Have you ever heard the phrase “don’t cry over spilled milk?”” I have heard that statement all my life. Every time I hear it my heart sinks a little. I will explain why just those simple words cut me to the bone. When I was around 8 years old I remember sitting at the table eating a bowl of Corn Flakes – which, by the way, is the worst cereal ever!! My elbow hit the bowl and some milk spilled on the table. At any other household this would have been considered normal… but not at mine. I was literally slapped hard enough to knock me out of my chair and then thrown outside wearing nothing but my t-shirt and underwear. The big deal about that was… it was winter time. I stood in the yard crying and shivering for what seemed like hours. I was eventually let back into the house to get ready for school. I was made fun of a lot in those days. Not only were my clothes not in style, but I had to dress myself. I remember walking to the bus and my eyes were swollen from crying and I had a sharp pain in the back of my leg and right above my hip. My half brother, who had dealt out the abuse this time, as well as most of my life had shot me with a B.B. gun. I remember crying in such pain that the bus driver was afraid to even question what happened.
Going to school that day was also no adventure. I was sent to the principals office for my anger and received 3 days suspension from school. The exact words the teacher used was “this kid is nothing but a trouble maker.” I think back on that day and remember hoping that the teacher would ask me how my home life was or even that the principal would ask me why I had a black eye. I was so scared to tell anyone about what was going on at home. My father was an alcoholic, but he was also no protection for me. My half brother would beat my father the same as me. My father was a small man and since he abused my half brother as a child, the favor was returned when he got older. In school I would sleep in class because home wasn’t a place where it was safe to rest. I can remember one time my half brother holding a pillow over my face… that day at 8 years old I wished I would die! I was always confused and I honestly thought all adults were evil.
I have dealt with these memories for most of my life. Upon hearing the phrase “don’t cry over spilled milk” the other day, it inspired me to share all this in my blog. So how does God begin to heal such pain? He does so by letting me know that my pain wasn’t wasted and that He loves me more than I could ever imagine. I always leave you guys with scripture and this one speaks loudly. Love you all!!!
Psalm 147:3 (New International Version)
3 He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds.