That Winter; Part 1 of 3

Cold, rainy days are a trigger for me. Not in the traditional sense, but in that they remind me of how I felt that winter. Numb. Confused. Lost. Alone.

For years I have less than fondly referred to that season as "My Shitty Winter" among close friends. Not to evoke reaction, but because well, it's the truth. It was one of the worst seasons of my life, if not THE worst. It was cold, dreary, & the countless times it snowed blankets of white across the Dallas landscape hardly felt redemptive. It felt dead. I felt dead.

I don't remember the exact date of the abuse. There's a photo somewhere from that one particular night, but I've made a point to not seek it out. The reality is, it didn't happen just once, even though I think it's often easier for me to think of it as one, singular event.

I didn't see the abuse for what it was until three & a half years later. That winter I knew things were off, but blamed it on running away from Jesus. I thought what happened, whatever I labeled it as at the time, was Him letting me taste my sin; my running made tangible.

The thing is, it wasn't just the abuse. It was 'Him.'
'He' punished me for running away. 'He' left me alone; shamed & to fend for myself.
God had become an abuser.

To be continued. 🌼