Without lies there would be no evil: for all evil is rooted in the belief in lies. (LCH)
This is an account of my abused childhood and the saving, healing process of God's love. Today I refer to myself as Aldonza_Dulcinea because of how I can spiritually relate to Aldonza in the inspiring film "Man of La Mancha."
It is my hope that you will begin to see that God is the author of love and all good things, while Satan is the author of lies and hatred. Who would tell us otherwise, read the story and find out.
When I was very little, my mom and I walked to church every Sunday. This made me feel very special, for I got to wear the prettiest dresses, and church seemed so important! But then my dad returned from the Korean War and things were never the same again. I was very much afraid of my father, though I couldn't tell you why. My grandparents said it was probably the uniform, but I was to find out much later why I didn't like him. My mother continued to take me to church even when we moved from my grandparent's house.
It was when I was in the third grade that I found out why I hated my father. My mother was gone and he picked the lock to the bathroom as I bathed. I screamed and he almost drowned me to hush my screams. When my mother returned home, I was laying in bed with soaking wet hair. She talked with me and told me that once before I had told her that dad touches me, but she said I was mistaken, for I had been seriously ill with a high fever, and I had to be rubbed down to bring the fever down. It was then that I realized that my father had fondled me before and I had tried to tell her before. But she always says I don't know what I'm talking about. I felt very wicked because of what began happening between my father and me.
My religious teachings taught me to trust in Jesus and to honor parents. I took church very seriously. One time I forgot to study my memory verse and during Sunday school this brought me shame, so I hide in the floorboard of our car, rather than go into the church service. My mother came looking for me and found me. I knew that God had to be very angry with me. For while Sunday school was very hard, Church terrified me. That's where I heard about God's wrath and He killed people because they were so wicked, just like me. Every night my mom said my prayers with me. After praying for the blessings of our loved ones we would end with "Now I lay me down to sleep, if I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." Because I was so bad I worried that the worms would eat me and I'd go to hell. I'd tell myself to not think about it and hope that Jesus saved me. The problem was that I had no proof of this, because the molestation should not be happening if God was hearing my prayers. Jesus is suppose to be taking care of us once we've accepted Him.
I never went to church slumber parties for kids or the fun things. I didn't know how to act at them. For I know we're to be sober in the Lord and constantly keep our minds on Him. I don't understand how kids can play games and be silly and not be frightened of God getting mad. One boy even put toothpaste on another's pillow! They told me all about it. And they would fidget in choir and the director would get on to them. They didn't seem to be afraid of getting in trouble and I didn't understand that. The preacher and choir director seemed to like me, for I was told that no one looked or acted more like an angel than me. I needed these words of encouragement, for they gave me the hope that someday I would be saved. As I grew older my mom attended church less and less. But we lived close enough that I could walk. In fact, I lived close enough to walk to several different churches and I wanted to please God. I wanted Him to like me.
I was trying so hard to be good, as Jesus would want me to be. But my father would make fun of me, saying that I think I'm so----o good. He'd say the Bible is a lie and show me scriptures, such as Judas falling on his sword and his bowels gushing out, and he hung himself in another part. But I argued with him that it was he that didn't know what he was talking about! Then he'd tell me I'm a sinner for arguing with him, for I'm to honor my father and mother. It seemed I couldn't win. He'd also tell me that I'm evil, for I had a devil within me that caused him to fondle me, for he did not molest other little girls. I'd tell him he's the evil one, leave me alone, you're a liar! But as you can see from what I've written above, this reasoning was already having a strong hold upon me, for it made sense because of my Biblical teaching.
The problem was that I hated my father and I knew that was a sin. He would come into my room during the night and fondle me, or make me perform oral sex. I hated everything about him: his touch, his smell. At times I thought that if God would only give me power within my teeth, I'd become as a wolf, grabbing his neck with my teeth and rip his skin from him. But these thoughts were sinful, too. And even though I tried to deny it, sometimes the fondling felt good; but I would never admit this to my father, even though he tried to make me admit it. But it was because it also felt good that I had a terrible conflict within me, for this seemed to be the proof that my father was right and that I was the source of the evil. This confusion almost drove me crazy. It is this confusion that has driven many others crazy, for many become prostitutes in their adult life, and the boys who are molested, many of them become abusers or killers. It is because the confusion is tormenting, so one decides they are hopelessly sinners and decide to give in to the dark side, for one eventually reasons that it one cannot be saved (set free from this guilt), then they might as well become the best at being evil. I believe this type of reasoning has brought about those shootings in Colorado, etc. In short, they might as well prove that they are evil and be punished for it, for they want to be punished. Their torment is the breeding ground for hate. The girls want to be slapped, bruised and hurt, thinking that maybe that will take some of the sin and emotional pain away. This is why most sexually abused girls become prostitutes, for we deserve to be hurt because some of the sex feels good, which proves we are bad, and this is a vicious cycle. And I guess the nature of boys, testosterone, causes them to be predators instead.
My father was in the Air Force, so we moved a lot, or the preachers would move and another would come. So I was baptized a lot; every time there was a new preacher. I wanted Jesus to save me, but my evil seemed too powerful for Him, for help never came. However, in grade school I was chosen to be the Herald Angel in the Christmas school play. I had to memorize Luke 2: 10-19. I felt this was a great honor and I wondered if it was a sign that Jesus loved me and God was going to forgive me. I thought that maybe my teachers saw something good in me. I hoped so. I believed that Jesus would stop the abuse from happening when I had honored my parents enough and been good enough.
I knew Jesus died for me, but I never felt that I was forgiven because my father would not stop the abuse. I also felt that others knew about it; that they knew I was evil and laughed about me behind their backs. In fact, my father would tell me this. He would tell me that I thought I was good and that I thought others liked me, but I was stupid to think such things, for others were laughing at me behind my back. When my Grandmother would tell me that I'm a sweet little girl, my father would catch me in the next room and tell me I'm a fool if I believe her; that he knew me and I did not fool him; that I'm a phony and a liar and he knew it. I would argue in my mind that this is not true, that I'm trying to be good without being haughty about it, but the doubt took deep roots.
Even in GA's the pageantry seemed very holy and wicked at the same time, for we were being rewarded for learning our scriptures and this seemed to be a contradiction of how it should be. This seemed haughty to me. I don't think any other children thought that deeply; and thus, weren't concerned about haughtiness.
All during this, as I tried to tell my mother she would make excuses that only confused me. I was in my thirties before I realized that she was equally to blame, for she had put her well being over mine. I always saw her as frail and weak and felt that I had to protect her as much as possible, for she sat around the house crying a lot. Later, as I grew older she seemed to change and at times seemed mean, for I slowly began telling her more often about the abuse in terms that she could not deny. Her lack of understanding caused me to become more and more reclusive.
When I had been very little, I prayed for Santa Claus to take me to live with him. And I even thought I heard the bells on the reindeer as he approached the house. I laid very still and I could hardly breath, I wondered how he would get in the house and take me out, but then I heard the bells again and they were growing faint. He had left me. Material things meant nothing. It could only mean that I was not worthy of saving. I was too bad. (The fact that I actually thought I heard reindeers shows how emotions and the faith of a little child can fool us; or did the TV have bells coming and going at the beginning and ending of late evening news and I could hear it from my bedroom?)
When I entered my teen years, my father would try to convince me that I was a fool to not be his girl sexually, for as I've stated above, intercourse had never occurred. He kept saying that he would never tell a soul; whereas, schoolboys would, or I'd end up pregnant. But I didn't know how to be normal. I was a complete loner. And if a boy tried to kiss me, I would begin crying. At the end of the school year, I was given two awards for academic achievement. Even with this, my father turned it into something with which to torment me about; for he told me that I may be able to deceive others, but he knew I wasn't really smart.
It was during this time that he tried to convince me that if I would have intercourse with him just once, he would never bother me again. It was then that my father's obsession almost succeeded with rape, but a neighbor heard my screams, for our house was a duplex on the island of Guam. During my father's attempts to stop my screams, I passed out; but when I awoke the neighbor was sitting in our living room, refusing to leave until my mother returned home. I ached so badly all over that I thought my father had successfully raped me. I crept back to my room and remained hidden. I don't know what the lady said to my mother, but my mother was never her friend again. In fact, mother spoke horribly about her to other neighbors. Sadly, the neighbor did not tell the authorities. But then again, my father was a military policeman, so why should anyone trust them?
I tried telling a young man whose father was a Sunday school teacher, maybe he would know who to tell. But the boy never talked to me again. He avoided me. Even when we ended up in the same city and church when we returned to the states, he told others he knew my name but that was all. He worked at the grocery store by our house and I felt so ashamed whenever I had to get something for my mother. And I stopped going to church until we moved from there to Orlando.
But lets back up a little bit, I've left something out. As my body matured, the intensity and occurrence of the molestation increased. This brought about times when I could not stop crying. My mother would give me tranquilizers, which enabled me to sleep. I'd usually sleep for a week, before being able to convince myself that my father would not win, and I'd fight back and try to go on with my life.
For a time on every holiday, birthday, Christmas, etc., I'd buy the prettiest card I could find and write all over it "I hate you." But my mom finally told me to stop this, because she said my sister and brother did not understand it. And when I would try to tell her about my father she would tell me that "even if it is true, what can I do about it? I'm unable to support the family." (This occurred when I was around eleven. I forgot to mention it earlier.)
She'd also try to tell me I have a really warped view of sex, that sex is something to enjoy. And Bible teachers also taught me that in marriage the bed is undefiled, and I knew that Ecclesiastics is very sexual. But I could not convince myself to allow my father to have sex with me. Why didn't God hear my prayers? Why did Jesus not seem to save me? Had I not passed the test? Didn't I do my best to honor my parents? Didn't I try to make them proud of me, to like me?
Then I reached a point that I decided I was going to tell the police the following school day. However, that Saturday afternoon I saw a movie on TV of a girl who was badly abused by the system. Her parents were killed in an accident and she was sent to a state orphanage, or reform school of some sort. The abuse depicted in that movie came from a book written to reform institutional care for children and was based on true incidents. (I discovered this during research during my college years, which I finally attended during my forties.) The movie caused me to think that by telling the police I might be jumping from the frying pan into the fire. Since my father was a military policeman, why should I trust them? So I remained silent. My hope was to survive until age 18 and hope that a prince would rescue me.
For years my father had bleeding ulcers and as a young man he had a heart attack; but he survived them all. During the heart attack, I thought that his death could save the family and set me free. Instantly, I felt ashamed for having such a wicked thought and I felt that God would really be angry with me for it.
When I reached my twenties I was too fearful to live on my own. I felt certain that someone would break in, rape, and kill me; and I was terribly afraid of being totally alone. The crying spells came more frequently now. I attended church regularly and I attended the coffeehouses sponsored by churches in downtown Orlando. It was the sixties and I dressed in long skirts. Jesus rallies were frequent, and I passed out religious tracks. All of the religious evangelists of notoriety came to Orlando and I sought their prayers. But I was never set free of guilt and shame. Their attitude seemed to be forgive your father and get on with your life. Even when I wrote letters trying to explain that I needed help to leave my home, a Christian roommate or something to help me leave, all I ever got back was form letters saying they're praying for me, and, of course, they requested donations of money.
The church I attended regularly was charismatic, with speaking in tongues and casting out of demons. I prayed in tongues as I was told to do. I would try to believe that it was from God. One young man would go into convulsions on the church floor. Deacons would carry him to another room. Then they would come and get me telling me that the demons would come out only for me. I would command the demons to come out in the name of Jesus, but I never had any assurance to prove to me that it was real. The boy would scream and then thank me. I'm grateful that God would not allow me to be self-deceived or deceived by others in this area. That church was eventually completely destroyed by lunacy; then many years later the preacher began another church, but from what I've heard he has kept it more conservative this time, and the preacher denies that those days ever happened. During this time I began hearing about Marjoe, but it was to be many years before I would know about this man that people were talking about. You should get his video from a store that carries old documentaries and watch it. I also greatly admired Katherine Kulman and I wanted to be used of God as she was. (She was a charismatic faith healer of that period) She held rallies in Ocala often.
If I told a preacher or teacher about my father they would rationalize that God allowed it to happen because He knew that was the only thing that would cause me to come to Him and accept Jesus. The sin was always put back on me and it was killing me. But they were too prideful to say that they had no answers. I'd see their flaws and their rebellious children, who after stints of drugs, etc, would give testimonies of coming back to Jesus and end up with the good jobs, etc, because of who their parents were. I could see these things, but I felt helpless and I could only hope in God.
I continued going to church and kept passing out tracts, for I knew this was suppose to be pleasing to God. One evening, a young man who often followed me, kept asking, "How do you know Jesus is real?" I sat on a park bench and began crying. As I cried I saw the sky become as a tunnel and a bright light was coming toward me. I knew instantly who it was and covered my face with my hands. When the light reached me, I felt a great love and warmth that cannot be described. With my mind I spoke and said, "Why didn't you ever love me?" And in my mind with a form of mental telepathy the spirit answered, "I've always loved you. Your understanding is as an infant." I can't describe the great peace that I felt at that time either, for I felt that He was holding me as though I was an infant! I can never forget that love and warmth. I still don't understand why God allows evil, but in the next life He'll explain it. He's already told me that I'm incapable of understanding it, for infants can't understand. I simply must trust him. And remember He told me that He's always loved me! He didn't say, "I've loved you every since you've accepted my son, Jesus." No, the implication was that I've always been His child. This seemed too good to be true! This occurred after all of the above, and this occurred years before I'd ever heard of out-of-body experiences by people near who were near death. They say they have seen a tunnel and bright light. I saw it when I was only crying! Later God talked to me orally. I looked around quickly to see if anyone else was hearing it, for I was in a church service; but no one else was hearing it. The message was very personal.
My father would still expose himself to me, but I would tell him, "Out of my way old man before I call the police." The tension in my house could almost choke you. I had no friends and stayed in my room when not at work. At church I talked with no one, for none of the young people asked me to go anywhere with them and I couldn't understand why. The coffeehouses had closed and the hippie movement seemed to be dying. Even though those from the Pat Robinson show still came to Orlando a lot, it seemed that the Jesus movement was over. I constantly read my Bible. The loneliness was overcoming me again and I feared that this time I would not be able to stop crying, and I feared that this time the tranquilizers would kill me. For the stress was taking its toll. I weighed about a hundred pounds and my muscles were so weak that I could not walk the length of the mall without taking breaks and sitting down. I drank a bottle of citrus magnesium (a laxative) every weekend, for my bowels would not move. I felt that I would be dead within a year.
This is when a young lady from church called me. Her brother was in town and wanted to meet some girls. I was the only single girl she could think of, for she was married and had a baby. This was when I met Wayne Harrington. On our second date he told me about a vision. We thought the vision was very symbolic and we didn't realize at that time that it was the beginning of Wayne's calling and very personal. Within a week we were married. Wayne saved my life. He physically nursed me back to health. And spiritually our lives were intertwined, for my childhood was part of the big picture. God revealed much to us, for many other spiritual things have happened since that day. It is God's direct calling of Wayne that results in his messages (read about it in his testimony).
God is the author of love. Those promoting that God is the author of evil, they do not know Him, nor were they called of Him. For at no time has God ever commanded the slaughter of anyone. There is but one commandment that God requires: that we do good unto one another, as we would have others do unto us.
I have seen God's children in every religion and their religion does not keep them from doing the merciful, loving things that God desires. And those who are not His children will continue to use organized religions to justify the wickedness that they do and desire to do. It is by the things that we do and the true motives behind those things that let us know who we are. We are born God's children. (Remember, He said that He had always loved me.) You can know if you are God's child by the things you love. Do you desire love, mercy, kindness; in short, all good things? If you do, you are God's child and He made you that way.
Look at the scriptures. If you're honest, it's easy to see the duality and recognize the spirits behind them. If you're afraid to look at them, that fear is not from God, for God is love. If you don't want to look at them because it takes your power and comfortable social clubs (churches) away; well, that will be between you and God. Whether you are ignorant, naïve, deceived, or deceptive will be between you and God. For I am certain that God knows our hearts and true motives. And the day will come when He will reveal them.
Once I was at a meeting where the speaker passed out pictures that looked like inkblots. She told us how to hold the page, which was top and bottom. Some people began to see the picture. Then they told the rest of us that it's a picture of a cow. Then they told us it's a picture of just the cow's head. I never could see it. Finally the speaker came to me and showed me where the ear was and instantly I could see the picture. Every since that day, whenever I look at that picture I wonder why I could not see it to begin with, for now I can't make the clarity of that cow's face go away. This is the way the scriptures are once that bondage of fear of unbelief in the infallibility of the Bible is removed and one can truthfully look at them for what they are truly saying. For the Bible is a duality of two spirits, one being of God and one being of Satan. It is not hard to discern which is which. Even a child can do it.
I know that God wants us to be honest and use our brains. It is only through the religions of the priesthood that we are told that God requires us to crucify our brains, for they will loose their power over us if we are set free from their bondage of fear. I have seen them for what they are, and I have seen their works and the results of them; both in ancient times as well as the present. These things could not be done in the name of God without the duality that is within the Bible. Look honestly at the scriptures and you can clearly see it. I think one should also study history and current events, rather than just religious rhetoric, in order to grow spiritually. For the priesthood has had two thousand years to perfect their deception. And I realize that people are fearful of questioning what has become so ingrained within our culture. But most people are ignorant that this culture was established at the point of a sword when Christianity ruled the world. It was man who civilized the church, not the other way around. Lastly, don't envy the men of God, for they are not the ones profiting from teaching others about God, but are compelled, as was Jeremiah (See Jeremiah 20:7-9). Their instruction and calling does not come cheaply, and there is no reward for it, and this is as it should be. But look at who profits from your bondage.
Revealing the Spiritual duality of the Bible, for it serves neither God nor truth to try and rationalize irrational things the Bible has said of God.