Inner Child Neglect

I'm usually skeptical of those who try to attach too much blame on childhood events for their present-day choices. Living in the present, it just doesn't seem all that helpful to dwell on the past. We've got what we've got--here and now. Some of us have been lucky and some of us have been dealt a lot of crap (AND some of us have dealt ourselves a load of crap). And the correlation between then and now is frequently the opposite of what you might expect. Those who were "lucky" as children can become complacent and lazy and make choices that really mess things up. Those who are less fortunate in childhood can buck up and with grace and resolve make a pretty sweet life. There are enough of those reverse examples to lead me to believe that it's more about what we make of the raw materials we have than it is about the raw materials.

That said, (in the words of one of my favorite lyricists) I've been "playing Cabbage Patch dolls with my inner child" lately. It's part of my patchwork self-therapy. Looking for the holes that need to to be patched in order to keep my soul from leaking out into a useless puddle.

I've been praying that I will recognize those things in myself--primarily faulty thought patterns that are shading the way I interpret my situation. What's come to my attention is the way in which my childhood does inform the way I respond to financial trials. I could say, "See! I can't help my reactions to this stress. It's all part of who I am." I could say that, but I refuse to be trapped in patterns born out of hurt, need, or insecurity. That is not the way of life I choose, so those patterns do not fit.

So, I've decided to "go there" -- to go back to my childhood and dig up the roots of my insecurity and fear -- not in order to wear them as an excuse, but rather in order to deal with them so that I can move on into joy and freedom.

The final nudge that prompted me to rendezvous with my inner child was an Easter blog post from a friend who alluded to how our childhood experience can affect our perception of God:

"...the way we view Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit speaks volumes of your enviornment that you grew up in and your view of men in general.... calling God father can often be an issue with many as it psychologically conjures up, often unbeknownst to us, our view of our own father and/or father figure(s). If we had a very strict father we may see God as a Legalistic Punisher expecting only perfection. If we had a father who was aloof and not emotionally there, we may see God very much the same. If we had a father who was caring and understanding perhaps that is how we see God as well...."

This came right after interviewing a man who, in his 50's, still struggles with the fact that he never knew his father. It was evident in the interview that the absence of a father figure early in his life still served as a template for how this man viewed himself all these years later. On some level, he still functions like an abandoned child--how he viewed himself, I said, not how he viewed others.

My friend's Easter blog post went on to pose this question about God: "He is what we need Him to be, don't ya think?" based on the assumption that "It's imperative that you view Jesus in a way that's helpful for you."

When this friend asked for my response, I was reminded of the scripture in which Jesus quizzed Simon to see if he really knew who He was. Jesus wasn't satisfied with Simon rattling off the company line, so He pressed on, "Who do you say that I am?" Simon's answer to Jesus' question wasn't, "I think you're ___," or "I need you to be ___," or "To me, you are ___." His answer was a very confident:

"You are the Messiah. The Son of the Living God."

And Jesus replied, “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah, for this was not revealed to you by flesh and blood, but by my Father in heaven." (Mt. 16:17)

As I typed these words right now, I got to thinking that, since actions speak louder than words, another way of applying Jesus' question to our lives today would be by asking:

"Who does my life say that He is?"

Then I thought of the musical, Jesus Christ Superstar. When the Mary Magdalene character sings, "He's just a man," some Christians run the other direction in terror, fearing that such blasphemy might be contagious. I, however, found the raw, honest questioning of the lyrics--rather than luring me away from an orthodox faith--set up the very sort of questioning that allowed me to be open to the answer.

It's not really who HE is that is negotiable... but rather who I am in relation to Him...

This may seem like a tangent, but it really does connect to this whole inner child discussion. If the Father in heaven had not revealed to Simon who Jesus was, Simon wouldn't have had the confidence to assert his faith so boldly. Conversely, the identity of his dad had never been revealed to the man I interviewed, and the result seemed to have affected this man's perception not so much of his father as of himself. Our early relationships provide a template for how we view ourselves, and what we expect from subsequent relationships.

If confidence comes from God, as I believe it does, then our image of God is utterly important. Comparing Him to a human father, or a mother, or a brother, or a buddy... all of these things fall short. I think certain aspects of who God is can be revealed to us in comparisons with things that we have an understanding of in the physical world, but I also think that there is a temptation that needs to be resisted to build God in the image as we would like to see him... and that is so limiting.

Looking back over the years, there have been times when I've doubted, but in retrospect, I can honestly say that I've never had a legitimate REASON to doubt. There have been times when my concept of God has been majorly screwed up, but He has remained constant. If I try to form an image of who He is out of my own needs or desires or observations, that is likely to be a false god.

What I need is for Him to reveal Himself to me... and when I ask and seek, He is faithful. The bigger question then becomes, "Who do I say that He is?" Who does my life say that He is--in relation to me? Do I know how to love Him? Can I let down my guard enough to be truly loved by Him? to be changed, truly changed? Who am I because of Him?

As I pondered these questions in relation to my childhood environment, my family of origin, and my earthly father, I began to realize how intrinsically tied up all of the relationships of our lives become. Maybe that's because relationships run on on tracks called "patterns."

I remember coming to a surprising realization sometime after high school graduation, when I first moved out on my own and attended churches where my daddy wasn't the pastor. I realized that growing up a P.K., I experienced role confusion with this first man in my life--my dad. When I needed a pastor, I had never really felt that I had one because he was my dad. When I needed a dad, there were also times when I didn't feel that security because he was a pastor. Being a pastor meant he was often busy shepherding others, and it also meant that he received a very low salary and we were poor. Although I don't blame God for our financial state, on some level there is an equation of the spiritual to physical lack. My practical relationship to God as seen through the template formed by my relationship with my dad/pastor could be described as "It's complicated."

I've stated before in this blog that I don't really have so much of a problem living with Todd not making a lot of money. I learned to live a relatively simple life growing up because of my dad's lower income and the influence of having older parents who still remembered the effects of the Great Depression. We had a black and white television that my parents had rescued from a dumpster when they were first married. Even though everyone else had colored TV's there was no reason to replace our old set as long as it was still working. We were that frugal, and we survived just fine. I even remember my mother using an old wringer washing machine, doing a lot of laundry by hand, hanging it out to dry on a clothes line, and darning our socks when they got holes in them. Most of my clothes were either hand made or hand-me-downs. I wouldn't have said we were poor--that was just how we lived. My parents didn't complain about the things we couldn't have, and they seemed to enjoy the things we did have. I look back on those early years as being almost charming because they provide such unique memories for someone in my generation. Few can identify, so it is a history that is uniquely mine.

It did become a bit of an embarrassment when I entered middle school, though. That's when I became aware that my clothes weren't cool, and that I was one of the poor kids who had to stand in a special line at the cafeteria because of the free or low-cost lunch program my family was on. Those things were irritations, but I learned how to adapt and retain a joyful youth: I learned how to sew and made outfits I saw in fashion magazines before they even came to our small-town stores. I skipped lunch altogether to avoid the cafeteria line issues, and enjoyed having a little extra free time in the middle of the day.

From that experience, I learned that having little didn't have to mean being miserable. Todd may have had a very different childhood. Maybe that's why he places so much value on having the right stuff, and he has great difficultly adapting to lean times, but rather keeps spending at the rate of his want rather than the level of need.

The insecurity I seem to have carried with me into adulthood is the fear of loss of home. In my growing up years, my family never owned a house. We moved from one parsonage to another, usually moving every three years. The houses were not bad, but they were not ours to decorate as we wished, and there was always the question in the back of my mind: How long until we move again? The sense of impermanence took a toll on my sense of security. Even though I learned not to put down deep roots, I yearned to feel connected to a place an a people. Our longest stay in one place stretched out to seven years--just long enough for me to finally start settling in, making plans. Then, right in the middle of high school, we moved two states away to an ugly house decorated by a group of colorblind church ladies, with discarded (out dated) wallpapers and carpets that I've never seen anywhere else (I suspect they came from some Twilightzonish parallel universe in which the sun never shines and dogs drag their tails about in an attempt to scratch the itches caused by fleas trying to eat their way out of the miserable world). As if the house wasn't bad enough (did I mention it was haunted, too?), the community was even worse. The town was smaller than small, and whoever said small town people were friendly must not have ever moved into a small town from outside.

That is the plight I was so delighted to spare my kids of when we were finally able to buy a house. It was with such joy that I picked out tile for the kids' rooms and drew out the pattern I would use to lay it. Then when we were able to add on a family room, I designed it myself with a certain flair created by angles that weren't typical. I selected colors for a faux finish that took four of us working in tandem to accomplish. Now when I sit in that room, it is the most comfortable place I've ever been. Like the parsonages I grew up in, it's a modest house... but it's ours. Beyond the house, the community has become home. We've lived here longer than I've ever lived anywhere--pretty much for all of my kids' lives. I've finally relaxed and put down some roots, and my kids are so connected I doubt they'll ever leave this area if they have a choice.

Having been relatively poor growing up, I learned to conserve--to hold on to things that still served a usable purpose--partially because things were not easy to replace. So, I take that pattern into adulthood, as we're living in a house with a mortgage significantly lower than what we would have to pay to rent a similar place almost anywhere in the country. Without a pension or retirement plan, I look at this house as our retirement plan. It's from that perspective that I'm looking when Todd comes along and reveals his retirement plan as moving back to his dad's house where he can get stuff for free. Now, to be fair to Todd, I must say that his dad's house is the house he grew up in. His parents built it, and I'm sure it is full of many pleasant memories of better, carefree times for him. I can see why he might wish to go back there. He did know when he married me, however, that I absolutely hated the climate of the state he grew up in, and that I had no intention of ever living there.

Now, faced with the possibility that his dad will not be moving back into that house and that the house will have to be "dealt with," Todd has voiced his intention to hold on to it. I tried to bring up the subject of how we would be able to afford the property tax and upkeep on a second home when we're barely making it with the first, but as is customary, he ignored the question. We could be months, even weeks away from being faced with decisions about the property, and my inner child is trembling. Is it selfish for me to expect Todd to choose our home over his parent's home? Am I making an idol of this house? Should I be willing to go where ever he chooses to go, even if it is a clear violation of the spirit of our vows years ago, when he knew I didn't want to live in his home state? Has clinging to this house made me unwilling to leave Todd for fear that I'd lose the house in the process? And because I've stayed and continued to enable Todd's irresponsible behavior by not being bold enough to issue an ultimatum, has my love of this house actually contributed to Todd's worst characteristics?

I don't want to play the victim. I know I am strong. I also know I am responsible. I'm not going to take my childhood woes and use them as excuses. I'm not going to blame my parents, God, the church, or even Todd, for the path I travel. I want to see clearly, act wisely, and speak the truth boldly in love. I wish Todd would want the same, but that's his deal. For now, I pray that I will continue to improve my sight when it comes to identifying my own shortcomings and strengths, my own responsibilities and possibilities. I pray that I will somehow be able to rediscover that inner child who was happy to run about in hand-me-down clothes in the fields on the edge of a remote prairie town, playing with sticks and rocks and home-made paper dolls instead of fancy toys. That child who was happy. Not because of stuff, but because of security in her parents' love. That child who had not yet learned to withhold herself from connections for fear of having to leave once again.

From the Steve Taylor masterpiece,

The Lament Of Desmond R.G. Underwood-Fredrick IV

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
I was far too young to depreciate
When they read me my expiration date

I'd built Iron Man stalls in the northern wild
I'd played Cabbage Patch dolls with my inner child
Now I'm getting sealed bids for a granite vault
And I'm pretty sure this is my parents' fault

Desi Ray, if I may be so blunt
Galahad, bag your agnostic front
Underwood, hire a good undertaker
Freddie, get ready to meet your maker

Ah, the news of my impending death
Came at a really bad time for me
When they cancel your breathing policy
Tends to steal a bit of the old joie de vivre

I'd just found the lost key to my mythic life
So I bravely shook free of my kids and wife
I had seminars booked as a second career
Until a still, small voice screamed loud and clear.