Choosing to SEE - Mary Beth Chapman [7]
I promised I’d never do it again, and I think she still loves me!
Anyway, it’s obvious that Steven and I are very different, kind of like Tarzan and Jane, but we’ll get to that a little later.
As long as I can remember, and throughout my twenty-five-year marriage to Steven, I’ve held on to certain expectations about life. But Jesus has always loved me enough to show me that even when I push my own ideas and expectations, He is there to guide me back to green pastures. He has shepherded me through the mountainous terrain of my stubbornness, shame, depression, and inadequacy and brought me gently back to the lushness of His love. He loves us enough to never let us go . . . even when it feels like He has.
It wasn’t like I wanted a life that was unreasonable or questionable. My plans had to do with a Christ-centered ministry, an easy marriage, a peaceful and orderly home, constructive growth rather than shattered dreams, protection rather than fires . . . all good things. Still, God has turned my life, my expectations, and even some of my dreams completely upside down so many times.
I hope that in these pages you’ll find a friend for your own journey . . . whether you’re in a good place, or in a place that’s hard, sad, mad, or desperately hopeless. In the midst of it all, God really is with us and for us. I have found that even during those times when the path is darkest, He leaves little bits of evidence all along the way – bread crumbs of grace – that can give me what I need to take the next step. But I can only find them if I choose to SEE.
3
Coloring inside the Lines
You cannot amputate your history from your destiny. . . .
My past is something Jesus takes hold of and
makes into a destiny. That’s called redemption.
Beth Moore
Where I grew up, nothing ever changed. My dad, Jim Chapman (yes, I was a Chapman even before I met Steven), worked at International Harvester. My mother, Phyllis, was a stay-at-home mom who was so stay-at-home that she didn’t even have a driver’s license until after I got mine.
Mom’s nickname, at least among us kids, was “Supervac” – not a speck of dust ever dared settle on the baseboards of our perfectly ordered home. My dad used to tell us to keep moving around, because if we stopped in one place too long, Mom might throw us out with the trash.
Most of the kids I knew from kindergarten graduated with me from high school. Everybody was white. I never knew of anyone who got divorced. I assumed everyone else’s house was just like ours: our parents rarely fought or talked about anything unpleasant in front of us, although I’m sure they had their moments in private. Many things that presented great opportunities for discussion were often swept under the rug, where there was plenty of room because no dust would ever be found there.
I grew up wanting to do everything right. I wanted somehow to be, well, perfect . . . as if that were possible.
I was the youngest of three children, with a sister seven years older and a brother nine years older. Every morning during the summers, I’d hop on my glittered purple Huffy with bright plastic flowers stuck all over a fake wicker basket on the front, and I’d pedal off with friends. We’d ride all over the neighborhood and through a path in the woods, which came out at our elementary school. We’d play Barbies, ride to the ball fields and buy shoelace licorice, and have big water fights until the fire department blew their siren at noon.
At that signal, all us kids would race home to eat bologna, mustard, and potato chip sandwiches for lunch – I loved crunching the chips in the soft white bread – and then get back on our bikes and go off to play until dark. We weren’t afraid of bad things happening. We had never heard of kidnappers. Our lives were safe and fun.
My dad was a handyman who could fix anything. He changed the oil in our car every three thousand miles, like clockwork. We Chapmans knew there was a place for everything and everything should be in