Not Condemnation But Liberation
It’s easy.
It’s really, very easy.
It’s simple, in fact, to sit within a wonderfully thick and impenetrable bubble of perfection that some create for themselves and judge someone else. It’s so easy to do and one could argue that everyone has enjoyed such activity at the expense of others. The mere fact that none of us are perfect begs the question, Why do we attempt to judge others? Why do we sit off on the sidelines refereeing the game that others are engaged in? Even when it’s a game that we don’t even fully understand. I won’t even mention that our view is obstructed by others doing the same. Do we actually think that we hold the answer to the things that others are going through?
Well, let’s slow down a minute and consider that last part. Yes, we actually do! Oftentimes, we do hold the answer to the difficult times that others are experiencing. The problem is that we too frequently misplace our motives when we “help”. Our “help” often comes in the form of condemnation instead of in the form of liberation. My God, tell me where did we suddenly get all of this authority to condemn another?
Judge not, that you be not judged. For with what judgment you judge, you will be judged; and with the measure you use, it will be measured back to you. ~ Matthew 7:1-2
Better now?
When we hide our own shortcomings, we steal away some of the relief and release of those who struggle in our midst with the very thing that we are trying so hard to cover up. The things that we’ve gone through are not only lessons for us but they serve as lessons for others. In sharing our own personal failures as well as triumphs we enable others to grasp a little bit of clarity and find their way out of a place that we may have already been. Wouldn’t getting lost be way less frustrating if someone who made the exact same wrong turn came to lead you back to where you were supposed to be? Or are there some who actually prefer to wallow in the filth and confusion without so much as a hint of where they should be headed?
I’m going to stick with the former.
And you shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free. ~ John 8:32
Why is that once we climb up out of whatever disaster we’ve been in (especially those we’ve created for ourselves) that we act as though we were above it all along? We put on a façade that screams, “Who me!?” every single time the topic of a prior failure is breached. To what end? Our desire to cover up these very trials and tribulations says more about our opinion of the mistakes of others than one might initially think. When we are afraid to share what we have been through it’s because we feel that we might be condemned. And how did we arrive at that conclusion if we did not first condemn another in our hearts? Sharing your experience is a way to set yourself free. You can stop working so hard to sweep the issue under the rug, for one. Put down the broom. Have a seat on the couch. That alone provides relief.
But what about the people who become privy to what you’ve overcome?
What of them?
Well, they are encouraged because you have conquered their present disaster, difficulty, failure, let down, unspeakable act. They are encouraged because that horrid thing that might be holding them down is finite, it is beatable, and its weaknesses are exposed. It cannot conquer and condemn another into quiet submission; it has an expiration date. In the midst of all the things that I went through I sought encouragement…I sought a way out…some sort of hope or light in the darkness. I am often asked why I wrote a book sharing my experience. This is the reason that I chose to share my personal journey. Not out of a desire to condemn those who played a part. But out of a desire to liberate those who feel trapped by something that those involved in my story have already overcome. Added bonus: I became free in the process as well. Mine was a story of domestic violence. My story reveals hope in the midst of a hateful, seemingly impossible situation. Unfortunately, mine is not the story of every person. There are people struggling with all sorts of problems—the types that many of us have experienced firsthand. If you open your heart and share your story, it will not be done in vain. You will set many others free in that single, brave act. Fortunately there is only one true Judge. While there are those who might attempt to condemn you… there are many more who will applaud your valor. They are out there, struggling to keep their heads above water, waiting for you to act?
What are you waiting for?
Youth and Depression
Depression can affect people at any age.
Those suffering from it demonstrate that depression impacts performance in school, interaction with others, as well as a person’s overall health. Of even greater concern is the fact that many adolescents will look to suicide as an escape to whatever situation they have deemed hopeless. According to www.depressionhelpspot.com “as many as one in 33 children and one in eight adolescents have clinical depression.” Also according to this site, the third leading cause of death for people from 10 to 24 years of age is suicide. It is time to be more vigilant about those around us and what they are going through. We are each our brother’s keeper! If you or someone you know is in need, seek help from a trusted professional immediately…
Visit http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4XEaTl4cw8U&feature=related to see the Youtube video sharing issues related to depression. For more information about the book Unexpected Places, please visit www.uplaces.net. God bless.
(Pictures courtesy of Google Images)
Excerpt from Unexpected Places
Taken from the book, Unexpected Places. Visit the following sites to read reviews of the book:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/unexpected-places-dionna-latimer-hearn/1107900790?ean=9781619044814
***
Ma vie en France commence.
My life in France begins.
I landed in France early one lifeless Sunday during the last week of September in 1999. The day was dreary both outside and inside me all at once. I was terrified to get off the plane and confront the new challenge that lay before me. How exactly was I to conquer this feat? For a long while, I just stood there at the gate, carry-on bag dangling from my shoulder as I clasped my pillow to my chest. My pillow held the signatures and messages of my teammates from college. Messages like “Good luck” and “We’ll miss you”, were written in purple and black ink in hopes of comforting me during my stay in France. Now the thoughtful words stood in stark contrast to the French words surrounding me as I turned in place, my Nikes squeaking on the dingy mosaic tiles that lined the terminal floor. I would miss my friends much more than they could possibly miss me. After all, they still had each other.
As I stood surveying my surroundings, the caterpillars in my stomach (they had not yet changed to butterflies) grew to enormous proportions and began feeding on my insides. I stifled the urge to throw up. I had an undeniable desire to run screaming back to the plane but held that in check as well. I stared out the large windows in the terminal at the dismal, gloomy sky threatening to rain on my new surroundings. My first view of Paris was very gray and very cloudy—cold even—just as my expectations were at that moment. I just stood there and hoped that the experience I was about to take on would somehow be different from everything I was feeling at the moment. I wanted to experience something besides the anxiety, fear, and discomfort that this abrupt change in my life was causing inside me.
Not all my emotions were negative, however. I was excited to be in France. I’ll see the Eiffel Tower, and I’ll learn to speak French fluently. It’ll be fun, I thought. But the inundation of doubt and fear was like an excessively harsh sun on the few flowery, cheerful thoughts that I managed to muster. I sighed, concerned that my few positive feelings would surely wither and die.
I stood there and collected my thoughts concerning the process that had brought me to this point. I briefly remembered my excitement at the airport in Cincinnati when they announced the boarding of my flight. My father had hugged me and, fighting back tears, said, Take care of yourself. If Id had any inkling of just what that statement would come to mean in a foreign land, I might’ve remained in the familiarity of his embrace. It was not until I saw his emotion that I really considered what this move meant. Nonetheless, I waved good-bye to my father and grandfather, making light of what I now realized would be a life-changing decision. I boarded the small aircraft and promptly stowed my emotional baggage in the overhead bin.
I stopped for a connecting flight in Philadelphia that evening, and my cousin Jason was waiting for me at the gate. His broad smile seemed to overtake his round face as I approached. We hugged briefly, his dark, smooth skin a stark contrast to my milk-chocolate complexion. He was happy to see me, and I was holding onto him for dear life. Even his always upbeat, positive, and reassuring demeanor could not assuage the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm me. This, the city of my birth, was about to be the city of my demise. There was no way I could board another flight.
Jason’s eager countenance was greeted by mine of apprehension. He had come to provide moral support and, Im sure, to make certain I boarded the plane to France. I pictured myself clawing the floor, leaving nail tracks in the off-white tiles as he dragged me towards the plane by my feet. The main thing challenging my ability to get onto the second plane was the fact that I could not understand what the French people around us were saying. Were they talking about me? Why were they staring at me? Did they know that I was about to invade their country? Would they see me as an unwelcome foreigner, or would I be accepted? What exactly had possessed me to go on this trip? Jason was no help, since he didnt know any French. I could only half listen to him anyway; I was in survival mode, and discussing nuances such as what I had eaten for lunch or what he had done that morning held little importance to me.
In the bathroom in the terminal, I ran the cold water and watched it disappear down the drain. I wanted to go with it; it might have been a more promising option than what lay ahead of me. Fighting back tears, I looked at my miserable reflection in the mirror above the sink. I appeared to have aged since my departure from Cincinnati; this aging process had begun with my fathers choked good-bye. I plunged my hands into the cold water and splashed it on my face several times. The shock of the cold water on my skin rushed through my body, causing gooseflesh. I could have cried out of fear—melted down right there in the bathroom—but I decided against it. Instead, I hurriedly dried my face and rejoined my cousin at my gate. Boarding would begin soon.
I remember not sleeping at all on that flight, but trying instead to prepare myself for what was to come at the end of eight hours. I was crammed into my seat next to a stout French lady who did not discriminate against any of the edible items within her reach. I, however, was barely able to force down any food, despite my obvious hunger. I was too uncomfortable from the cramped quarters to take in more than a few forkfuls.
The Frenchwoman apparently lacked a clear understanding of where her space ended and mine began. As I worked to establish this boundary, pushing her pillow and wavy brown hair, sandwich wrapper, and coat back onto her side of the armrest, the person in front of me reclined his seat into my lap. Did I mention that I am claustrophobic? I would have to have been a contortionist to take off my shoes, because I couldnt even reach my feet now. In fact, I had to lean far out into the aisle to even see them. As my feet expanded in my tightly laced cross trainers I realized that sleeping during this flight was not a possibility. I was far too uncomfortable, with a stranger to my right brushing crumbs to the floor and picking her teeth, while a man I had never met lay in my lap, his bald spot peeking just over the horizon.
Catherine’s Notes…
Excerpt taken from Catherine’s Notes
Entry Dated February 1, 2012
I have Become a Victim of my Cause
http://catherinesnotes.wordpress.com/2012/02/01/i-have-become-a-victim-of-my-cause/
Last Sunday my pastor asked the congregation, define Faith. My answer was “Faith is knowing I’m unworthy of Jesus but I hold in my heart the belief that Jesus Christ is the Son of God.” My answer today is different. Faith to me means to rely on forces unseen to guide not only me, but my children as well. To put my life and the life of my children into God’s Almighty Hands and by His grace and mercy alone will we be sustained.
Nobody asks for this to happen and nobody wants this to happen. I have been forgiven by the only One who can forgive me for the things I said and did. I repented and changed.
As I was leaving, the last words spoken to me [were], “It is your fault that I am the way I am.”
You see, abuse does not have to be physical to hurt. Abuse does not have to be physical to cause pain. Without God, my tongue can cut valleys, and it has. When I decided that God was not working fast enough, I would take care of it and walk out from under His protection. That is never a good idea.
It may be raining outside but I do have joy in my heart. Joy because I am not alone. I do not have to suffer and my children do not have to suffer. We have the love for Jesus Christ to pull us out of any pit and darkness cannot blind us. We are not bound by our circumstances, we are defined by God.
In The Midst of the Storm
Ironically, those deafening, destructive sounds offered me the most comfort; each thunderous blow meant that both my parents were still alive and well enough to put up a fight. The lightning—the part that did the actual damage—was the realization of what was taking place. That was the part that shocked the very essence of my being. The people that I thought I knew—the ones who claimed to be in love—they were doing everything in their power to hurt each other.
Having grown up in a home with domestic violence, I now work with at-risk youth many of whom are dealing with the burdens associated with living in similar conditions. While it is not always evident that a child is living in this situation, the effects of such an experience on a child are familiar. These traumatic experiences are usually evidenced by children exhibiting extremely low self-esteem, aggression, depression, and/or anxiety.
*Words in italics taken from the book Unexpected Places by Dionna Latimer-Hearn
Domestic Violence
According to statistics reported on the site www.clicktoempower.org 1 in 4 women will experience some form of domestic violence in their lifetimes. How has domestic violence affected you or someone close to you? Check out the blogspot www.comebackwoman.com to see my featured blog post as well as the stories of other women dealing with and overcoming domestic violence.
Feel free to post your thoughts and opinions about any related experiences.
God bless!
Scriptures presented in text…
In the book Unexpected Places the author cites to the following scripture:
Therefore I say to you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink; nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? ~ Matthew 6:25-26 NKJV
This scripture is shared at the start of her journey into a foreign country all alone for the first time. How does this scripture apply in this context? Does God deliver on His word? How has this same scripture applied to your own life/personal experiences?
Unexpected Places release January 2012
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