Sunday Morning Coming Down

Sundays — a day for families, a day for reflection, a day to be still. Maybe, a day for renewed hope.

All of my life I have struggled with love. What does it mean? What does it look like? How do I get it?

If you believe that God knew us while we were being formed in our mother’s womb, as David in the bible wrote, then, you must also believe that He knew what our lives would look like, right?

For me that is a difficult thing to believe. If God knew who my parents were, then why would He choose to put me there? To be raped before my fourth birthday? To witness a murder as a child? To see such unspeakable acts that I can now scarcely recant them because I’m told it’s too much to listen to?

Ok, but why God?

Next, my children. Did you know them in my womb? Did you know that I wouldn’t have eyes that could see who their father was? Did you know that it would take me years to unweave the nets that were woven so tightly around my understanding that I seemed to have scales over my eyes in those years?

Why, God?

Now, I am to believe that you had only love for me? Seriously?

This feels like a dichotomy to me.

I was given a mother who despised me, a father who treated me as a mistress and a husband who would betray me and my children. In the same breathe I am supposed to speak that God loves me? That He designed this atrocity for me?

May it never be that I believe wickedness comes from the throne or deity of God. God cannot be evil. God does not bring evil. Rather, He came to defeat evil.

How then do I reconcile that He loved me before I was born and left me with my parents?

How do I congeal now to His love hearing the horrific abuse stories from my children?

Sunday morning coming down and I’m left with heart questions.

I’m also left with a determination to believe what God speaks to me. That He does love me. That He has been contending for me and my children, on our behalf, since I landed into this broken world.

I don’t have all the answers.

What I do have is this: choice. I will chose to give my story back to Him. The creator, author and finisher of my life. My story now belongs to Him. My memories with my children, of my childhood, I leave now in His great care.

Do with them, Lord, as you see fit.

Originally published at http://prisonerbynocrimeofmyown.com on October 25, 2020.

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Incest. Murder. Rape. Then, I turned four. This is my story.

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Jodie Tedder

Jodie Tedder

Incest. Murder. Rape. Then, I turned four. This is my story.

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