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The Restoration of a Woman's Soul
The Transformation of a Woman's Soul from Death to Life
By Linda Sennett
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Linda Sennett
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-2571-6
Chapter One
The Journey Begins
My Introduction to Jesus
The very first time I felt the Lord calling me to the altar, I was five years old and my mother and I were attending a Sunday evening service at a Baptist church not far away from our home.
Going to church was one of my favorite things to do on any day, but I especially enjoyed it when it gave me some special time with my mother. She and my father worked hard to provide for my five siblings and me, and I rarely had her undivided attention.
Holding tightly to my mother's hand, I glanced up at her as we neared the beautiful brick building a couple of blocks from our home. Of medium height, light-skinned, and with long, black hair and eyes like a cat, she said nothing and her mind seemed far away as she led me toward the church and my very first personal encounter with Jesus.
The church looked small on the outside, but when we stepped inside I stopped dead in my tracks, amazed. There must have been a hundred people in the large open space, and all of them seemed to be caught up in the act of worship.
"Come on now," my mother murmured, leading the way down the aisle. As I followed her I gawked at all of the new sights that greeted my eyes every way I turned.
Even at my young age I could tell that the Holy Spirit was really moving in that church that night. The sights and sounds of worship filled the place. Shouts of "Hallelujah!" and "Praise the Lord!" mixed with noises of agreement and supplication. One woman was crying because she felt the awesome power of the Holy Spirit, and tears streamed down her face as a heated intensity filled the room.
That intensity continued during the service. The pastor, dressed in a yellow rain slicker, was conducting baptisms in a space behind the pulpit. At some point, I turned my gaze to a picture of Jesus hanging on the wall behind him. Its simple composition of land and water spoke of peace and serenity. It made for quite a contrast to the intense worship under way all around me.
I wish I were there with Him, I thought idly.
As the words crossed my mind, Jesus appeared in the picture out of nowhere, holding His hands out to me, beckoning me to come toward Him. Startled, I looked around to see if anyone else had seen Him. Nobody seemed to notice. When I turned back to the picture, He was gone.
A few minutes later, the pastor came to the altar, dressed in the raincoat that he had been wearing during the baptisms. He held out his hands exactly the way that Jesus had, with the same expression that seemed to say, "Come." He stood there for a long time in silence, but no one came forward.
To this day, I have often regretted not going up there the minute that Jesus called me to come forward and give my life to Him at the altar. Being such a little girl, I still had much to learn about being a Christian. I was afraid I would have to leave this Earth and go with Jesus then and there, leaving my mother behind. I stayed fast to my mother's side, but I never forgot that experience. It was only the first of many times that I would attempt to make the move toward Jesus.
Every time I visited that church after that night, I would stare at the wall where the picture was hanging to see if Jesus was standing there again. I never saw Him in the picture again, but I have often wondered just how different my life might have been if I had left my seat that night and walked toward Jesus at that young age.
Ours was a happy home with loving parents that embraced the Christian lifestyle. My siblings and I spent some of our free time watching Christian movies on television. Going to church was a given. My father expected my five siblings and me to attend church every Sunday. My older siblings and I liked to go to our mother's church, never missing a service unless it was raining.
I walked to church every Sunday morning with my older brother and sister and my twin brother, while my mother usually stayed behind to prepare the big Sunday dinner we all enjoyed together. Sometimes my siblings and I would be among the first to arrive. Afterward we'd walk the few blocks back to our house, often meeting my father along the way as he walked to his own church. Because I had so little time with him during the week, I liked to go to church again with my father. It was a way to bond with him and to have just a little more time with him.
"Can I come with you?" I'd ask him, and he'd always answer the same way:
"Yes, you can come, but go back and ask your mama."
Running home to let my mother know that I was back from church, I'd burst in the door shouting.
"Mama, I'm home! Daddy says I can go to church with him. Is it okay, Mama?"
"Yes," she would invariably reply, and I'd go right back out and run to catch up with my father. He was six feet tall, and his legs were long. My legs were short, so I had to run really fast to catch up with him.
"Daddy!" I would scream, out of breath from running.
Turning at the sound of my voice, he'd slow his pace, stopping to wave his hand, beckoning me to come. Then he would wait for me to catch up with him. It was the same routine every Sunday.
One time when I was running to catch up with him I slipped and fell, skinning one of my knees. It stung, but my first thought was not about my injury.
Now he's going to tell me to turn around and go back home because I'm dirty, I worried.
Instead, my father walked up to me with concern in his eyes and knelt on the ground next to me. Without a word, he took his handkerchief from his top pocket and gently wiped the dirt and blood from my knee. I stayed as still as I could as he ministered to me, savoring the rare moment.
My father was a man of few words, and his gesture said more about his love for me than anything he might have said out loud. After dabbing away the dirt and blood, he offered me a hand and helped me to my feet. We walked together holding hands the rest of the way to his church, a tall, lanky man and his adoring little girl.
The fact that my father used his own handkerchief to take care of me made a deep impression on me. I was so unused to being the sole focus of his attention that I was very moved by his simple action. It meant a lot to me that he overlooked his own use for the handkerchief and used it for my needs instead of sending me back home. In my eyes, that meant he truly cared for me.
I loved attending church with my father, but I didn't want to join his church—I only wanted to visit. I was heartbroken when my father decided we should all worship at the same church and took us out of the church my mother attended. But my feelings on the matter were beside the point. We weren't to question our elders, only to obey them.
The Quiet Years
When I was a little girl, I had a speech impediment that caused me to speak faster than the average person. I talked so fast that people couldn't understand what I was saying, and it was worse when I grew excited or emotional.
Whenever I cried, my father would try to calm me down to get me to talk more slowly, but even when I slowed down, I was still talking fast. My father had to read my lips to know what I was trying to say. People commented about my speech difficulties, and I didn't like that, so I just kept quiet most of the time.
Staying quiet was my way of protecting myself from ridicule. It worked pretty well. Life seemed better when I was quiet; in fact, some of the favorite times of my life were from those years. I learned how to cook from scratch, went to the beauty shop for the first time, and enjoyed family movie nights on Mondays. I also looked forward to those wonderful trips to the corner store, where a dime could buy a bagful of goodies.
By Myself
With both of my parents working so much, I spent a lot of time alone. My brothers and sisters were usually gone too, living their lives and enjoying their friends.
I didn't have very many friends. Few girls my age lived on my end of the street, and the girls around my age who lived on the other end of the street were not allowed to come outside and play. I spent most of my time at home watching television or doing housework. The arrival of a baby sister brought more responsibilities for me, and I was kept pretty busy at times.
As I spent more and more time by myself, I began to compare myself unfavorably to others. My confidence plummeted. I was chubby, with a round face and round eyes, and when I looked in the mirror, a homely child looked back at me. I was big for my age, with big bow legs and big hips. My dark skin seemed too dark, and I couldn't help but think that the other children were prettier than me. Don't get me wrong, I didn't have a problem being in the black race. I was proud to be an African American, but during that era, it was easy to believe that only light skin was acceptable.
In my own eyes, everything was working against me. I couldn't speak clearly enough to be understood, I was overweight, and my skin was too dark. I began to think something was wrong with me. I simply was not happy in my own skin. For a long time, I carried this baggage around with me every day. I sowed the seeds of years of heartache and self-loathing.
Looking back now, I realize there was nothing wrong with me. On the contrary, I was actually a very advanced child. I was very mature for my age, and even ahead of my time, doing many things that most other kids my age didn't do. By the time I reached elementary school, I was standing on a stool in the kitchen frying chicken in a skillet. I was pressing not only my hair but other people's hair as well. Two neighbors on my street loved having me baby-sit for them because besides watching their kids for them, I would also clean their house. All of these skills were so much a part of who I was that I took them all for granted. I did not realize until much later that I had many talents.
Ladies, you're only as good as you think you are. There is something special about each and every one of you. You have to believe that you are special—even when others speak negatively about you. Remember, there is nothing wrong with you, but there may be something wrong with them. Be happy with who you are, because trying to be like someone else will only make you unhappy. Be comfortable with who you are and love yourself.
If you decide to change anything about yourself—whether it's your appearance or your physique—make sure that what you are changing is something that you are displeased with, and not what someone else may want you to change. It doesn't matter how another person thinks you should look. You may look unattractive to one person, but beautiful to another.
The Curse
A telephone pole with a cross drawn on it stood in front of our house, and that is where I would go when I wanted to talk to God. One perfect summer evening when I was about eight, my twin brother and I were both playing in the yard, enjoying the last bit of blue sky before the sunset.
As the sun began to fade, my brother headed toward the house, but I was reluctant to go in just yet. The air was still except for the distant sound of kids playing further down the street as I walked down to the edge of the yard and stood looking up at the cross on the telephone pole. Glowing with the last bright burst of sun, it seemed to inspire my deepest confidence, as though reminding me that I could tell God anything and He would hear me.
Standing there staring up at the cross, I repeated a phrase that I had been hearing the neighborhood kids using. Even as the words tumbled out of my mouth, I was ashamed and mortified, realizing I had just cursed God.
"Father, please forgive me," I murmured, my heart quickening. By now the sun had faded from the cross and the sky had grown darker, as though God were disappointed. Turning on my heel, I ran as fast as I could to the house.
I thought about telling my twin brother what I had done, but decided to keep my wickedness to myself. I already knew what he would say, and I didn't want any more recriminations. Instead, I pushed the memory from my mind and didn't give it another thought until twenty-two years later, when those ill-chosen words I used on God would cause my downfall.
Exposed
When I was in elementary school, there were no buses to transport my siblings and me to school and back, so we walked every day. Because my brothers and sisters often had things to do after school, I would frequently walk home by myself, a fact that did not escape the notice of one of the boys in my grade, a short, husky boy who seemed to always wear a mean expression on his face.
Since his house was just one street before mine, we often crossed paths after school. He ignored me when he was walking with the other boys, but when he was alone, he liked to torment me. I tried to avoid him whenever possible, usually by walking in a different direction, but many times he discovered my detour.
"Hey!" I'd hear behind me as I scurried along, hoping to get home before he discovered me. His greeting would invariably be followed by an unpleasant surprise—a hard shove on the back that would almost send me sprawling on the pavement, a cruel remark, or some other form of abuse. I dreaded any encounter with him, but one time I managed to run right into him as I passed his street.
"Move out of the way!" he yelled then began shoving me. He glared at me with his cruel eyes and his harsh words pierced me. Shoving me again for good measure, he elbowed his way past me, and I doubled over in pain.
Alone now, I stood on the corner a block from my home, bent over, and started crying. I couldn't stop myself, even though I felt humiliated and mortified to be behaving like a baby in such a public place.
Cars drove by and the people in them stared at me. I heard snickers and felt people pointing at me.
"Your panties are showing!" one lady called out, but I didn't care. I stayed that way for a long time, sobbing until I was out of tears. When I finally straightened myself up and walked home, my eyes were red and puffy and heartache pulsed through me.
Sometimes life puts us in painful positions. No matter how strong we've tried to be or how much we wish that life didn't hurt, sometimes it just does. You may find yourself in a vulnerable position when you least expect it, and you may find yourself hurting and exposed. It happens to many of us, my friend. You are not alone.
A Love Lost
My trips to the corner store had brought me a simple joy, but soon even that evaporated into ugliness. It all changed when I was still in elementary school. I was standing at the counter one day, waiting to pay for my candy, when I felt someone touch me between my buttocks.
Spinning around, I saw a young boy—a total stranger—standing behind me staring back at me with beady eyes and a blank look on his face. He looked to be three or four years older than me. Two younger boys were with him. Shocked and horrified and sickened, I glanced over at the store keeper, a thin middle-aged Asian man. Expressionless, he avoided my eyes.
My cheeks burning with shame, I stood speechless and in shock, unable to believe that this boy should be able to get away with what he was doing in front of everyone. He just looked at me with no expression and continued to touch me. He didn't move his hand even when I looked at him; he just gazed back at me as though he weren't doing anything wrong. He looked right through me.
Shaking him off, I walked away, feeling dirty and stunned. It was so wrong, what he had done; yet nobody stepped in to help me. That knowledge killed my love for a place that I had always considered a safe haven. I still went to the corner store, which was just a street over from my house. But I no longer lingered there. I worried about unpleasant surprises. I worried that "he" might appear.
Sometimes he did. How I hated to see him coming! He thought nothing of violating me and my sense of security. That horrible boy touched me on more than one occasion and never suffered the consequence. It was a wretched cycle. My tormenter took pleasure in harassing me whenever he saw me in the store. He and his friends seemed to lay in wait for me. It was all a big game to them. They had no shame, and I had so much.
I was sickened by the experience, but also very sad. I was sure the store owner could see what was going on and chose not to stop that boy from touching me.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Restoration of a Woman's Soul by Linda Sennett Copyright © 2011 by Linda Sennett. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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