I'm a survivor.
I grew up in a dysfunctional home. (That could be considered an understatement.) Mom was in and out of the mental ward at the hospital so much that all the staff knew me well. I would get off the elevator and a nurse would ask me how my big math test went. I would find Mom's room and she would ask me my name.
I'm a survivor.
Usually, I don't even think about those things. Occasionally, the past smacks me in the face.
We had a man live with us for awhile. Mom had met him at the mental hospital and he didn't have a place to stay so he moved in with us. I'll call him "Crazy Hal." He slept with his eyes open. That alone will creep a 10-year-old out. The Army had given him a mental health discharge after an incident in Vietnam. Although I never felt particularly in danger, I kept my distance.
This week, I had dealings with a man that sent waves of "Crazy Hal" sweeping through me. All at once, the fears and insecurities of my younger self gripped my heart. I wasn't in danger at all, but the situation was too familiar. I had to remove myself and calm down. The Lord and I had a talk and I resumed my business.
I've heard it said that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger, but I don't agree. Those things that didn't kill me, made me more dependent on my Jesus.
I'm a survivor—because Jesus is my strength.
"And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong."
2 Corinthians 12:9-10