I grew up with two loving parents, enough food, clothing, and shelter, and a houseful of siblings. Any way you slice it, I have no room for complaining about my childhood, and I don't intend to.
Everyone, however, has bad experiences. Mine came in the form of church leadership. My home church experienced a roller coaster of screwball stuff, but it survived. That church was my world growing up, and the damage done to the congregation went past what it might have in a larger or less involved group of people. By the grace of God the church has become what it was supposed to be: a place full of joy, and laughter, and music, and Christ. But what takes an institution a few office changes (and the power of God) to overcome can take an impressionable child years to shake.
So, I've had my share of baggage. Trust issues. Bad memories and connections. Knee-jerk ideological reactions. But--especially in the past couple of years--I've learned how to uncork some of those memories. I know I don't carry around much of that baggage anymore. The past has weighed me down. Has pushed and pulled me and contributed to making me who and what I now am. I've recognized that--but I have ceased to believe that it's the greatest defining factor of my existence, or of my childhood relationships.
Still hurts to think about, though, and I'm thinking about it today. Especially how differently others who lived out the crazy are now reacting to it. I stumbled on something written by an old and very dear childhood friend and reading what she had to say about the past that we share made me feel as if I'd been given a swift kick to the solar plexus. She's moved on, has created her own idea of what it means to be free of the past. But moving on and healing, while sometimes synonymous, aren't always. Sometimes you have to live with a hurt in order to get better. You have to examine what's wrong. Gangrenous limbs need to be cut off, yes; but a broken arm can be set, made strong again.
Some of the really good memories--the ones with no hurts attached--come from time spent with this friend. I don't want or mean to judge her, or to sound judgmental. Our experiences were certainly not identical, and maybe not even comparable. Maybe for her amputation was the only solution. It's just that someday I pray that she and I can sit down together somewhere, can look each other in the eye, with nothing obstructing the view.
