Very interesting, thoughtful piece on the BBC today:
‘The Decades-long Shadow of Abuse’
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-20066508
It does not exactly reflect my own experiences, but enough to resonate. It’s good to read of other people’s journeys.
God took a hurting little boy, broken and abused, and made him a hero, saving not just the lives of millions of children, but their hearts too.
It is my deep desire to help change the lives of ever more children. As a Follower of Jesus I believe loving children is just the beginning of the journey.
Compassion is unique in its approach, focusing on the needs of each sponsored child as an individual. You too can be a hero, and change the life of a child. Sponsorship costs less than £5 a week. Click the link to find out more http://www.compassionuk.org/
The boy has been off school for nearly a month. I have been fobbed off again and again by the LA regarding any alternative provision, or any respite. Meanwhile, the Royal ‘Panel’ sit in their magnificent castle, away from the likes of us mere peasants, and occasionally have ‘meetings’ where they get to feel magnanimous as they discuss the fate of Special Needs children. The Royal Panel meet again on Friday when, with enormous largesse, they may deign to grant my dear boy a place at the local special school. Or they may instruct their handmaid – the caseworker – to fob me off yet again, telling me they have to have another ‘meeting’ to decide to send him somewhere else.
That’s if we last that long.
It is doing HRH no good to be stuck at home all the time, and it is doing me no good either. I have been valiantly trying to help him learn, while also trying to sort boxes, make the endless moving-house phonecalls, and keep up with the daily treadmill of housework (I hate housework with a passion) but, dear God, the last conversation about carbon monoxide made me almost wish for a faulty boiler.
I lost my temper, though I did not shout. I just said, through slightly gritted teeth, “Ok! Ok! Enough! No more questions about carbon monoxide, or carbon dioxide, or whether it’s going to kill anyone, or whether or not grown-ups are going to talk about you when you’re not in the room. I will talk about you sometimes. I’m your mother. Get used to it. No, I am not going to tell you each and every time I do. The boiler has been checked. We will get a carbon monoxide alarm, but WE ARE NOT GOING TO KEEP HAVING THIS CONVERSATION.”
I paused. Knowing that by heck I needed some time out even if he didn’t, I offered him twenty minutes on his precious wii (which turned into forty). The characters of Animal Crossing don’t mind if he asks the same question over and over and over. I do.
I am also waiting for a phonecall from the police officer investigating my case this morning. That is probably not helping my stress levels either. And I read someone’s lovely blog post about when she had her babies, and it made me want to cry, or smash something – I’m not sure – because I never had any of that. I don’t even have any photographs, because the ex-husband had stored the (innocent) photographs of my babies, my children, with the indecent images. At least, I assume he did because the police, during that investigation, took all the disks and I never got any back. Still makes me nauseated.
Why does this stuff come all at once?
So I have turned to my Julian of Norwich book, which happened to be sitting beside me, open at the page of one of my favourite passages:
‘He showed me a little thing, the size of a hazelnut, in the palm of my hand, and it was as round as a ball. I looked at it with my mind’s eye and I thought, “What can this be?” And answer came, “It is all that is made.” I marvelled that it could last, for I thought it might have crumbled to nothing, it was so small. And the answer came into my mind, “It lasts, and ever shall, because God loves it.” And all things have being through the love of God.
In this little thing, I saw three truths: the first is that God made it. The second is that God loves it. The third is that God looks after it.
What is he indeed that is maker and lover and keeper? I cannot find words to tell. For until I am one with him I can never have true rest nor peace. I can never know it until I am held so close to him that there is nothing in between.’
Julian of Norwich, c.1400. From the book Enfolded in Love, containing modern English translations by Sheila Upjohn from Julian’s book Revelations of Divine Love.
My thoughts exactly
I have been humming this song this morning. Cheered me up no end 🙂 Lovely, rousing song. I nearly became a soldier in the Salvation Army a few years ago. Then I went and joined the Baptists… There are some things the Sally Army do so very well. This song is one of them:
To God be the glory, great things He hath done.
So loved He the world that He gave us His son
Who yielded His life, an atonement for sin,
And opened the life gates that all may go in.
Praise the Lord!
Let the earth hear His voice.
Praise the Lord!
Let the people rejoice.
Oh, come to the Father through Jesus the son
And give Him the glory,
Great things He hath done!
To all my readers: have a blessed day – may you walk in grace 🙂
I am like this picture this morning. Poor HRH says he doesn’t feel well so has gone back to bed.
The neighbours didn’t shut up until nearly 1am, for the second night in a row, when they were stood in the street outside chattering like monkeys before some of them climbed into cars and drove away (why stand outside, where the sound carries and disturbs even more people than when you’re indoors?). I don’t think they’re exactly partying, or doing anything illicit (which means, in plain English, that they don’t look like chavs, but I don’t want to sound judgemental).
They’re just noisy and it’s doing my head in.
Just a tad.
Short of having my own Mr. T., I composed the following. I shan’t send it yet. I need to reflect on whether it says enough, too much, or too little. Any thoughts?
Dear Neighbours,
We don’t know your names as we have not had the pleasure of an introduction in the nearly four weeks we have lived here so far, so we can’t apply a better title to this letter. Yet it is almost as if you are part of the family; after all, we hear you through the wall late at night when we are trying to sleep (because we have a young family and have to get up in the morning whether we like it or not, to look after the sprogs and to remain in gainful employment).
May we say how much we admire your commitment to mastering the art of percussion. We hear you practising the drums over and over (and over and over) during the day.
While we can only applaud your enthusiasm, the repetition, nay intrusion – let’s call a spade a spade – of this banging and bashing and clashing and crashing, into our family home, has led to some rather uncharitable thoughts, along the lines of shoving said drumsticks where the sun don’t shine.
Do enjoy your youth and your zeal for life! But don’t do so at the expense of your neighbours. They’re only trying to mind their own business and get on with theirs.
Please invest in some electronic drums with volume control and headphones. Go on, embrace the digital age! Better yet, find a practise room in a building where there are no neighbours – then you can crash-bang-wallop your heart out.
May we also suggest that a teeny tiny 200-year-old house is not the best choice for late night, boisterous gatherings. Do consider buggering off going somewhere else if you must do this. The pub, perhaps. Pubs love loud voices and raucous laughter. Raise a glass to us while you’re there. Cheers! And do bear in mind your neighbours are also living in teeny tiny 200-year-old houses and are thus quite close by whenever you embark on raucous gatherings within the home; a matter of a few feet, in reality.
Godspeed in your youthful endeavours. Just do them a tad more *softly*.
Please.
Shhhhhhh!
Thanks.
Yours faithfully
Bleary-eyed Neighbours (who would appreciate some consideration)
This Jimmy Savile business http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2012/oct/18/jimmy-savile-protected-media?commentpage=3#start-of-comments has been very distressing for me, because it has stirred up so many memories, particularly at a time when police are still investigating what I told them, back in June. I am blessed to have the support of my family through this investigation, despite how horrible it must be for them to have to dredge up something which they thought they had been able to let go, at least to a degree.
In reality, the lack of investigation when the crimes of my abuser were reported to the police by my parents, 20 years ago, affected all our lives. It made all of us, my parents, sister and I, believe that maybe there was something inappropriate about our reaction, our devastation as a family. The fact that my parents remain married is testament to their deep commitment to one another. They have truly lived ‘for better, for worse’ in a way that most people would only imagine in their worst nightmare.
Abusers make sure that victims feel responsible for what occurs. The police confirmed this by not investigating. I believed, to the very depths of my being, that there must be something inherent in me. This is why I then married so very young, and stayed married, to an abusive husband. The marriage ended when he too was revealed to be a paedophile.
I have stayed quiet as the JS story has unravelled. I don’t have too much to say about it directly, other than that I hope it opens people’s eyes to the reality that paedophilia is perpetrated throughout society.
Trying to demonise the entire Catholic church, for example (as some cynical anti-faith types have tried to do #ahem# Richard Dawkins #ahem#) as unique in its having paedophiles – and cover-ups – has in the end only done a disservice to all victims of sexual abuse.
In all things child protection, we must remember the one golden rule:
The wolf will always hide among the sheep.
Christ himself warned of this level of deceit when he addressed the scribes and pharisees: “You are like white-washed tombs, which look fine on the outside but inside are full of dead men’s bones and all kinds of rottenness. For you appear like good men on the outside—but inside you are a mass of pretence and wickedness.”
Matthew 23:27,28 JBPT
He warned his followers:
“I am sending you out like sheep with wolves all round you; so be as wise as serpents and yet as harmless as doves.”
Matthew 10:16 JBPT
The wolf will always hide among the sheep
Please don’t dismiss what this really means, or use it to create problems where the risk is very small, e.g. the notion of ‘stranger danger’ when most victims are abused by someone they know. I am not Catholic, but I thank God the Catholic church has begun to address the seriousness of this problem. Let’s hope the rest of society can follow.
Also, I would not have been considered in any way a ‘vulnerable child’. I came from a relatively well-off, middle-class family. No neglect, no alcohol, no violence, no financial deprivation. On the contrary, my father worked hard for his family and my mother was as sweet and gentle a mother as anyone could wish for. So being a ‘vulnerable’ child (as in the Rochdale incidents) could not have been used as a reason why the police did not even investigate the allegation of repeated rape of a child.
Given the JS case, where repeated, separate allegations were made to people in positions of power, including the police, and given my own circumstances, where I know for myself the same attitude, how can the Catholic church be held up for condemnation when even the police (whose very existence is to prosecute criminals) treat the victim, by default, as ‘a troublemaker’?
It doesn’t make the abuse of children by priests excusable (of course not!), but it shines a different light on the situation. That light shows that wolves like to hide among the sheep. In the church, we even use the words ‘sheep’ and ‘flock’ to refer to the congregation, and ‘shepherd’ to refer to God. But ‘wolves’ and ‘sheep’ can be anywhere: a church, a family, a school, the BBC… We must all act with wisdom.
I hope, if nothing else, that the JS story is the beginning of a sea-change in our culture, where paedophilia is not so taboo that its recognition becomes a witch-hunt (which is of no use to victims, but devastating to the falsely accused), and that real, genuine recognition and healing can take place. Above all, I hope it leads to a situation which protects children from lives blighted by unnamed shadows.
I have lived a life of shadows.
That said, I have come from shadows into light, and I would like to end this post with Jesus’ golden words:
“I did tell you, but you do not believe. The works I do in my Father’s name testify about me, but you do not believe because you are not my sheep. My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.”
John 10:25-28 NIV
The Good Shepherd, 3rd century, catacombs, Rome (one of the earliest depictions)
Adrian Plass is one of my all-time favourite writers. His books have seen me through some very dark times. Sometimes, humour reaches the places other things can’t, especially when you’re very low. His mix of speaking and writing, particularly using humour to minister to hurts, is what I aspire to for my own life. I am currently reading ‘A Smile on the Face of God’.
Anyway, pondering our efforts to find a new church since we moved, I recalled this wonderful poem:
‘I take my problems to the altar, but my steps begin to falter,
And I feel as if I’m starting to fall
For it’s hard to recollect the proper way to genuflect
Upon arrival in a Pentecostal hall.
And I really want to share it, but know they’ll never wear it.
And the question in my head is underlined.
But just as I am saying “Who on earth invented praying?
Hallelujah in the back of my mind.’
To read the rest of the poem (before I violate copyright!) by the inimitable Adrian, click here:
http://www.openwriting.com/archives/2010/06/hallelujah_in_t_1.php
I have been thrust into homeschooling an autistic adolescent. HRH has not taken too well to this. Neither have I, truth be told, but I have been determined to do my best, for my boy’s sake.
You don’t get second chances at childhood.
Part of Autistic Spectrum Disorder is enjoying things the same, all the time. Every little thing, if possible, becomes part of the ASD person’s own little universe. The move has thus been very disruptive. After Wednesday’s three-hour-lunch debacle by the 2012 Olympic Faffing Champion, among other things, last night I laid down the law (when I lay down the law, you don’t mess with me – even HRH gets this).
Last night, before bed, I reiterated that home school must be done the following day. No ifs, no buts.
Home school.
And you will focus. No wii until after school, mister!
So this morning I was awaiting His Royal Highness to descend from on high when the door suddenly opened and in walked a boy dressed in school uniform. My anxiety over whether we were going to get anywhere with ‘no-ifs-no-buts-it’s-home-school-mister’ was immediately dispelled and I laughed for the first time in a week. He grinned (the golden smile!) and, breathing a sigh of relief, I thanked God. It has obviously made it into HRH’s head that we were doing school today!
We began with a computer facial expression game called Rubberface, where you have to correctly identify the emotion that the face is displaying, differentiating between happy, sad, angry and scared.
Then we did this:
Reading the instructions. Supposedly developing literacy skills but actually more a test of gobbledegook-translation ability.
First, we screwed the legs in place, and I tried to explain why saying “I’m good at screwing” might be misunderstood if you said it out of context (as kids with ASD are wont to do).
More instructions. More gobbledegook. Mind you, the last thing I put together had instructions in Mandarin. DIY interpretation is one of the lesser-known spiritual gifts.
We put the bottom on the wrong way round, but didn’t realise until the end when there seemed to be a bottom shelf missing, so we had to take it off and turn it round. I say ‘we’. I mean him. At that point my role was more supervisory (in the grand British workman’s tradition).
It is nothing short of a miracle that I persuaded HRH to let me photograph his hands. He has a phobia/obsession over cameras.
A handle, which HRH was enormously keen to hang towels on.
Ta daaaaa! We should work for Ikea.
So proud of my boy 😉
HRH’s SEN Statement says that he needs ‘lots of encouragement’.
‘Encouragement’?
Is there a patron saint of encouragement? She (I feel it must have been a ‘she’) took her lessons from me. For the past two hours I have been trying to get the boy to eat some lunch. I am wondering if tearing my hair out would be a good look.
Forget the EU winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I should get the Nobel Prize for Encouragement.
With all the outpouring of grace in my life (credit where credit’s due) I have not lost my temper. My mouth is just set in an unusual manner. A bit like this:
McKayla Maroney, US gymnast, after she sat out her vault and missed Olympic gold
I had to phone and cancel my OU course this morning, due to these ‘unforeseen circumstances’. I can start again in February, they said. This has also led to the above facial expression becoming pretty fixed.
Aside: McKayla Maroney is one of my favourite gymnasts in the world. She is wonderful to watch. No wonder she was disappointed with herself at the medal ceremony. I hope she wins the vault gold next time around. I never got to see the Olympic gymnastics, but I did get to see Britain win gold in the team showjumping after a baited-breath jump-off against the Dutch. One of the riders was Nick Skelton, whose poster I had on my wall as a teenager (I liked horses, not men in their 30’s – just to be clear). He is now in his 50’s and one of the oldest Olympic medallists. Fantastic experience!
I’m still waiting for HRH to finish eating… <sigh>
‘Food crops are going up in smoke, trashing rainforests and driving mass starvation. The European Commission was set to announce a halt to this dangerous trend this Wednesday, but instead corporate lobbyists have all but convinced the EU to burn more food…’
To read more, and to send a message to EU President, José Manuel Barroso, click the link below.
http://www.avaaz.org/en/eu_feed_kids_not_cars_b/?tbGribb
Just Zoë, Just Life 