb that offense, deep into their spirits, and carry it with them through life. I plead with you to be offended for their sake, and educate yourself for their sake. And please don’t tell me, or others like me, to not tell the truth.  Don’t silence us, because it silences the voices of others like us–babies, toddlers, children and teens–who today suffer what we suffered back then. And then fight for them. You can yell at me, if you need to , to express your frustration with my bold telling of my story. I’ll work through that pain. But they have no words, no voice and none who will hear them. Many, if not most, lack the gifts I have–people who care and listen, and a way to form words, in black and white–to get the darkness out of their spirits.

Instead, it tangles itself, like untamed tentacles, around and into the very fiber of their spirits and identity, forcing them to believe that ‘this is who I am’.. that ‘this thing done to me, defines me’… ‘this is all I have to offer’… and so they remain in bondage to that pain. Not long ago, again, a young woman looked at me and said, “I start to feel as though I was made to be used”. That’s the darkness speaking! You were made for so much more! We were made for so much more! I was made for so much more! That truth has to become personal, for freedom to come!

And that’s the darkness against which I cry in my memoir. That’s the voice I try to share–the unheard toddler, the lost teen, the wandering adult–because they cannot speak. And with their cry, told through the eyes of my own experience, I tell my journey vulnerably, offering Hope. I share with the world the wonder of the One who never lost sight of who He created me to be, even when I had lost all sense of connection to Him, or the child He created.

It has not been easy, telling the truth and reliving it, but I’d do it again, no matter what lies ahead, knowing it will bring hope and freedom to even one person. Just one. If a million strip me for it, and one writes a ‘thank you for helping me’ note–and someone will–then I am committed to thanking God for this incredible opportunity.

You, my friends, have been a source of encouragement through 2014, as I plodded through the ‘muck’ of that writing process. You carried me through your notes, your prayers, your love. And, speaking of prayers, a few of you wrote to say you pray for me every single day!! Can I tell you how much that shocked me and blessed me?! To pray, now and then, is truly a blessing! To pray every day… every day!… That’s breathtaking.  Thank you!

My prayer for each of you is that God will bless you in ways beyond your wildest imaginations and expectations in 2015. For many  of us 2014 was a difficult and painful year, for various reasons. Some of us it was the emotional strain of life–in my case ministry and writing–for some it was the loss of jobs, and finances, and for quite a few it was loss of family and loved ones. I could list a lot of friends who suffered such loss in 2014, and whose grief spills generously into 2015. Yes, it was a hard year…

My prayer is for blessing, peace, healing and restoration in the midst of the ‘stuff of life’, for each one of you! Thank you for blessing my life! My prayer is that in 2015, more than ever, I will be a blessing to you!

Love,

~ T ~

 

© Trudy Metzger

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Messy Grace, Dipped in Blood

My  new coaching client sat across from me,  suddenly distracted. Her eyes ‘popped’ in shock. She gasped. We had spent a bit over forty minutes talking, exploring her dreams, her talents, her desires, and the challenges to match. Unlike most of my clients, who are working through one trauma or another, she had come for career help, and I had asked her a question. The sudden diversion startled me.

Instinctively my eyes followed her gaze and I saw him, an elderly man, hitting the cement, then leaning up a few inches and dropping again. Did he try to lift himself up, or did his body bounce? I saw it and wondered.

The mind and body are fascinating, in a moment like that, when consulting reason is not even on the radar; they simply engage one another in reasonable and necessary action.  Nor does dignity or any other thing hold an ounce of importance, or factor in, in any way, in a moment like that.  I shot to my feet, and ran through the coffee shop, and before my mind had fully registered what it was I saw, I found myself kneeling beside the gentleman. He struggled, attempting to sit up. I put my arms around him, and leaned him slightly forward to lift his head from the unkind hardness, while asking him questions. He was coherent. I felt the cement under his back, and wished I had an extra sweater, a jacket or a blanket.  I had enough dignity that I wasn’t willing to sit there in my bra so he could have my sweater, but I certainly would, if needed, to save a life.  Most of us would.

From my vantage point there was no blood,  until I sat him up.  That is when I saw blood running down his temple, his neck and onto his chest and shoulders, and his hand dripping a steady pace.  I looked for something to use as a compress, at the same time as I asked my client, who had followed me out, to go in and find napkins or something  and bring them back, and to make sure to call and ambulance.

The manager came running and for the next twenty minutes, or so, we sat there, holding an elderly man’s hand and forehead.  There was blood on the ground, blood on his pants, his shirt and matted into his hair. It was all over our hands and arms, and a bit on my white shirt. Blood stands out on white.  My client sat behind the gentleman, providing a back-rest, while the manager held his forehead, and I held his hand–now gripping mine in solid tension. We chatted and laughed, as we sat there. He was so appreciative and said he was okay, that he had just lost his footing. It had happened a few days ago, too, and he had hurt his finger. He showed us his crooked finger, bent at the last joint, in an almost -perfect 90 degree angle.

As we sat with him, bleeding all over us and himself, people drove by. They looked. A few gentlemen came and asked if there was anything they could do. One was a fireman, the others made no indication that they had any training. They were just concerned.

Something else happened as we sat there, all covered in blood. In fact, two things. First of all, we bonded. We cared for him. We held his wounds. We connected. (Admittedly, I was afraid to ‘touch’ his raw wounds. Not because I feared being contaminated but because I feared contaminating them.  One never knows for sure what germs or bacteria we have come in contact with and the immunity of the elderly potentially being compromised, I assessed the extent of the bleeding. It wasn’t life-threatening, though steady, so I waited for the compresses. (Obviously, had he been bleeding profusely, I would have taken the chance.) And the second thing that happened was that we learned a bit of his story. He told us that he had a ‘weaker side’ because of a stroke twenty years ago and hence the recent tumbles.

By this time we had retrieved an umbrella from his truck, and sat there, in a spritzing rain, talking and still holding his wounds.  A staff member came with some forms and asked questions. What did we see? Who saw it first and what did we do?  Who were we all. Names. Addresses. Phone numbers. All those things.

The paramedic arrived and together we helped the gentleman stand up, and seated him on a chair, under the awning. We stayed a few minutes, answering his questions, then went inside to wash the blood off. The red stain on my white new sweater stayed. I hung my scarf over it, and returned one more time to the elderly gentleman, to wish him well.  That’s when I thought of his wife, at home, and how worried she would be.  Would it be okay if I popped by their home to tell her he was okay, but needed stitches and to get checked over? He thanked me and said how nice that would be.

I had just given my new client a good-bye hug–you do that after intense moments like that–and was almost to my car when the manager caught up to me. The gentleman had one valid concern. His wife would need the vehicle, but would have no way to get it. I said I would offer to drive her back to him, and to get the truck.

She met me at the door, moments later after I rang the bell. To make sure I had the right house I asked, “Are you Mrs. ____?”

“Yes….” she said, looking quizzically at me.

“First of all, your husband is okay, so don’t worry, but he did have a tumble at the coffee shop. He said you would need the vehicle–would it be okay if I drove you there?”

Moments later I dropped her off,  made sure she had everything she needed and headed for home. The rain had picked up, and I remembered that my car window was stuck… open.  My old Mazda had picked this day to malfunction with an open back window. How convenient. I tried half a dozen times, unsuccessfully.

I took to pleading with God, at that moment, about something as piddly as a stuck window, all because I didn’t want rain in my car. I tried again and, “Tada!!”  it went up. I whispered a thank you as I drove out  off of the coffee shop parking lot.

My mind got busy then, thinking about many things. Why does God answer little prayers about broken windows, and neglect big ones like a dying loved one, a chronically ill family member, those who desperately need jobs and many other things. And I had no easy answers. Just the awareness that God is God.

I saw the blood again, and the elderly gentleman’s eyes, as he thanked us and told us how nice we were. And then the awareness that his blood had been all over me, and I had hesitated to touch his wounds, afraid of contaminating them.

That’s when my mind wandered to church. To people who are bleeding.  And we sit there, like my client and I, in our coffee shops.  And I wondered if we get so busy with our coffee, and conversations, and whatever things we all do, while people bleed only feet away.  I thought of how I had my back turned, and my client–thank goodness she was ADHD, she said, and observing everything–was the one who noticed the gentleman, almost before it happened.  He could have been there an hour, with me only feet away, if she hadn’t been there.  And, while that wouldn’t have likely happened, I couldn’t help but think about, when I considered church. Or if, when we see the ‘fallen and bleeding’, do we even run to them, or do we get scared  and run the other way again.

I wondered what it would be like, in church, if we stopped being afraid of each other’s cuts, and wounds and scars. What if we weren’t afraid to get all bloody, and have stains on our new white clothes.  And if we put our hands on those gaping wounds without fear of contaminating, or being contaminated, and we held each other up, spiritually, even while we bled…  And sitting there, under an umbrella in the rain, we could get to know each other and hear the stories behind the pain… the stories about why we have ‘weak sides’ and stumble…

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And then, when the weak ones, with bleeding wounds, need help with walking to a place of rest, we who are stronger could square back our shoulders and let them rest on our strength until they are safe….  Until they find that rest in the One who Bled Love for us,  all messy and dipped in grace, when we were in that place of need and brokenness…

What if… Yes…. What if?

© Trudy Metzger

 

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