You Don't Know My God

Going through my computer today I found this random entry I made in August of 2009. (The poem and italicized)

Defeated & Torn

darkness all around me - i can't catch my breath

the demons that destroyed your mind are clawing at my neck.

trapped inside this tiny room - hands tied behind my back

i watch in fear and helplessness at my daughter dressed in black.

little girl lost where have you gone - they've stolen your soul as thieves

left you to bleed alone on the floor as your mother watches and grieves.

hell laughs at me and stabs my wounds shrieking, "she'll never come home!"

my hope has died i must admit, i'm weary and believe their drone.

my little girl i cannot save - defeat has locked the door

i tried so hard, i cried, i prayed, now hope lays dead upon the floor.

I wrote this poem a few years ago when my daughter was at her lowest. And so was I.

As I read over it today, those old feelings came back. Defeated. Torn. Hopeless. I remember writing the poem with tears streaming down my face and my stomach clenched in knots of pain. I was absolutely certain at this time that God had turned a deaf ear my way and I was going to lose my daughter to depression.

Today, I sat across from her at our desk and watched as she giggled and talked non-stop about random things. I tried to catch a glimpse of that little girl who had been taken and beaten by a darkness we couldn't penetrate. I didn't see her.

And I believe beyond a shadow of doubt that I will never see her again. I have my daughter back. The little girl that she was before her battle and glimpses of the woman she is becoming. The years I spent teaching her from the Bible, homeschooling her…all worth it. The years she has spent in my lap, in my arms, and at my side watching and learning how to be a wife, mommy, and woman…all worth it. All the time and energy I placed into raising her has become my reward now. And I can only see this investment continuing to grow and give back to me.

Today....

Tears are rolling down my face- again.  When I wrote that poem my daughter was about 14 years old. Her depression was so deep and her pain so raw that no one was able to reach her. Medications and therapies weren't working. She was cutting herself on a regular basis and still carries a multitude of scars. I remember crying out to God daily to deliver her from this torture and pain. There are no words to describe being a parent and watching your child struggle with a sickness- whether physical or mental- knowing you can't take it away.

In those days, I truly believed depression was going to be the thing that took my daughter away from me.

When I wrote the rest of the entry, she was 17 years old. That last paragraph is gut wrenching. The tears just won't stop. I can hear her giggling. I miss that laugh so much. I see that little girl digging through my purses and high heels deciding which ones will go with the outfit she just created and then walking around the house. I can hear her trying to memorize Bible verses. Luke 17:19 "Thy faith hath made thee whole." Michaela's version? "My face, it has a hole." I remember praying with her before bed every night and those little arms wrapped around my neck. Even as a teenager and adult, she would curl up next to me or lay her head on my lap. I'd give up everything I have to hold my daughter again.

little girl lost where have you gone - they've stolen your soul as thieves

During her depression, my daughter was drawn deeper into dark, destructive influences. She immersed herself in rebellion and sinister things, as if they echoed the turmoil inside her. She loved Marilyn Manson, pentagrams, runes — anything that stood in defiance of God. Watching that transformation broke me. It felt as though the light in her had been stolen, and no matter how hard I fought or prayed, I couldn’t reach her.

As she continued into adulthood, this way of life didn’t stop. It grew to include witchcraft. A few weeks before I asked her to leave, she bought a color-your-own tarot card set, and we argued about it because I didn’t want occult items in my home. Over time, it seemed like she went out of her way to mock God and everything I believed in. She would challenge my faith, push her beliefs in my face, and accuse me of being unaccepting and unsupportive simply because I couldn’t embrace her choices.

Each confrontation tore at me. My love was unconditional, but she saw my boundaries as rejection.

God has been showing me these last few months that our estrangement is not personal- it's a spiritual war. She has given herself over to powers and practices that no amount of therapy or love can break. My role right now is to love her from afar, pray, and let God do His thing.

Reading the poem again, the line that screams at me is hell laughs at me and stabs my wounds shrieking, "she'll never come home!"

My response?

You. Don't. Know. My. God.

I have a promise and I'm holding onto it.