Blog | Ann C. Averill Author | Flash memoir portraying God's Grace in an ordinary life.

Respect

Posted on February 10, 2022 by Ann C. Averill

Shame is a powerful tool of the enemy, able to morph into a million avatars, but no match for God’s sovereignty and grace. Here’s what I mean.

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It’s 1967 at the tail end of the summer, and my mom’s hairstylist, Mr. John, gives me a Twiggy cut. My mom makes my new school clothes: a brown polyester mini dress with wide lapels and bell sleeves, brown wool culottes, and a Black Watch plaid hip hugger skirt. With new tortoise shell, octagonal glasses I am as cool as a skinny fourteen-year-old can be.

My first day of high school I discover my best friends, Linda and Marie are in none of my classes. Alone, I follow my ninth-grade schedule: algebra, world history, biology, English, French, gym, home economics, and personal typing.

The building is a one-story sprawl with a maze of corridors, but no matter where you’re headed, you need to pass the Crossroads, a key intersection where the upperclassmen hang out at round tables.

Within a week Linda, Marie, and I are rushed for Kappa Beta Epsilon, the high school sorority Linda’s older sister, Laura belongs to. At an introductory meeting, I listen to the bylaws. Basically, I have to pin a blue and white bow to my clothing at all times, learn the Greek alphabet, and memorize all the KBE sisters in my school, so I can say hi whenever I see them. Not saying hi is a demerit that might keep me out of something I’m not sure I want into.

Most of the cheerleaders are in KBE and sit by the Crossroads with senior guys. Don Bouchard is a senior who’s always there seventh period on my way to gym. Cindy Dickinson, KBE cheerleader, slouches at his table.

I turn my head. “Hi, Cindy.”

Don gives me a mincing wave. “Hi, sweetheart.” Cindy laughs.

That night, after dinner, the phone rings. I answer, “Hello.”

“Don’t you mean, hi? It’s Don Bouchard.”

I can’t think.

“I was wondering if you want to go out with me Saturday.”

I want to scream no, I think you were making fun of me, but “I’ll ask my mom,” comes out my mouth.

“Okey dokey.” He snickers.

I drop the phone on my mom’s desk and poke my head around the corner of the living room. Mom is reading the paper. Dad is snoozing in his naugahyde recliner. “Can I go out with a senior on Saturday?”

“What?” My father is alert. My question hangs in the air. I can’t say it again.

They glance at each other. Dad speaks, “Your mom and I agreed you’re not allowed to date until you’re sixteen.”

My shoulders relax. “Okay.”

I sprint for the phone. “Sorry, I’m not allowed,” and hang up.

Next day, at the Crossroads, Cindy and Laura catch up to me.

“Hi.”

Cindy walks to my right. “You going to the dance on Saturday?”

Laura walks to my left. “My parents said they can take us if your parents can pick us up.”

I gulp. “Probably, I’ll ask.”

There’s no parental sanction against school dances, so Saturday at eight o’clock, wearing my Black Watch hip hugger skirt, and a green poor boy sweater, I enter the gym with Linda and Laura. Linda is instantly asked to dance, and Laura disappears. I’m abandoned to scan the room for girls I have to say hi to.

Danny Gallagher, a cute junior with dark eyes and dark eyebrows pulls me onto the dance floor. He shakes his curly brown hair to the beat of “A Little Bit of Soul” and flashes a goofy smile. I shake my Twiggy cut and shuffle my feet.

Groovin’ by The Rascals plays next, and I let Danny enfold me in his arms as the dance floor swells with bear-hugging couples.

“Respect” is the next song, one of my favorites, and I cut loose when Aretha belts out, “What you want, baby I got it.”

Laura swoops in. “Linda and I are taking off with Dale Eagan. There’s a party at Phil Blomberg’s house.”

I hesitate.

“Come on! We’ll be back before your parents pick us up.”

Danny Gallagher takes my hand, and we all exit the gym.

A white Chevy wagon with fake wood paneling idles at the curb where my dad’s car will be parked by eleven o’clock. Linda is already in the back seat on an upperclassman’s lap. Laura squishes in the middle. Danny Gallagher slides next to Laura and gives me a place on his lap. Marie climbs onto the roof rack with Hawley Jenkins. Upper classmen I don’t know fill the front seat and the way back. By the time Dale squeals out of the parking lot, there must be a dozen kids packed inside. Someone passes me a bottle of Ripple. I down the whole thing since it’s the size of a Coke. But if this is what wine tastes like, yuck.

We take a right out of the parking lot and another at the light. The tires scream around the traffic circle, and we blow by the farm where my mom buys summer corn. I hope Marie is still on the roof. We jerk another right, and I realize my head is spinning.

The next thing I know, the car door opens. I get out. The ground tilts. I guess this is Phil Blomberg’s, a well-kept split level surrounded by rhododendrons. The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” blasts into the street. Kids pour past me into the front door. There are two stairwells in the entry, one goes up, one down. My head swims. I grab the upstairs railing, raise my eyes, and blink.

Don Bouchard stands at the top of the steps, wearing nothing but a paisley tie. He shouts down at me, “Aren’t you going to say hi?”

Cindy Dickinson tickles him in the ribs and cackles.

“Hi,” I don’t know where to put my eyes. “I mean, hi.”

“Out of the way Bouchard!” Danny helps me into the kitchen. “Want something to eat?”

I grab a handful of potato chips from a bowl on the kitchen table, but my head feels sloshy. The living room lights are off. The couch and chairs are filled with kids making out. I just need to lie down and find a spot on the carpet beneath the grand piano. Danny crawls under too and cradles my head for I don’t know how long until someone down the hall yells, “Everybody, out! The neighbors called the cops.”

I squint at Danny. “Is that Phil Blomberg?”

Danny ushers me back into the front seat of Dale’s Chevy. My sick head hangs out the window like a dog’s. We’re flying down the road, when my purple potato chip puke splatters the station wagon’s wood paneling. Danny rummages in the glove compartment and hands me a mashed packet of dusty Kleenex.

Back in the school lot, He puts his arm around me, and escorts me to the restroom as if I’m the perfect date. I drink water out of my hand and spit in the sink. I take off my cool octagonal glasses and splash my face. I finger my Twiggy cut into place. By the time I come out of the bathroom, the dance is over. I look for Danny, but he’s gone. Following the crowd out to the curb, I find my mom waiting in the car. Linda and Laura materialize from the dark and hop in the backseat. As we pull away from the school, I’m relieved to see Marie alive and making out with Hawley Jenkins by the flagpole.

My mom stops at the red light by the First National Bank. “Have a good time?” she asks without turning around.

“Yes,” we mumble in unison.

We drop off Linda and Laura. “Good night.” My mom waves.

Back in my bed, my head swirls. I can’t believe what I’ve gotten away with.

But Monday morning the gauntlet awaits.

Don Bouchard is grinning at his table. “Hi, again.”

I can’t believe I say, “Hi,” back.

And I can’t believe Danny Gallagher gave me even a little bit of R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

I had no idea how much self-respect meant, until I began to lose it.

Looking back, I can’t thank dark-eyed, Danny Gallagher (obviously not his real name) enough! He was with me in my humiliation, offering me far more than I deserved, long before I could see him as an unknowing avatar of Christ.

How about you sister? Don’t let shame bully you into thinking your most regrettable moments equal your identity.

“All of us have sinned and fallen short of God’s glory. But God treats us much better than we deserve, and because of Christ Jesus, he freely accepts us and sets us free from our sins.”
Romans 3:23-24 (CEV)

Cover photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash

Posted in Flash memoir, Spiritual Growth | 3 Comments

My Ice Blue Secret

Posted on February 2, 2022 by Ann C. Averill

In any culture that prizes virginity before marriage, the loss of it can leave you frozen in shame. And sometimes the hardest person to forgive is yourself.

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I wasn’t a virgin when I married.

Supposedly, no big deal if, like me, you’re from the Woodstock generation that coined slogans like free love and question authority.

A shocking disqualifier if you grew up in the more recent Purity Culture.

How can both perspectives be true? Let me tell you a story.

Back before the pill, my biological mom got pregnant out of wedlock. She had to leave college, go into hiding, and place me in foster care. At nine months I was adopted by wonderful parents unable to have their own children.

Eighteen years later, on a cold, snowy night, while my parents were out, friends came over for bread, cheese, and a bottle of Chianti wrapped in a straw basket I later learned was called a fiasco. The cheese was sharp, the bread stale, the wine like vinegar. My best friend and her boyfriend disappeared into my parent’s room. My boyfriend and I laid down on my childhood bed, and it was over in a second.

Why did I give in without a beat of passion? At the time, I might have said curiosity. Or maybe I’d hoped making love would make me love the boy who claimed to love me.

Instead, I felt trapped in the stifling space beneath a staircase I could no longer climb.

Shortly after giving away my virginity, I saw a commercial for Ice Blue Secret deodorant. A young bride sits at a dressing table in a satin wedding dress. Her veil sweeps back over a tiara that looks like a crown. Her mother, in a silk suit with matching pill box hat, hands her daughter the deodorant, whispers a secret, and the daughter smiles. The ad links the steam of the long-awaited wedding night with the need for an antiperspirant. However, the implied bliss requires a pristine bride whose snow-white purity has never been melted, a figurine princess atop a wedding cake waiting for her prince.

When the ad was over, I turned off the TV, grabbed my parka, and my mom’s snow shoes and headed towards the bird sanctuary at the end of the neighborhood. In the frigid air, I walked through clouds of my own breath. At the forest edge, I strapped on the awkward rawhide netting and climbed into deep powder. Trudging through the trees, I heard the coo of mourning doves and the squawk of blue jays. A bright red cardinal slashed my view, and I came to the ice blue conclusion that by abdicating the virgin throne atop the wedding cake, I was secretly damaged and no longer worthy of true love.

To look at me, you’d never know my identity was frozen in sexual shame. I wasn’t fully aware of it myself. I went off to college and graduated Phi Beta Kappa, but every subsequent romance included sex. This included living with my husband for three years before we were married.

When he finally proposed, my adoptive mom, a fantastic seamstress, offered to make my wedding dress, but when we got to the fabric store, I said I didn’t want a white dress, a train, or a veil. I probably couched my decision in counterculture protest, but looking back, I felt like I didn’t deserve to be clothed in the symbol of purity. My mom was obviously disappointed she couldn’t give the gift only she could give, so I relented, taking my vows in a simple off-white gown with tiny, covered buttons down the back. A crown of pink carnations and baby’s breath in my hair.

I wish I could add that marriage solved my shame, but it continued to work its wiles. As a young-married with my first child, I felt trapped as never before. Who was I besides a mom? Leaving my profession to stay home with my daughter meant endless work largely unacknowledged. Haggard from midnight nursing, was I still desirable?

My answer was to audition for a local musical. To my surprise, I got the female lead. For three months I rehearsed falling in love with another man in an orchestrated courtship. When the play was over, I foolishly told my husband I was leaving him for the leading man. What set off a tsunami of heartache, plunged me deep into the forgiveness of God.

Ironically, I now see I idolized sexual purity as much as if I’d grown up in the Purity Culture, robbing myself of the free love of Jesus.

Pre-marital sex has consequences. I’m living proof. But God’s standard of purity is holiness which cannot be retained or attained. It must be reclaimed through the sacrifice of Christ. (Romans 3:23)

So, sisters, no matter what you’ve done or haven’t done, no matter what has been done to you, question every authority, without or within the church, that identifies you as anything less than the chosen, holy, beloved of God (Col. 3:12).

This is the gift only our heavenly father can give, the grace that melts every ice blue secret.

“The blessing by faith, I receive from above,
Oh, glory! my soul is made perfect in love.
My prayer has prevailed, and this moment I know,
The blood is applied, I am whiter than snow.”
James L. Nicholson 1872

Cover photo by Osman Rama on Unsplash

Posted in Flash memoir, Spiritual Growth | Tagged #virginity #purityculture #lossofvirginity #sexualshame #metoo #forgivingyourselfs | 3 Comments

A Taste of Paradise

Posted on January 27, 2022 by Ann C. Averill

This week, I stumbled upon a documentary on Prime called Three Identical Strangers about male triplets separated at birth by adoption. Turns out they were unknowingly part of a psychological study and purposely placed in homes at three different levels of society. At age nineteen, they found each other and had their fifteen minutes of fame. I’ll let the movie fill in the details. Suffice it to say, the young men were amazed to find they had mannerisms, speech patterns, and many likes and dislikes in common. At this point in the film, one might conclude you are your genetics. But the plot thickens. I will leave it there not to be a spoiler. Check it out; it’s worth the watch.

Like the triplets, I’m also adopted, and last year found biological half-siblings with whom I share many similarities even though we were raised by vastly different parents.

I’m also reading a book titled Finding Paradise by Allison Lockwood about the settlement of Northampton, Massachusetts, the small city closest to my hill town home. Because my husband has already done genealogical research on us both, I knew going into the book that one of my biological ancestors was among Northampton’s founders. He and fellow settlers trudged from northern Connecticut through the western wilderness of Massachusetts to make a new start.

Born an illegitimate child in Connecticut and raised in upstate New York, it was a handsome guy I met at Syracuse University who drew me to Northampton, MA, the town where he was born. After college, we married and lived up and down the Connecticut River Valley as if we were swimming back to our spawning grounds to raise our family. How many times have I traveled one of Northampton’s main thoroughfares not knowing, until I read Finding Paradise, that the street was named after my long lost relative because it runs beside the location of his long-gone home built in the 1600’s. Again, genetics would seem to spell destiny.

But here my own plot thickens. Lockwood’s book describes how Northampton has long been home to reformers looking to make the world a better place. Key residents were involved in the women’s movement, prison reform, mental health, the underground railroad, and utopian communities. Northampton was even the home of Sylvester Graham, father of the graham cracker, invented as part of a more healthful diet. When Jenny Lind, an opera singer, honeymooned in Northampton, she dubbed it the “paradise of America.” Paradise City is a nickname it holds to this day. For all the fascinating details check out Lockwood’s book too.

But Northampton’s most important resident for me is the preacher Jonathan Edwards who launched the Great Awakening, a kind of American protestant reformation that espoused the gospel of grace. Although much is made of Edward’s threats of hell, in his famous sermon, “Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God, Edwards concludes with God’s infinite compassion for helpless sinners shown through the sacrificial blood of his only son, Jesus, that alone can mediate our ultimate fate.

Centuries after Edward’s sermon, living in a town a bit to the north, my husband and I drove to Northampton and parked in the lot behind Edward’s Church. At the time, I didn’t know it was named after the famous theologian. Nor did I know anything of his legacy. I was simply waiting in the car with a sleeping infant while my husband went into the Peloton bike shop next door. There in solitude, recovering from a crisis in our marriage, I signed my name in the back of a Gideon’s Bible, acknowledging my faults and regrets, and my need to be saved from my horrible capacity to inflict harm even on those I loved the most. That was the beginning of the transformational love of God in my life, so like Job, I can say,

“I had only heard about you (GOD) before, but now I have seen you with my own eyes.”
Job 42:5 (NLT)

All to say, genetics are part of our destinies, for it is God who forms us in our mother’s wombs, and our stories are written in His book of life before we take our first breath. (Psalm 139)

But God also grants us free will, so we can choose his love. I have witnessed His mysterious leading through the wilderness to my true home as His daughter adopted by grace.

So, no matter your gene pool or your circumstances, it is God’s overwhelming, never ending, loving-kindness that grants us, even in our ordinary lives, a taste of paradise.

Where are you dear reader on your journey?

“Taste and see that the LORD is good, blessed is the one who takes refuge in him.”
Psalm 34:8 (NIV)

Cover photo by Patrick Fore on Unsplash

Posted in Book Review, Flash memoir, Spiritual Growth | Tagged #christiantestimony, #divinedestiny, #findingparadiselockwood, #jonathanedwards, #northamptonma, #salvation, #threeidenticalstrangers | Leave a comment

Our Eyes Are On You

Posted on January 19, 2022 by Ann C. Averill

Funny how books, sermons, and personal stories come into your life at just the right moment. Just in the nick of time! Just when God knows you need it!

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How often I submit to my fears instead of submitting my fears to God. When things start going wonky, my mind rushes to the most disastrous outcome I can imagine. I call it catastrophizing, but its common name is worry.

Worry focuses me on everything that’s out of my control. It gives me a stomachache that drives me to the plumbing. Or drives me to the couch to watch silly reruns like Seinfeld because I can’t seem to do anything but distract myself. That’s not totally true, in times of deep worry, I’m driven to deep clean and reorganize my entire house. It’s as if all the blessings in my life are blotted out by a gigantic funnel cloud swirling any hope into smithereens, and I’m trying to batten down the hatches. In the moment, Bible verses become sawdust in my mouth. God feels distant. My cries for help, only echoes in my head.

This week I had fresh cause to worry. The details don’t matter. The important fact is I have no control over them.

But just before the new worry launched its assault, I’d read a memoir titled Undone by Michele Cushatt. It’s the true story of a season in her life when she faced her first husband’s addiction, divorce, single parenthood, the trials of a new marriage and blended family, cancer, the addition of three special needs preschoolers to her family, and big surprise, panic attacks. Any one of these trials would have undone me.

I feel like such a spiritual and emotional wimp by comparison, but that’s not the point. Her story is an extreme example of what God allows in our lives, not to punish us or teach us a lesson, but to prove that his presence is enough to hold on to in a broken world where at any moment our comfort and seeming control can be overturned.

Towards the end of the book Michele references a Biblical episode where King Jehoshaphat is faced with the impending attack of a vast enemy army and says,

“For we have no power to face this vast army that is attacking us. We do not know what to do, but our eyes are on you.”
2 Chronicles 20:12 (NIV)

Jehoshaphat knew he was out gunned, and his only refuge was his God, so his focus was not on his own catastrophizing. He doesn’t collapse on his couch to distract himself with entertainment or start deep cleaning his tent.

Instead, he listens to the voice of God through one of his prophets.

“Do not be afraid or discouraged because of this vast army. For the battle is not yours, but God’s”
2 Chronicles 20:15 (NIV)

My point is, until we leave our earthly bodies and see God face to face, we need to share our stories about his amazing grace in our ordinary lives. For it’s in the midst of our disasters big and small, that God works in, for, and through us to prove He is enough even as we long for perfection in a world continually smashed by sin.

So, tell your stories, sisters, as I tell mine, as Michele Cushatt so masterfully told hers, to encourage the body of Christ and drown out the catastrophizing shouts of the enemy. Instead, let’s keep our eyes on the salvation, provision, protection, and lovingkindness of our almighty, sovereign Lord.

“In this you greatly rejoice, even though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been distressed by various trials, so that the proof of your faith, being more precious than gold which is perishable, even though tested by fire, may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ.”
1Peter 1:6-7 (NASB)

Cover photo by Marina Vitale on Unsplash

Posted in Book Review, Flash memoir, Spiritual Growth | Tagged #antidotetoworry, #michelecushatt, #Undone, #Undonebymichelecushatt, #worry | 7 Comments

Forgiveness and Freedom

Posted on January 14, 2022 by Ann C. Averill

Are you more like a Judge Judy or Mother Teresa?

I confess, when I used to visit my brother at his rest home, Judge Judy was often on TV, and I was always tempted to sit down and watch the episode. Why? Because I love her stern justice, her ability and authority to call out the guilty party, name their offense, and nail them with real life consequences.

That said, as a Christian, I know I’m supposed to be more like Mother Teresa full of endless love for the sick, desperate, and dying.

Truth be told, we’re all a little like both Judy and Teresa.

No shocker. Since we’re created in God’s image, we crave justice, but when it suits us, because we’re also fallen, desperate, sick, and dying.

To show you what I mean, I’ll share a quick vignette from when I was in third grade and got into a playground fight.

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My third-grade teacher, Mrs. Duval, wears a steel bun bolted to the back of her head and steel-rimmed glasses. Her self-appointed uniform, a white buttoned blouse and a black calf-length skirt over support hose and lace-up heels. Everything about her classroom is strict and regulated. Arithmetic in the morning. Word problems and counting backwards to make change. The new X that means multiplication. Grammar in the afternoon in books full of subjects, objects, and verbs. All this punctuated by a thirty-minute recess after lunch.

Mrs. McGinty, the recess lady, prowls the small playground not covered by snow and ice, a whistle around her neck. The swings beyond are useless, anchored in three feet of snow. The slides buried up to their necks. There is one concrete tube whose curved head is barely above the height of the snowbank. Ralphie La Brie has tunneled, so you can still crawl through it.

But I want to be on top, along with every other third grader scaling its summit to be king of the mountain. In a bunchy snowsuit I begin my ascent. Two ton Peggy climbs from the other side, and just as I reach the peak, she lunges for me, and we both fall off. I land on my back with Peggy sitting on my chest. I can’t squirm free. Ralphie climbs out of the tunnel like a troll and starts shoving snow in my ear. Peggy squeals with delight and won’t get off. Her cheeks round with laughter. Her curly pigtails jiggle as my red mittens pound her puffy, pink parka and slash at Ralphie’s stupid grin. Frustration bursts from my eyeballs, and I’m crying in front of the pee-wee crowd gathered in a tight circle. The whistle shrieks. Peggy flinches. I roll out from under, and punch Ralphie in the ear.

Mrs. McGinty marches Peggy and I, soggy and dripping, into Miss Ander’s principal office. We sit on a bench opposite her ordered desk. She lectures us on good citizenship and wants each of us to say sorry. But my red, sweaty face, glowers in silence. Even as a kid, I know that forgiveness is a tight bud that cannot be forced. No sorry lips can make my heart unfurl.

Miss Anders ushers Peggy and I back to our room. Our class is diagramming sentences while Mrs. Duval marks math papers at her desk. Miss Anders whispers our infraction in Mrs. Duval’s ear. She peers over her steel-rimmed frames as I return to my seat. In her world of plusses and minuses surely Peggy is in the negative column, and counting backwards, owes me a big fat apology. And how about Ralphie La Brie? He multiplied the offense. Isn’t it obvious who the subject and object of the verb are? But Mrs. Duval’s expression contains no exoneration or mercy. Her answer book as useless as swings locked in ice.

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I share this example to show that even a child knows when someone hurts you, they owe you something. There’s also no doubt that saying sorry without a contrite heart is worthless. But do you hear my child’s heart full of pride and desire for revenge?

Thankfully God is nothing like my third-grade teacher. He is completely good, so he must be completely just.

When I was a brand-new Christian, I drew a cross inside the cover of my Bible. Along its vertical axis I scribbled the word LOVE. Along the horizontal, the word JUSTICE.

The vertical line represented God’s love reaching down through Christ to protect me from the eternal damnation we all deserve for screwing up a million different ways.

Some versions of The Lord’s prayer call sin trespasses. The word trespass means to enter an owner’s property without permission. Those who trespass against us have crossed a line into our lives where they don’t belong, demanding things, taking things, destroying things that are not theirs. That’s what the horizontal line represents.

In other versions of the Lord’s prayer, sin is referred to as debt. Those who have trespassed into our intimate space owe us a debt for what they have stolen or damaged. And we owe others for what we have wreaked in theirs.

Forgiveness is trusting God with what others owe us. But trusting God does not come naturally, even for the believer, so how in the world can we forgive others let alone ourselves?

Jesus told this story:

“A man loaned money to two people—500 pieces of silver^[a] to one and 50 pieces to the other. ⁴²But neither of them could repay him, so he kindly forgave them both, canceling their debts. Who do you suppose loved him more after that?”

⁴³Simon answered, “I suppose the one for whom he canceled the larger debt.”

“That’s right,” Jesus said. ⁴⁴Then he turned to the woman and said to Simon, “Look at this woman kneeling here… ⁴⁷“I tell you, her sins—and they are many—have been forgiven, so she has shown me much love. But a person who is forgiven little shows only little love.” Luke 7:41-47 (NLT)

I came to Christ as ashamed as this woman of my sins and the sins done to me, and so grateful to be cleansed from them all.

And yet, even though I knew, in my head, I was clean, I continued to drag along the garbage can containing all my trash as well as the dead weight of those who hurt me.

Over the years, learning my Bible, I became a Pharisee myself, at times acting like Judge Judy, so eager to hold others who hurt me, even in small ways, accountable with a heart full of vengeance as if I was back in third grade.

I knew this was not the gospel. When was I going to get it together and turn into Mother Teresa?

In Relationships, a Mess Worth Making, author Paul Tripp says, “An entrenched refusal to forgive is a sign that you have not known God’s amazing forgiveness yourself… holding onto an offense will make you a bitter and unloving person, and you will inevitably damage all your relationships.”

But he goes on to ask, “How can I forgive without acting like what he/she did is okay?”

He confirms my paradigm of forgiveness saying, “The vertical aspect of forgiveness is unconditional, but the horizontal aspect depends on the offender admitting guilt and asking for forgiveness.

The idea is no one can single-handedly bring about reconciliation in a relationship because reconciliation depends on trust, not simply giving lip service to the words, I’m sorry. Rather, trust between people is built over time through acts of remorse and faithfulness.

So how do I begin to unravel my mess?

The Cure by John Lynch, Bruce Mc Nicol, and Bill Thrall says, “Forgiveness has an order. We must initiate the vertical transaction with God before we can move into the horizontal transaction with another. First, before God I forgive the offender for what they’ve done and the consequences in my life. This is before God and me, and it is for my sake. It doesn’t let anyone off the hook; it does not excuse any action. It does not restore relational forgiveness to the other. This is the vertical transaction. It is a choice to free myself, to begin healing.”

It’s the decision to cut ourselves free from that person and the baggage we share.

The Cure, goes onto say, “God never tells me to get over something and just get past it. Never. Instead, he asks me to trust him with every circumstance.”

So, the first step is to get it all out to God, everything that is rotting in your soul. Everything that’s pissed you off. Everything that makes you feel fearful, used, diminished, unable to trust, unlovable. Name it as best you can. The wages of sin is death, so ask yourself what has been destroyed?

Then spit it out, cry it out, spill it into a journal, confess to a trusted friend. Do this as often as the rot replaces itself with new confusion, angst, regret, and shame.

Next, immerse yourself in God’s Word in order to know, really know his character, his strength, and the depth of his desire to love and protect you. The book of Romans makes the point over and over again that we are new creatures in Christ, that Christ paid for all our grotesque experiences and mistakes with his holy blood.

Memorize the verses that confirm your impossible burden of debt was charged to Jesus’ infinite account, so your heart can unclench, your fingers can release their grip, so everything moves out of your hands into the sphere of God Almighty whose justice is divine. Then you can raise your emptied arms in praise to the savior who has turned the key that kept you caged in your past.

Let me add here that I hate pat answers that diminish the pain and struggle involved in all this. Please understand that everything I’ve said about forgiveness and the freedom that God alone supplies is a process, a daily process, a moment-by-moment process, a mind game, a heart battle, a habit to be cultivated as we become more and more intimate with God’s truth and absorb it.

It’s also a mysterious process beyond formula, something that God does for us and in us.

I have a note on my refrigerator to remind myself that:

Truth trusted transforms!

With the new year, wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could be who we really want to be? More like Mother Teresa and less like Judge Judy. May the Holy Spirit move us moment by moment towards the quiet end of forgiveness. And may our hearts freely unfurl in God’s love and perfect justice for ourselves and others, even our enemies.

Cover photo by Robert Klank on Unspalsh

Posted in Flash memoir, Spiritual Growth | Leave a comment

Teach Us to Number Our Days

Posted on January 5, 2022 by Ann C. Averill

January is the month where we begin again, and in doing so inevitably re-evaluate where we’ve been and what we’ve done. Do we want to keep doing it? Does it matter? Is there somewhere else we want to go? Something else more important we need to spend our time on.

A quick perusal of last year’s posts tells me I wrote about alcoholism and its effect on family members, death, grief, regret, high school reunions, childhood friends and frenemies, being adopted, finding my true name, and biological siblings. I wrote about introverts and extroverts, about the mystery of the writing process and how to turn fact into fiction. I wrote about my father, my mother, the craft of hope, and unwrapping yourself from the spider glue of your past.

No matter the subject, I always strive to take you with me, dear reader, into a specific life experience that imprinted my identity, self-worth, and place in the universe. I offer you the shot gun seat in my story mobile, so together we can blast into my past and out the other side towards God’s unconditional love.

If as authors we write not merely for our own satisfaction, but to serve our readers, perhaps January is also a good time for audience participation to find out how our work is being received. What resonates? What hits the spot? What does not? And why?

Therefore I’d love to know a little bit about you, dear readers. What is it about my essays in subject and style that draws you in, and keeps you reading? What’s useful or encouraging? Please tell me a little bit about yourself and why you read my blog in the comments.

I guess I want to know what’s worth your while because that’s what’s worth my time as a writer.

In another month I will turn 69 years old, the big 70 a mere twelve months beyond that.

Some people pick a word for the new year. I’ve never done that before, but this year the Lord has impressed me with the word complete. So if I could make a New Year’s resolution and live it out, this is what I’d resolve — to complete the work the Lord has put me here to do.

Let’s make every day count. Happy New Year!

¹⁰Seventy years are given to us!
    Some even live to eighty.
But even the best years are filled with pain and trouble;
    soon they disappear, and we fly away.
¹¹Who can comprehend the power of your anger?
    Your wrath is as awesome as the fear you deserve.
¹²Teach us to realize the brevity of life,
    so that we may grow in wisdom.
¹³O Lord, come back to us!
    How long will you delay?
    Take pity on your servants!
¹⁴Satisfy us each morning with your unfailing love,
    so we may sing for joy to the end of our lives.
¹⁵Give us gladness in proportion to our former misery!
    Replace the evil years with good.
¹⁶Let us, your servants, see you work again;
    let our children see your glory.
¹⁷And may the Lord our God show us his approval
    and make our efforts successful.
    Yes, make our efforts successful!
Psalm 90: 10-17 (NLT)

Cover photo by Aron Visuals on Unsplash

Posted in Spiritual Growth, Writing Process | 4 Comments

Christmas Should be Published

Posted on December 20, 2021 by Ann C. Averill

I just learned that my husband tested positive for Covid 19 which means Christmas as planned is cancelled, and my calendar for two weeks wiped clean. So far so good. He is fully vaccinated and boosted with no dire symptoms or complaints.

If I don’t have to bake cookies or cook a roast, what shall I do instead? Finish painting the trim in the bathroom? Catch up on laundry? It feels almost sacrilegious to let Christmas melt into an ordinary day.

Besides, my house is already decked out with twinkle lights and greenery in anticipation of wide-eyed grandchildren experiencing the wonder of the holiday, some for the first time, at Gramma’s house with their cousins. The table is covered with a scarlet cloth. The candles ready to light. Pinecones and silver balls, the perfect centerpiece. My childhood creche set up in the hutch to give the little ones tangible shepherds, angels, wise men and their chipped camel, all come in awe of the king of angels born surrounded by manure.

Of course, I’ve been praying for the added magic of snow. I got ice instead, but it was so beautiful, I ran for my phone and shared this pic on Facebook.

Paul the apostle talks about how God’s invisible qualities are made visible through the natural world, so his eternal power and divine character, should be obvious to all. (Romans 1:20) So, I wasn’t surprised to find comments like: beautiful, magical, heavenly, awesome, amazing capture, should be published. Published means made public, so I’m sharing my picture here as well.

Which reminds me of the angels’ news flash to the shepherds who were terrified by celestial radiance in the darkness.

⁸Messenger: ¹¹Today, in the city of David, a Liberator has been born for you! He is the promised Anointed One, the Supreme Authority! ¹²You will know you have found Him when you see a baby, wrapped in a blanket, lying in a feeding trough.
¹³At that moment, the first heavenly messenger was joined by thousands of other messengers—a vast heavenly choir. They praised God.
¹⁴Heavenly Choir: To the highest heights of the universe, glory to God!
And on earth, peace among all people who bring pleasure to God!
¹⁵As soon as the heavenly messengers disappeared into heaven, the shepherds were buzzing with conversation.
Shepherds: Let’s rush down to Bethlehem right now! Let’s see what’s happening! Let’s experience what the Lord has told us about!
¹⁶So they ran into town, and eventually they found Mary and Joseph and the baby lying in the feeding trough. After they saw the baby, ¹⁷they spread the story of what they had experienced and what had been said to them about this child. ¹⁸
Luke 2: 11-18

Christ’s birth was the amazing capture of God’s plan for the liberation of a broken world manifest in the natural birth of a supernatural savior. That’s good news worth publishing.

I guess that’s what I’m trying to do here, even if I’m home with only my dear husband for the holiday. I want to spread the story of what has been said about the baby Jesus and make public what I’ve experienced with him as my liberating King.

One more angelic newsflash. While I was writing this, my husband received a message from his primary provider. There was a clerical error, and the results of his test were actually negative.

Hallelujah! Game on! Light the candles and let the celebration begin.

Cover photo by Tess Rampersad on Unsplash

Posted in Flash memoir | 7 Comments

My Hallelujah Chorus

Posted on December 14, 2021 by Ann C. Averill

Does it matter if you take your kids to church? Even if they hate it and fuss? Even if as teens or young adults they dismiss the Gospel? Take heart! Here’s a small part of my salvation story.

****************************************************************************

My parents always took me to church. Can you identify?

So, I learned Bible stories. Moses parting the Red Sea. Daniel in the den with lockjaw lions. The star of Bethlehem, and a baby boy born in a barn.

I learned hymns, “On a hill far away, stood an old rugged cross, the emblem of suffering and shame…”

I liked the ones in a minor key that sounded mysterious and ethereal, “Oh come, oh come Emmanuel and ransom captive Israel…” But who was Emmanuel? Why did we want him to come? And ransomcaptiveisrael was just one long nonsense word.

One of my favorites had a Celtic tune full of longing, but what did, “Be thou my vision oh Lord of my heart…” even mean?

My childhood church was blonde in every sense of the word. We were a white, Anglo-Saxon Protestant congregation. The pews, pulpit, and rafters were made of honey-colored oak. Behind the pulpits were two choir stalls. Men on one side, women on the other, all wearing red robes with white satin collars. And at the end of every service, a boy, also robed, walked ceremoniously to the altar, and snuffed the candles using a long brass rod. It looked like fun, and I wondered why girls never got to do it.

The cross on the back wall was engraved with the letters INRI? That wasn’t a word, so I always wondered what it meant.

Fast forward to my junior year in college spent studying abroad in London, England. On weekends, classmates and I did lots of sightseeing. Among the places of interest were innumerable cathedrals. I saw Westminster Abbey with famous saints and poets entombed in its walls and St. Paul’s, an architectural wonder.

But it was Salisbury Cathedral that rocked me to my core. Begun in 1220, it’s spire, the tallest in England, was completed in 1320. The façade alone was breathtaking. Walking down the nave, my footsteps echoing on ancient stones, I felt the brevity of my human span. Lifting my gaze to Gothic arches high above, I’d never felt so small. Dwarfed by stained-glass magnificence, something deep within me wanted to kneel—but I was with my classmates, so I stuffed my awe and followed the group back to the bus.

A few miles north, we stopped at Stonehenge, a circular array of megaliths set on a green plain pocked with sheep. It was massive, impossible, a prehistoric wonder aimed at light in a dreary land. Still mysterious in many ways, it seemed to shout man’s desperate need to worship something.

Flash forward, another decade to when I struggled as a stay-at-home mom and narrowly avoided a divorce. I hadn’t been to a church in years, and didn’t consider myself a believer, but when a neighbor invited me to her plain blonde church, I said yes and found myself full circle, back in the basement for adult Sunday School. But Jesus and I were different now. He was no longer a baby doll in a manger scene, and I was no longer an innocent child.

A week before Christmas a red-robed choir filled the dais. The accompanist began Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus, and thunderous praise rose to simple rafters. Can you hear the music?

“For the Lord God omnipotent reigneth.”

I suddenly felt as puny as I did in Salisbury Cathedral.

The choir continued,

“The kingdom of this world is become the kingdom of our Lord.

And of His Christ, and of His Christ.”

I now knew that Christ is the Greek word for Messiah,

The chorus continued,

“And He shall reign for ever and ever.”

I’d seen how since Neolithic times, men have looked for the light.

The bass voices bellowed,

“King of Kings.”

And I recalled the letters INRI engraved at the top of the cross. Now I knew what they stood for, Ieusus Nazarenus Rex Ludaeorum, the initials for the Latin Jesus the Nazarene King of the Jews. The words Pontius Pilate had written above the cross where Jesus’ corpse was pinned like a butterfly in grotesque display.

The sopranos echoed,

“and Lord of Lords.”

The grandeur of the oratorio rolled over me like an ocean swell, and suddenly my soul understood the necessity for Jesus’ sacrifice, as bloody as any pagan ritual. It was the ransom paid for the primordial evil that wreaks havoc here on earth. And, finally I comprehended the hymn I’d sung as a child, Jesus was Emmanuel, God come in bodily form to rescue people like me, captive of my own shame and regret.

That’s the thing about music, it somehow bypasses the brain and speaks directly to the heart. A church, I discovered, is not an edifice no matter how magnificent, no matter the history buried in its walls, but rather people whose hearts are desperate for God and cast their vision to his Messiah the light of the world.

All those years my parents made me go to church, surely this is what they were hoping—that my heart would find its hallelujah in Christ and sing in chorus with the congregation.

“Forever and ever, Amen!”

So readers, if you worry about your children and their salvation, take courage. You never know how or when God will give the gift of his grace to those you love. Merry Christmas!

“I want you to know that you can fully rely on the things you have been taught about Jesus, God’s anointed one.” The Messiah!
Luke 1:4 (VOICE)

Cover photo by David Beale on Unsplash

Posted in Flash memoir | Tagged #hallelujahchorus #christiantestimony | Leave a comment

Introvert or Extrovert?

Posted on December 10, 2021 by Ann C. Averill

Are you an introvert or an extrovert? What difference does it make if both are fine ways of being in the world? A lot, according to Holley Gerth in her fabulous book, The Powerful Purpose of Introverts: Why the world Needs You to Be You.

The central theme of the book is stated clearly in the subtitle; in order to lead the fullest, most effective life you can, it helps to know yourself, your tendencies, your strengths, your skills, your patterns of thinking, what depletes and restores you. She makes the case that your make-up is intricately linked to the purpose and destiny for which God created you, so know yourself, learn what you need to thrive, and what you passionately want to offer the world.

Holley helps us begin this quest by defining what introversion is and what it is not. Introversion isn’t shyness. She quotes Susan Cain, author of Quiet who says, “Shyness is fear of negative judgment, and introversion is a preference for quiet, minimally stimulating environments.” She explores the physiology of introvert/extrovert brain chemistry and offers a series of simple quizzes based on the most respected personality indicators.

Here are just some of her questions to help you locate yourself on the introvert/extrovert continuum.

Do you enjoy spending time in solitude?
Are you drawn to deep conversations and thoughts?
Do you need time to process before speaking or making decisions?
Do you prefer working in quiet independent environments?
Do you need time alone to recharge and reflect?

Are you beginning to see yourself in the introvert crowd? I certainly did!

Photo by Tingey Injury law Firm on Unsplash

But Holley concludes her chapter by emphasizing that however you answered, and wherever you found yourself on the scale, she believes, “Your true identity goes beyond your preferences, processes, patterns, and personal relationships. You’re created in the image of God. You’re loved as you are. You have nothing to prove.”

That said, she delves deeper into the tendencies of introverts, making the case that being sensitive and quiet are not weaknesses, but strengths and offers a list of skill sets these characteristics bring to the world. Introverts tend to be analytic, creative, and empathic to name just a few, so they make up a disproportionate portion of the world’s writers, artists, inventors, teachers, counselors, and advocates to name just a few. This section of the book helped me understand, with hindsight, why certain jobs, relationships, and roles chaffed and others fit like a second skin. This insight gave me permission and guidance to better focus my energies in the future.

The mid-section of the book takes up the common problems of anxiety, depression, self-criticism, and perfectionism and follows on with self-care adaptations and practices that help introverts stay in their safe lane, and not do self-damage by pushing themselves to be and do what they are not designed for. This was profoundly useful for helping me understand my own limits. It also shed light on how introverts and extroverts can learn to accept, understand, and support each other based on their inner settings.

The final chapter culminates with how to craft a mission statement based on fresh self-discovery.

All this to say, I highly recommend this book as a gift to yourself or a loved one this holiday season. What better way to celebrate Christmas than to make peace with ourselves, our neighbors, and the God who put love and grace into motion with the birth of Christ. Our broken world so needs us to understand who we are and how to best serve our Lord according to the divine destiny he has for us all.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” Jer. 11 (NIV)

Click here for Holley’s great book, The Powerful Purpose of Introverts: Why the World Needs You to Be You.

Click here for my own book, Teacher Dropout: Finding Grace in an Unjust School, the story of an introvert (me) in a tough environment, struggling to find my worth, core identity, and a place to belong.

Cover photo by Alexandru Zdrobau on Unsplash

Posted in Spiritual Growth | Tagged #HolleyGerth, #introverts, #missionstatements, #Personalitytests, #powerfulpurposeofintroverts, #self-discovery, #servinggod | 5 Comments

The Craft of Hope

Posted on November 23, 2021 by Ann C. Averill

A few days before Thanksgiving, I woke up forming a mental list of the things I needed to accomplish before hosting the holiday feast.

Bake a pumpkin dessert
Make fresh cranberry relish
Press the tablecloth
Craft a centerpiece

Then I read a Facebook post by my writer friend, Elisa Sue Edwards Johnston. After recently being diagnosed as both pregnant AND with a life-threatening disease, she described her state of mind, “My life and my baby’s life are directly linked to whether I can practice the craft of hope. Right now, my best way to survive is by clinging to ridiculous hope—hope for supernatural miracles or contentment in suffering.”

As a result of her words, another list began to form in my mind, a list of hard things in my history that with hindsight were not setbacks, but set-ups for trusting who I am to God and all He is to me.

My illegitimate conception placed me in God’s hands before I drew my first breath
My adoption by loving parents foreshadowed my adoption by a loving God
My extended family demonstrated inclusion, not by birth, but by unconditional love
My desperation to belong caused me to try out diverse social groups and their values
My confusion and insecurity drove me to pre-marital sex and a brush with adultery
My marriage crisis revealed my desperate need for forgiveness
My desire to protect my children revealed my desperate need for control
My brother’s alcoholism and subsequent homelessness destroyed my sense of control
My professional failure as a teacher destroyed my sense of worth and identity
My writing about professional failure helped me discover my core identity in Christ
My identity in Christ brought freedom from shame, inadequacy, and judgment
My grandchildren demonstrated God’s joy in us isn’t based on our behavior but his love
My faithful husband showed God’s sovereignty and protection through it all

This is just a taste of my trials and their blessings that continue day by day. Surely you have your own, friend. Therefore, I’m giving you yet another list filled with the truth of God’s Word, praying it will provide you with ridiculous hope in a ridiculous world.

John 13:7 “Jesus replied, “You don’t understand now what I am doing, but someday you will.” (NLT)
Romans 8:28 “And we know that God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them.” (NLT)
Jer. 29:11 ^“For I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord. “They are plans for good and not for disaster, to give you a future and a hope.” (NLT)
Romans 8:11 “The Spirit of God, who raised Jesus from the dead, lives in you. And just as God raised Christ Jesus from the dead, he will give life to your mortal bodies by this same Spirit living within you.” (NLT)
1 Cor. 13:12 “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” (KJV)
1 Cor. 1:18 “For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.
Psalm 34:8 “Taste and see that the Lord is good. Oh, the joys of those who take refuge in him!” (NLT)
Psalm 100:4-5 “Enter his gates with thanksgiving; go into his courts with praise. Give thanks to him and praise his name. For the Lord is good. His unfailing love continues forever, and his faithfulness continues to each generation.” (NLT)

Lastly sisters, remember, whatever it is you’re facing this holiday season, God’s power is made perfect in weakness, (2 Cor. 12:9) so practice the craft of hope, and hang on! His grace is sufficient.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Cover photo by Nick Fewings on Unspalsh

Posted in Flash memoir, Spiritual Growth | Tagged #hopefortheholidays, #Hopeinchrist, #Hopeinjesus, #thanksgiving | 5 Comments

Ann C. Averill Author

Respect

My Ice Blue Secret

A Taste of Paradise

Our Eyes Are On You

Forgiveness and Freedom

Teach Us to Number Our Days

Christmas Should be Published

My Hallelujah Chorus

Introvert or Extrovert?

The Craft of Hope

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