SHOUTING FROM THE ROOFTOP

Unaltered Grace

Looking back I can see God’s hand in every step of my life. However, not feeling Him at all until I was 26 years old, was going to be my down fall…

Adopted at birth, many rumors circled around how my name, Cynthia, was chosen by both my birth mother, as well as, my mother that raised me. Mom (the one who raised me) always said ever since she was a little girl she wanted a baby girl to call Cynthia. I innately had so many questions: Who was she? Where did she go and why did she choose to leave me? I cannot explain it but I had thought of these before I knew I was adopted. These questions haunted my mind from the very beginning, and they were a catalyst for so much of my confusion, pain and rebellion…strike one and two. The lies set into stone in my heart were: “I am not wanted”, “I am unlovable”.

I had an awesome childhood. We lived in a big house, I had brothers and a sister, and we had maids. I had a governess to help me, play with me and to fix my unruly curly hair to a presentable state. Yet, I remember, my attention seeking behaviors began showing through my actions already. I had anything I wanted but I remember stealing from a little girl that I had spent the night with, a sweater of all things. There are a variety of stories I could share to confirm that I was a pretty messed up little girl, headed for trouble, but I will spare the not-so boring details.

When I was about ten, we moved to a new house, new neighborhood and new school. I now had a next-door neighbor my age and I had a bit more freedom to roam the neighborhood. This is also when I realized that in school I was different. I could not read well and I was behind the majority of the other kids. However, I also found out that I was an athlete. Dodge ball, kick ball, basketball, track, soccer, whatever…that is where I excelled and I loved it! School continued to prove challenging but, it was the 80s and everyone knew I was “slow” so, I just progressed grade to grade on my failures no successes…strike three.  The lie was: “I am stupid”.

By the time I reached middle school, I was doing pretty well, as long as you stayed surface level, but I was profoundly empty and lonely and dying on the inside. You know, that kind of lonely where you can be laughing and involved in a group but consumed on the inside of complete emptiness and desperation. My only relief from my deep loathing of myself was participating in sports. When I was on the field, court, track, wherever…I was free and the lies were hidden. I most always got picked first for teams and I played to win no matter what, everyone knew that was my thing.

Middle school started out like a holding pattern but soon, I would lose control and enter the abyss of my life. I was so sad, I thought that if I actually let out what was in my heart that I would never be okay and… I met a boy, he introduced me to drugs and that was it…I entered the life of numbness, self hate and a vicious circle that would lead me to just giving up on life. This time of my life was so painful and hurtful. I was just dying for someone to help me but I had a smile that covered it all, so no one knew I was drowning in lies.

By the time I got to High School I was no longer the athlete. My Olympic dreams of high jumping gold, whether or not they were realistic, were traded for darkness, numbness, anger, and rebellion. Rebellions, like most people only know about from movies. I was a privileged girl, from an elite suburb of Dallas, on a rampage to destroy my life and probably take you down with me. I have stories, oh geez, some I like to tell because they are just unbelievable, and some still hurt but all of this is a part of my history. By the ripe old age of 17, I was so out of control that something had to be done and I remember it as if it had happened yesterday. I was coming out of my room heading down the stairs for the door and my Dad walked in the foyer and said, “I don’t know where you are going but, be home by nine o’clock in the morning, we are going to check you in the hospital.” I do not know if I can convey to you the little bit of shining light that brought me. At that moment, my heart broke behind the smile and all I could think was, “finally, finally I can stop, finally someone sees that I am going down.” At that point in my life, it was just a matter of time before I was going to die, not a spiritual death, a real life, tragic, teen angst death. I cannot tell you what else happened that night, I did go out and party, however, I was home at nine to go to the hospital. That day the lies stopped, and my Dad broke.

As we sat in the intake room, where they interview you and decide whether: you are short term crazy or long term crazy, they bombarded me with questions. Have you had sex? Yes. Have you smoked pot? Yes. Have you snorted or shot up cocaine? Yes. As they went on and on, my Dad sat there, broken, in disbelief, sobbing, having to hear all of this about his baby girl. Me? I smiled, the whole time. Even though on the inside, I needed to cry, I was screaming, “I am so sorry Daddy,” I was completely broken yet I was unable to communicate anything but a smile.

I was in that locked unit for fourteen months, which is two months over the limit, by the way. See, I am an overachiever…and shocker, they thought long term would be the best fit for me. I have to chuckle about that now, but my time there was no laughing matter. It took the whole fourteen months to wipe that smile off my face and make me realize that my life was my life, no one owed me anything and if I wanted anything different, I was the only one in control of that. I was taught how to be a participating member of a family, I was taught accountability, discipline, responsibility, I was taught unconditional love from people that did not have to show it to me. They loved me in spite of me. They developed a care and love in me that I did not have before. I learned compassion and communication; I learned how to look in a mirror. Seriously, I had that smile and it took the better part of a year before I could look in the mirror at me, without that smile. I learned to cry, I never cried. I had no tears, I was so locked up and shut down I could not cry. I learned to love my family.

When I was released, I went directly to boarding school and fell back into partying. However, this time I was different. I had knowledge and although I reverted back to some old behaviors, this time I knew it and I knew why. It was not until I was twenty-six years old, married to a man God specifically hand knit for me, and we had two amazing children, that my rehabilitation had come full circle.

I spent the first five years of my marriage broken, living, but broken. I was walking the walk but I was in pieces. See, in rehab I gained knowledge, systems and how-tos. In my twenty-sixth year, I was going to be shown life, full circle lived with a bounded up heart.

I was waiting tables and bartending about twenty minutes away from our house in Marietta, Georgia. I was living true to the server lifestyle, working all night, closing at two and then sitting at the bar until three in the morning drinking. One particular night, I was drunk, driving home on a pretty busy four-lane road and BOOM! I hit a curb and managed to pop two of my tires. I stopped, stumbled out of my car to the trunk, cussing and yelling, like it was not all completely my fault. In my rage and drunken stupor, I was completely unaware that I had stopped on an unlit curve in the road. All logic had escaped me at this point. I made my way to the trunk to attempt to change my tire (like that was going to help because I did not have two spare tires…). I proceeded to get my jack, the tire and the pad out of my car. As I lay the tire on the ground… Let me press pause here for a moment, do you recall earlier, when I said I could remember the night my Dad told me I was going to the hospital like it was yesterday? Well, much like that one, this moment is very clear too.

I noticed an old beat up pickup truck going slowly beside me, and pull over in front of my car. Now, I am in Atlanta, however, I am no stranger to the games of the street so I should be afraid, but instead, I am overcome with a peace that I never knew and can not explain. You know that, “peace that surpasses all understanding” that is spoken of in the bible... that is what took over. It was like slow motion, or time stopped. In my head and in my heart I heard a voice, this voice was sad, it was as sad as I felt. This voice, it knew me, it knew my brokenness, and I understood this without words being spoken. But, then he spoke these words to me. He said, “How long, how long do I have to watch you suffer?” “Choose now, life or death?” I knew immediately, I knew I wanted life, for the first time in my life I cared! I wanted to live. I said, “Life!” And that was it, the moment was gone and life continued on. The truck that drove up was driven by an older man, named Clovis; Clovis and I had to have spent time together because it was a twenty minute ride to my house and I would have to had to have given him directions and the next day when we went to get my car, there were no flats and it was in a parking lot at least two miles from that beautiful curve on Austell Road, with no bent rims. However, my time with Clovis was not as clear as my time with Jesus. I know that beyond a shadow of a doubt, that night, my life hung in the balance and Grace said, “no.” He would not leave me nor forsake me, as proven that night.

Now, I was full circle, I had the head knowledge from rehab and now I had heart knowledge from Jesus. I had hope for the very first time in my existence and I was changed. Every part of my story is for my good, and I am willed to share it because I am not alone. There are millions out there that suffer like I did and they need to know that He is alive, He is there and He sees you.

”What I tell you in the dark, speak in the daylight; what is whispered in your ear, proclaim from the roofs.” – Matthew 10:27