I've posted before about how experts have proven that the brain remembers trauma, no matter what the age, what the maturity level. Trauma does not discriminate.
On a Monday in mid-April, I took the kids to karate. I knew we were ending our first month of introductory lessons which were cheap at only $14 per student for 2 lessons a week for a whole month. I certainly knew that our fees would go up after our first month. We were brought into the office to discuss the next steps for my 3 karate kids. The printed contract made my jaw drop to the floor. Nearly $4000 for the next 18 months of karate. No, there wasn't any typo, no extra zero, no missing decimal point. Even my boys knew that the price was pure insanity and that their time in karate came to an abrupt end. They left in tears. I left in tears. At home, I couldn't control it. I sobbed while doing the dishes and pretty much all night long. Uncontrollable tears.... over karate.
That following Thursday Prince died at his Minnesota home, 45 minutes away in Chanhassen. My jaw dropped to the floor in the van as I shushed the kids to hear the news and drove up north to my husband's office with lunch. When we returned home after lunch, I finished school with the kids and sat on my couch to relax for 5 minutes. I found myself choking back tears. Friends, I don't even own a Prince album. Sure, his amazing music was part of the soundtrack of my youth. I did a dance routine to Batdance with my dance squad members. I owned the single on cassette. I knew he lived in my home state of Minnesota. But I was never a diehard fan. So why the tears all afternoon and evening?
One glance at the date on the calendar in the menu bar on my laptop and I realized it.
Four years ago.
Four years ago this week we were grieving.
Four years ago this week we were angry.
Four years ago this week we were scared.
Four years ago this week the bottom dropped out.
Four years ago in mid-April we were dealing with the loss of Jay's job at a church outside of Sacramento, California. What I have to say next has never been said publicly and we left some great friends in NorCal that may not like what I have to say, but it needs to be said now. It needs to be said because I need to heal and writing has always been my means of expression.
We were blindsided. We had no idea a firing was heading our way. We had been with the church for only 2 days shy of 1 year. While our Nebraska house took over a year to sell in a badly downed market, it had just sold weeks prior and we had plans to view (and purchase) a home for sale near the church, in our closest friend's neighborhood that very Friday. But Wednesday night, Jay was asked to come into his bosses office and was told, "It's just not a good fit," and was let go.
We felt used. Jay was hired in good part due to his extensive knowledge and abilities to move churches into new buildings or to add onto current facilities. Jay did that seamlessly in California. I served the church in as many ways as I could with a child still at home. I tried to be the best associate pastor's wife that I could be. My 2 boys were young (3rd grade and preschool) and lived in 3 temporary California homes while we waited and prayed for that Nebraska house to sell. House to house to trailer. One suitcase of clothes each and 1 box of Legos, 1 box of Hot Wheels cars was all they had to their names. My youngest boy Super E slept in our bed nearly every single night, wanting to be close to mom and dad, the only things stable in his life. Living like nomads was so hard on him. Our dogs were at the home of a more than generous church member willing to help us out so we didn't have to get rid of our beloved dogs. Our guinea pig was housed at another dear, dear friend's house, those that we would have been living by had we been able to buy that house. We lived like nomads for 1 whole year of our lives and it took its toll on all of us. And then the church pulled the rug out from us.
We were gagged. We weren't allowed to tell anyone about our devastating news, or else the church would revoke any and all severance. We couldn't post anything online, on our blog, no reaching out to friends for networking, no asking for help, no public prayer requests. We had to keep our mouths shut.
We were banned. You'd think we did something illegal or immoral, but no. Yet the church informed us that they would be announcing the staff change at Sunday services and told us we were not welcome to attend for fear that it might "confuse" some churchgoers. The church closed it's doors to us. We were unwelcome.
When my husband came home to the trailer that Wednesday night and told me the news, I swore. I was livid. I wanted to hurt someone. Badly! Jay held up his hand and asked me to calm down. I had to keep my mouth shut. As time went on and we did begin telling parents (off of social media and other public forums, mind you), I was told by many that I had to stay strong for my husband's sake. He felt bad enough, I didn't need to add to his stress, they said. I had to stuff all my emotions, all my thoughts, everything deep down.
Friends, there is nothing healthy about that. I don't care what you say. Even if that was what my husband needed, it was not healthy.
We moved to Texas to stay at my mother-in-law's house, while our Nebraska house was being packed into a storage facility, while Jay began a new job search. It was the only place we could go. We took 3 days to drive there, spent 5 days doing laundry, setting up house, job searching, and then I was back on a plane to California. I was heading out to pick up our daughter in China via San Francisco airport. Ten days in China, 1 new daughter, but still no new job. So, we decided to leave ministry and change careers completely. And while my husband was training for a new career, then driving 200 miles a day from the condo to San Antonio, I had to keep my wits about me as much as I could to support my husband, my new grieving daughter, my 2 sons who had been through the wringer. Crying in the privacy of the shower became a daily occurrence. Stuffing the feelings, silencing the words, hiding the truth only causes harm.
Time hasn't helped. You can tell me all you want that God provided, that we made it through, that we're even better off now than we ever have been. I know that. All of it. I get it. I see it. But friends, that doesn't help. The hurts are still there. The trauma has left its ugly mark on my life and the scars tear open a little each year in mid-April even if I'm not completely conscious of the date. The church (in general) isn't a safe place to me anymore.
That week, that one week in mid-April, before even I remembered, my brain recalled all of it. The grief, the devastation, the hurt, the pain. Thus the tears over karate and a musician I never faithfully followed.
Friends, trauma doesn't tell time, even for adults like me.
