C.A. Clark's Blog, page 2

Being a "Peter"

"And I also say to you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build My church, and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against it."
--Matthew 16:18
NKJ

Ever felt like you are carrying a heavy weight as you seek to follow God's calling? I often do-- not because God's calling is burdensome, but because I find myself so inadequate. So when I opened my email devotional today, I was so surprised and touched that I immediately cried. The reason is because just yesterday I was confessing to an older Friend my feelings of defeat, discouragement, inadequacy and fear-- mainly that I am horribly afraid of messing things up as my husband and I step out in faith to do something radically new: plant a Deaf Church in our city over 2 million people, home to some 59,000 Deaf and Hard-of-Hearing individuals.

In my conversation with my Friend, I told her that I felt like a Peter-- not the cleanest mouth, often saying the wrong things (and having to insert my foot into my mouth), and occasionally lopping off someone's ear (the more pressure I am under, the more directly blunt I tend to be--sometimes with not the best results). When I opened my email devotional today to this verse, I felt as if God was personally laying His hand on my shoulder and speaking directly to me, encouraging and comforting me in my weakness. And what He had to say is that (while I am a messy "Peter", and I DO need daily to submit myself to Him and His ongoing work of sanctification), that He IS the One building this Church--not us. So we can release that undue pressure, and simply cooperate with and yield to Him. But even more beautiful, is His promise that NOTHING and no one will be able to stand against the work that He is doing. In the original language, Jesus (when speaking to Peter), says: "I say that you are Petros [Little Rock], and upon THIS Rock [Petra--strong, massive rock; cornerstone--the Messiah] I will build My Church, and the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it"!
I'm so glad that our Savior is building upon Himself, and not us. Because I sometimes feel more like a Simon ["Shifting Sand'] in the midst of all of life's uncertainties and unexpected moments. But I thank and praise God that He is daily fashioning me and fitting me into place--a tiny stone, fitted perfectly (sometimes it feels imperfectly) with so many others that He is using to build His Kingdom here on earth. <3
This is such an incredibly beautiful promise full of hope, and I hope that it would blesses, strengthens, and encourages you too. <3 Whatever God has called you to do, He WILL help you to accomplish, in JESUS' Wonderful Name!

The Person In The Mirror

Most of us have chapter in our lives--a relationship, a love-- that leaves its mark in such a way that it casts long shadows upon all future seasons and chapters of our lives. We try to wash away the imprint, but the traces remain. We try to unhear the words that left scars running deep through the very fiber of our soul, years after the person who uttered them has completely disappeared from our lives. And, when it has come from a lover (especially a lover), somehow the impact runs deeper than any other.

Perhaps it's because of all the hopes, dreams, and plans for the future that suddenly lie in ruins by the wayside. A love that so saturated us, that the absence of it leaves our hearts a dry, barren wasteland. But perhaps even more, it is because to allow someone into our hearts at such an intimate level is to allow that individual to become our mirror. In the beginning, what they tell us they see about us is beautiful, wonderful, worthy, and desirable. But by the time they have left, all that is reflected back to us is the complete opposite. And so it's not just the love lost that creates such a scarring impact. It's the message left behind that haunts us, echoing into the hidden places of our souls... A message that says that we are no longer worthy or desirable, and certainly not beautiful or wonderful anymore.

By the time I was nearly 32, I had experienced a long string of heartbreaks--the pain always different and unique to the relationship itself. But still pain, nonetheless. And then, like a sudden burst of sunlight through blackened, overcast skies, he came in. Scott was devastatingly handsome--tall, athletic, with thick dark curly hair and the most shockingly beautiful blue eyes I had ever seen. He was light-hearted and jovial, and always had a ready smile and laugh. He was pursuing a career as a paramedic, but also had dreams of being a fire-fighter. And this wildly exciting, dashing and daring man wanted to pursue my heart... Me! Never before had I ever been so utterly in-love! I was star-struck, hardly able to believe my own luck to have landed such a catch. We both loved the LORD, went to Church, and wanted our lives to be used for the glory of Christ. He was PERFECT. Life with him was an adventure, and every day of it was fun, exciting, and new. I couldn't believe that such an incredibly handsome and wonderful man wanted me. Life was like a dream, and my greatest fear was that one day I would wake up to find that it wasn't real.

Our relationship was getting very serious, and we were discussing marriage and the next steps forward, as he prepared to move closer to me and my 7 year old daughter. But no matter how blissfully happy I told myself I was, there was something I couldn't quite put my finger on. I was told that I was too impatient and insecure, and so accepted the uncomfortable feeling as being "my problem", and something that I needed to work on.

I was visiting him and his family in Southern California, just weeks before his planned move to my home state of Oregon. Suddenly and without explanation, he broke off and ended our relationship. I was utterly bewildered and mystified as to the reason, until he began to share a dark secret--a fantasy life he indulged, one which involved other women. He was ravenous in his appetite to capture the desires and bodies of these other women. But it didn't end there. Methodically, he had mentally broken down every part of these various women, comparing each part to that of another woman--voices, hair, skin, facial structure, body parts. In his twisted thinking, he seemed to believe that somehow if he kept hunting, he would eventually find the perfect woman who encompassed every last flawless attribute which he found so alluring--the Ultimate Perfect Woman. If only he could obtain this fantasy, then (he had convinced himself) he would finally achieve true happiness and never be tempted to stray.

He blurted out his dark obsession to me while we sat on a busy street-front facing the beach. I thought I would vomit. My head was spinning. Everything I had known (or thought I had known) about our relationship was now exposed as nothing but a lie... None of it had been real. I really had been dreaming... only now I had awoken to find that I was living a nightmare.

Irritably Scott lashed out, as though somehow I was to blame and was responsible for both my own lack of physical perfection and my own heartbreak. I should have paid attention to the warning signs, the indications he had displayed for me. Somehow I had been expected to pick up on his hints, despite all the times he had told me that we were perfect together and that he felt God had brought us together. The bottom line was that, while he had greatly enjoyed the benefits and fun of our romance (coupled with my adoring affections), he simply had not been able to cease from his constant mental comparison of me to other women. And, by his standard of female perfection, he had deemed that I just was not worth making a life-long commitment to. Any physical, sensual charms I might have possessed he had long since tired of. He was bored with my looks, and (in his book) I just wasn't pretty enough to keep. So he was tossing me back so that he could continuing searching for bigger fish in an endless sea of exotic female specimens.

For days, weeks, and months afterwards I was left reeling. My thoughts spun relentlessly in a thousand different directions, spiraling out of control and dangling me over the edge. I sobbed and cried around the clock, curled up in the fetal position. My psyche felt ready to crack, as I tried to wrap my mind around what had happened and to make sense of it all. The hours stretched long, and all I wanted was to sleep so that I could forget that all my dearly cherished dreams that had dissolved into a living hell. At times I would find myself panting for breath. It felt as though my very heart had died inside my chest... I wanted to die... I begged God to let me die... And yet, ironically, my body kept on living, just as the sun continued rising and setting. The Heavens seemed silent to all my prayers, weeping, and groaning. And God felt distant and unconnected my pain and suffering. Worse, there seemed to be no purpose to it. And I found myself fearing that there would never be a purpose--for any of it.

And during those months that followed, I found myself in another struggle. Because it wasn't just the heartache that he had gone and taken his love with him. Almost for as far back as I could recall, I had struggled with self-image. The girl in the mirror never measured up, no matter how hard I tried. I could never seem to acquire all the necessary female curves, while still remaining taut and thin in other places. Dreams of a perfectly creamy, mocha complexion had long since given way to the reality of pastiness and freckles, with skin that was incessantly troubled, irritated, and acne prone. Even on my best days, there was no denying my wide-set facial structure and large teeth--nothing at all like the very desirable narrow, smaller features most often typified as "feminine". And the one dismally disappointing feature I disliked most of all--my nose. Unlike the models gracing the covers of magazines, I did not and would not ever possess a nose with a long, thin bridge over a graceful, elongated tip. I had a round nose--the kind sometimes referred to as a pug... In short, I was far from being "perfect". And, from the messages I had received, that meant that I would never be truly loved.

I found myself dreaming of the day when I might become independently wealthy enough to afford cosmetic surgery, and send all of my unlovable imperfections (as many as possible) straight into oblivion. I despised what I saw staring back at me in the mirror, pouring out self-hatred upon myself as though performing some sort of penance for my woeful lack. I felt trapped behind a face and inside a physical body that I loathed and despised, blaming my imperfections for my loss and heartbreak. Bitterness and resentment poisoned my thoughts, seeping into my soul, as I began comparing myself to every other woman I saw. Without quite realizing it, Scott's mental disease had become my own. And it was destroying me. Desperately I found myself wondering: Would I ever become Free from the need for Perfection?

The answer to that would come to me gradually... They say that Acceptance is the final stage of Grief. And yet it is the hardest part of Grief to get to. Many never find it, and remain ever cycling through the other stages of pain, anger, and denial, like a tired-out song playing on repeat. In a similar way, the inability to accept one's own self perpetuates pain, anger, and frustration. I found myself wondering if I would ever be happy again. And even more--would I ever be able to look in a mirror again, and actually accept (or even like) what I saw, without focusing on and despising my flaws?

I will never forget the day that I was crying out to God in my pain, disillusionment, and anger.

"Why did You make me this way? Why did You knowingly not make me into what I needed to be to obtain and keep his love?"

The response I got surprised me. Because in God's voice, I sensed His Own anger and pain for me in my situation:

"Everything that I have ever made, I sealed with the stamp of My Own approval and called it GOOD. And it was no less when I fashioned and made you--I called you GOOD. This man's corrupted and sinful perspective is neither a reflection of reality, nor is it how I see you. If you continue down this path, then your thoughts will produce nothing but bitterness and despair. You will stop living, and instead will become something twisted. Your words will not be life-giving--either to yourself, or to others--but instead will become poisonous to all who hear you... Choose instead to let ME be your mirror. You must choose to see yourself through what I have to say about you through My spoken Word, The Scriptures. Let My Words be your truth. Let My Words comfort, heal, restore, and guide you. And choose to forgive this man who is himself bound captive to the misery of sin. I made you to be you, not someone else. Just as I did not make you to live someone else's life. Give up this unhealthy need for comparison, and accept what is. Accept who you are. Accept who and what I have made you to be. Find Peace in that, and be FREE!"

It has been nearly a decade since that excruciatingly painful chapter of my life. But, by God's Grace, rather than letting it define me, I have been able to choose to let it free me. And layer upon layer, God's healing has been able to work its way through me. Today, at age 40, I am able to embrace who and what I am, including my imperfections. I am able to look into a mirror and like what I see, because I know that my Heavenly Father likes what He sees--and even better, because He made me that way, on purpose. What I cannot change or improve, I accept as part of His purposeful design. Even more importantly, I am able to accept, love, and embrace other women, and celebrate their individual uniqueness, without any painful comparisons. Just as I have chosen to allow God to be my Mirror, He helps me to mirror to other individuals the beauty, value, and worthiness that He Himself sees in each one of these precious lives which He created.

When I look back on that awful chapter of my life, I recognize that God used the horrifying words of that man (scarring, as they were) to help me finally deal with my own personal insecurities--to at last lay them to rest, and be truly FREE. Free to be ALL that He has called me to be, and to enjoy the life and gifts He has bestowed upon me. Free to help others do the same. I LOVE seeing all the women whom God has placed around me, and find myself celebrating each one of them and their uniqueness--from the differences in ethnicities, body shapes and sizes; to hair texture and color, facial features, skin and eye color--they are ALL so incredibly beautiful, exactly the way that God made them! And it is a gift and privilege to get to celebrate each one of them, and to encourage each one to be exactly who God made her to be. Not somebody else. Not another woman. Not another personality. Just her, as she is, being who God designed her to be, and doing what God has called her to do.

Today, I am a Women's Speaker and critically-acclaimed author. I launched my own jewelry business, and have undertaken dreams I never before dared to reach for. Today, I am loving the life that God has given me, and am living it to the fullest! The scars from the Past might still ache, but they no longer hold any power over me. They do not shape me, nor dictate my identity, worth, or value. They hold no sway over my Present or my Future--and from where I'm standing, the sky is the limit!

Several years after the trauma of my heartbreak with Scott, I met and married a different kind of man. The kind of man who loves my pale skin and finds freckles adorable. The kind of man who loved my soul over my body and looks, and who absolutely adores me, whether I'm thin or fleshy. The kind of man who flashes a broad smile and a flirty, "Hey, Gorgeous!" when I don't have a trace of makeup on, my hair is messy, my skin is broken out, and I haven't showered. God blessed me with a husband who is a man of vision and purpose, (rather than being given over to trivial, frivolous pursuits), and who does everything he can to spur me on in my own God-given purpose. Neither of us are "perfect", but by God's Grace we are imperfectly perfect for each other.

My husband isn't my mirror. And, thankfully, I no longer need a man to be my mirror. But God was faithful to bring along the kind of man who would properly reflect back to me what my Heavenly Father sees. And my prayer for other women--my sisters in Christ--is that they too would see themselves through their Father's eyes.

Keeping It Real

Today, my Husband and I celebrate 4 years since our public "I Do's". I have often shared the high-light reel of how we met (I was 3 years old, he was about 9-10 years of age) at a small home fellowship group. I was hiding behind my Mother's chair, and this older boy was trying to coax me to come out (apparently, I always played hard-to-get, even back then). Fast-forward several years. When I was 12, this exotically handsome Filipino "stud" showed up to help my Dad build our family home. In between helping my Dad, he volunteered to play many robust, sweaty games of tag with me and my gaggle of younger siblings (he didn't know then, but I was making him practice chasing me hard). At the end of the summer, he left to go to Bible College in Southern California. I was wistful, as I knew that I probably would not see him again (he was almost 19), and knew (even at age 12) that the odds of him staying single long enough for me to grow up and become "legal", weren't in my favor.

Nearly 20 years passed... I was 35 and a single Mom, when a sudden tragedy struck his family and re-introduced us. What started as an easy friendship quickly ran deep. But by that point I was very disillusioned and cynical, and years of working through Complex PTSD had left me with a LOT of baggage. So I kept him out at arms length. We had been talking every day for about a month, when, without telling me, he left to spend 3 days alone to pray and fast about our friendship, and to ask God to help him lay aside his personal feelings and become the kind of friend that I needed. And that was when I knew that he really was what I needed and wanted--the kind of man who would love unselfishly and faithfully, lift me up in prayer and pray HARD.

A little over a year later, we married in the presence of our (combined) 4 teenage children. There are many more surprisingly wonderful details of our love story, but I will save that for another time.

But here is where I want to get real. As I said before, these are the highlights. A real, and precious part of our story, to be sure--but that is not all that there is to it. And I never want to be guilty of hypocrisy or duplicity. I also don't want for any other struggling couple to hear this story and feel discouraged, because their own is not so colorful. So here is the candid truth:

The last 4 years of marriage have been anything but a cake-walk. In some ways, it's been an incredibly short period of time. In others, there were seasons that seemed to stretch on for forever, with no apparent end in sight. We started our lives together scraping our way out of the dire straights of real poverty. The desperate tears, sweat, and whispered prayers were real and raw. Added to that were mental illnesses, psychological scars, and spiritual & emotional immaturity that threatened to tear us apart--both as a couple, and as individuals. And then there was the challenge of trying to become a blended family and help our teenage children navigate their own floundering emotions and find their place in our new life together.

Whether we realized it or not back then, Lloyd and I each came into marriage with a TREMENDOUS amount of baggage--baggage that wouldn't go away or be ignored, and that continually tripped us up until we finally started the rigorous, unpleasant task of unpacking. In the process of facing each of our own unresolved hurt, anger, trust issues, etc. (extending back over each of our separate lifetimes) we found ourselves lashing out at and deeply wounding the other--in mortifying ways that we never knew we were each capable. There have fights that went through the roof, with a lot of shouting and swearing involved (from both of us). There have been words spoken rashly that have taken ages to heal, and some things which we thought would never heal. There have been tears-- a LOT of tears. There have been broken hearts and broken trust. And there has been the overwhelming shame, guilt, and remorse, as we each found ourselves wondering how two people who love each other so much could hurt each other so bad? Even worse, how could two people who love Christ and profess to follow Him, say and do such un-Christ-like and ungodly things to each other?
There have been seasons when it seemed like the vicious cycle would never end...

But slowly...ever so slowly... God has been patiently at work. Unwrapping one painful layer at a time, and exposing all the raw reality underneath. From death, new Life has sprung forth. And the life-lessons that He has taught us (and is continuing to teach us) are rare gems that I wouldn't trade for anything.

Today, as we celebrate 4 long-short years of marriage, I find myself dealing with mixed emotions. Half of me is brimming with joy and hopeful expectation for the future, and all that God has in store for us. There is a wonderful fruitfulness in our lives (individually and together) that God has accomplished, and I rejoice in that, along with all of the vision God has given to us as we launch into Ministry (me, as a Women's Writer and Speaker; and Lloyd, as a Marriage & Family Therapist and Pastor to the Deaf Community). Today, we LOVE doing life together and sharing all of these incredible things!

...But when you have really (REALLY) struggled in marriage (and especially when others have been made aware of your failings) sometimes there is still a tendency to feel so condemned for where you have fallen short, that you end up feeling that you don't actually have the right to celebrate anything. Not publicly or on social media, anyway. Thoughts come, such as "Will the people close to us (those few who KNOW what we have gone through) think we're fake? Does it look like we're pretending that the struggle was never there, or that we're trying to ignore (the embarrassing and egregious details of) our own history?"

I know (from painful personal experience) that the hardest thing to deal with when you are going through messy marital issues (or really anything that triggers strong emotion) is the sensation that others are disappointed in you, and/or shocked by the appalling wreckage that is your mess. The sensation that you both are the "problem child", amidst all the other smiling couples at Church on a Sunday morning. Or, even worse, the sinking feeling that other people have "adjusted their expectations" and don't really expect you (or your marriage) to make it, at all. And it's hardest not to give up, when you get the distinctest feeling that others gave up on you a long time ago (even if for justifiable reasons). And half of you wants to explode with all the reeling hurt and anger you have been carrying alone, while the other half of you feels suffocated into polite silence, until you just don't want to hang on anymore.

This is not where we are anymore, (thank God!) but for many individuals I have spent time with, I know that these same feelings and experiences are far too real. And for many, sadly, Church does not always feel like a safe place to go to or seek help in handling these issues.

Why do I share all of this? Because through the struggle of our growing pains together, my husband and I have developed a tender heart of compassion for other struggling couples and hurting marriages. And because for us, the couples who gave us that needed spark of Hope were the ones who were candid, vulnerable, and real--who didn't shy away from sharing the ugliness they themselves have waded through. The couples involved in ministry who teetered near the brink of divorce, before God pulled them back. The couples who have loved God and each other fiercely, even though they have fought fiercely together. The ones who continually prayed with and for us, and kept insisting that they believed in us, and the power of God at work through us, despite all evidence to the contrary. The ones who taught us to laugh at ourselves, and not take everything (every little slight, disappointment, and let-down) so seriously. The ones who kept speaking the power of God into our hurting mess, and who saw with eyes of Faith the things we, ourselves, could not see from the depths of our dark valley.

Today, Lloyd and I stand healed and whole by the saving power and blood of JESUS Christ. It's not that we don't still need healing in various ways, for different things (and we certainly do NOT have it altogether!). But when I see who we are today, in view of who we were before, the difference is Night-to-Day. We have been broken, and re-made. We have been humbled. God is continuing to strip us of our selfishness, and to make us gentle, loving, and compassionate partners, committed to serving God and one another. God has been toughening us up, forcing us to shed our wishy-washy ideals, pettiness, whimpiness, complaining and whining, and instead to grow some spiritual muscle and maturity. God has been teaching us how to fight the Good Fight (instead of always being victims), and to come out as "more than Conquerors". And with that obedience has come vision and purpose. Again, we definitely don't "have it all together". But what God has taught us on our Journey are things we earnestly want to share with others, so that the lives of others can be enriched and empowered, and so that has been damaged can be made whole.

So I share this for the hurting couple who feels alone in their struggle. I share it for ones who are battle-scarred, aching and angry. And especially for the ones who wonder if there is still any Hope left to cling to. We have been there... We feel your pain, and we understand... And we are here to walk beside you. To listen to your stories, the good and the bad... To pray with you. To encourage you. To laugh with you, and to cry with you. Because we know that the Blood of JESUS can do what no one else can do.

There is no Victory without Battle. If you are sweating, bruised, battered, and bloodied from your war, don't feel shame for it. Those are the tangible proofs that you have fought. Don't give up your fight. The Battle belongs to the LORD, and He WILL grant you Victory, in JESUS' Name.

"He makes ALL things Beautiful... in its time."
--Ecclesiastes 3:11

Choose Your Hill

There is a saying, “Choose which hill to die upon.” In other words, choose which battles you really want to fight, and that are truly worth sacrificing—even dying—for.

Early this morning (and somewhere between still half-asleep and slowly rousing myself) I suddenly heard a voice echo a phrase into my drowsy thoughts: “The person with a grateful heart only has to die once.”

Suddenly I was awake. What on earth did that mean? At first thought, it sounded completely nonsensical—exactly the sort of nonsense that my half-awake consciousness would come up with, before tumbling out of bed to go rummaging around in the kitchen in search of coffee, and a caffeinated shot of adrenaline to propel me forward into the coming day. But recently I had been earnestly asking for the LORD to cause me to hear His voice and to be obedient to His teachings, so (before completely casting the whole notion aside and dismissing it forever), I simply asked, “Is that You, LORD? If so, what is it that You are trying to teach me?”

The answer that immediately came to me astounded me—as much for its promptness, as for its insight:

“Whenever you allow yourself to coddle ingratitude—when you complain about circumstances or disappointments or people—you are speaking words that are the opposite of life-giving, to yourself, your situation, and to the people around you. Essentially, you are speaking words of death. And those thoughts and words fester inside your soul, spreading out and tangling themselves over everything—and everyone else—in your life. Not only that, but the more you focus upon your disappointments, failed dreams, and stinging hurts, the more they will seem to swarm about you, drawn to you like a magnet, each one of them a sharp, tiny incision upon your soul. And while one, a few, or even several small cuts may not have the power by themselves to drain and destroy you, they will (if you permit) continue to multiply, until it becomes a ‘death by a thousand cuts.’ ”

This phrase—“death by a thousand cuts” was a slow, strategic, sadistic form of torture and execution, once used by Imperial China. The slow, methodical slicing of victims was done with such precision that it would not kill quickly at all. Death would only come slowly, painfully, cut upon cut, over a lengthy course of time—until at last the victim completely bled out. Wikipedia says that in psychology, the phrase “death by a thousand cuts” describes “the way that a major negative change happens slowly, in many unnoticed increments, so that it is not perceived as objectionable."

Think about that for a moment. Slow, subtle, not the openly savage, swinging death-stroke you would expect… But inducing death, nonetheless. In the Chinese method, the purpose was not to kill the victim, until and unless he had done what his torturers wanted of him. Gradually, after the continually inflicted pain became unbearable, the victim would be much more pliable in the hands of his torturers, willing to do anything to make the pain stop... I wonder if Satan does not use this same tactic in our own lives as well--inflicting pain upon pain, until at last we find ourselves turning away from what is true and right, in order to obtain some relief... Like the Chinese torturers, he has no intention of actually letting us off and letting us live once we have yielded to him.

When I was younger, I remember watching how older Christian women had been shaped throughout the course of their lives through how they responded to pain, loss, disappointment, and hardship. Some had risen to the occasion, stretching up like flowers trying to catch those few rays of sunshine on an overcast day. Their determined efforts to seek and find Christ in the midst of their trials made them soft and tender, a delight to be around. Their candid transparency, beautiful vulnerability, and uplifting words (the result of carefully choosing and directing their thoughts) made them transform like roses bursting into bloom, full of sweet fragrance and perfuming the air all around them.

Contrariwise, I saw others who, sadly, had not responded this way at all. It all started out small—one tiny, almost imperceptible cut upon her soul. And, while she initially winced and flinched, she didn’t have time to stop and tend the wound and bring it to the Great Physician. Life was busy and had to go on. But a scar grew, and with it, a certain callousness. And, as life went on, day by day, and year by year, the tiny cuts continued to multiply—until there was no hiding the awful goriness of it anymore, from anyone. Open wounds seeped bloody poisons onto everything she touched. Some twenty years later she awoke one day to find her soul in a completely hardened, gnarled state. Far from being a well-tended and pruned rose bush planted in the sunlight, she was now cast aside and hidden in a darkened, desolate corner; a tangled bramble sprawled out in chaos every which way, choked out by thorns and weeds. Her relationships had become cold and stagnant; the perpetual onslaught of disappointment, spread carefully out over many years, had left her poisoned by bitterness and resentment—towards everyone, including God. She had never intended to become this way. She had started life full of high hopes, sunny dreams, and a vibrant vision. But she had failed to notice and properly tend to the weeds over-running the garden of her life, and to be guided by the Master Gardener. During times when He attempted to prune back and re-shape her, she resisted, perceiving those cuts and setbacks as Satan’s attempts to wound, maim, and thwart her. In the end, she wound up fighting both God and the Devil at the same time while wasting years in futility, never understanding why she neither experienced real life nor victory. And over time, all of her festering wounds and disappointments turned gangrenous, until her life embodied a living death. She was still breathing and functioning, but the soul had gone out of her and died.

The woman I have described is not just other women. That woman is me. Perhaps she is you too. The good news is that if you have received Christ and are a child of God, then your loving Heavenly Father refuses to give up on you. For as long as He permits you to live upon this earth, He will not relent in His efforts to prune and re-shape you. And, hard as this may be to grasp and to accept, sometimes the tools of His choosing include our disappointments. Our trials and hardships. Even our heartbreaks, and the terrible pain we thought we could never survive. If we are not careful to choose our thoughts, if we do not earnestly seek the Holy Spirit’s counsel in such moments, we might mistake the pruning of the LORD for Satan’s assaults upon our souls. We can miss seeing how God is seeking to carefully trim us back so that we can be stronger and more fruitful in the future, and we can instead perceive disappointments and circumstantial fallouts as hostile cuts. We can wallow in disappointments, until we become so passive and complacent that we are utterly useless. Or worse, we can even become poisonous tools of Satan, administering barbed cuts to others, and sowing destructive weeds in their gardens.

This morning, as I lay in bed still considering the words which the Holy Spirit had impressed on me, I realized that the antidote for each disappointment I face is a heart that is overflowing with praise and gratitude; by choosing to speak aloud and agree with what God, through the Scriptures, has to say about my situation, and what He has declared over my life through His Word. And while half the world around me was still silently slumbering, I determined then and there that I would not wait until I found myself caught up in the chaos and confusion of another unexpected turnout. I would purpose here and now that I would be speaking words of praise and gratitude, so that I would be prepared when the moment arises. I would choose to embrace and speak words of life, and I would refuse to allow words of death to have any more entrance into my thoughts, to tangle their thorns around my soul.

There will be many more battles for me to face, upon many more hilltops. But it is not necessary for me to die upon every one of them, when faced by a (seemingly) crushing defeat. I don’t need to die every day (or any day) that I am still living. And neither do you. Truly, the person with a grateful heart only needs to die once, when this mortal vessel is shed for an incorruptible and glorious body, and is traded for the joys of life in eternity, spent with JESUS in Heaven.

“But the word is very near you, in your mouth and in your heart, that you may do it. See, I have set before you today life and good, death and evil, in that I command you today to love the LORD your God, to walk in His ways, and to keep His commandments, His statutes, and His judgments, that you may live and multiply; and the LORD your God will bless you in the land which you go to possess.”
—Deuteronomy 30:14-16



--C.A. CLARK, (c)

Birth Pangs

"I feel as though I have been in birthing labor," a friend quietly told me, "And when you're in labor, you only have a few [qualified] people with you in the birthing room."

Hope was a friend I had known since high school. Always animated and upbeat, always cheering and encouraging others on, always a positive word or an uplifting verse to share. She had been there for me during some devastating seasons of my life, her faith-filled voice on the other end of the phone pouring out healing balm onto my hurting soul. We had kept in touch here and there, but it had been ages since we had actually gotten together and seen each other face to face. A holiday vacation trip back home, however, had left me feeling strongly impressed that this time, I had to connect with her--in person. What started out as a simple coffee-date to reconnect and catch up quickly turned into something much deeper, in a conversation that lasted for hours and well into the night. She was still full of faith and encouragement, but this time she was showing signs of wear, as she slowly, bravely, began to expose all of the painful vulnerability and raw hurt that lay behind her upbeat smile. I was honored by her candor and transparency, humbled to be able to share with her in her struggle and suffering, and awed by the wisdom of her words... Words that I well understood, on an emotional and spiritual level, as well as from simple human experience.

My mind traveled back to my own birthing experience in a New York hospital 15 years earlier. I remember having to fill out paperwork before being admitted, in between gasping and panting with contractions... contractions that were getting stronger and stronger, until the excruciation all but knocked me off my feet, as staggering pain shot through my back and spine. I didn't know it then, but I was in the throes of back-labor--reputably just about the most painful form of labor known to women.

After I was escorted into the birthing room, I found myself in a sudden terror-struck panic. How much more pain could I stand? How much worse would it become, and for how long it would last?
There was something incredibly vulnerable and humiliating about this kind of suffering. I had never before found myself in such uncontrollable agony that I was left gasping and sobbing in front of total strangers, and (for some reason) I felt suddenly ashamed of my lack of dignified composure. Added to this was the humiliation of being naked and exposed, with a number of individuals (whom I had never met before in my life) suddenly staring up my exposed backside. At one point (in between contractions) I found myself actually apologizing to the nurse on duty for my undignified crying. Her response convinced me that Nazis still exist, and that some do in fact work in hospital wards:

"Then don't cry," she returned bluntly, without so much as looking up.

Suddenly my former feelings of embarrassment washed away into anger. Throughout the following hours, she continued to insult me with her complete indifference, coupled with her trite, stinging dictations, berating me for not doing better. Added to this was the lack of understanding I received from my (then) husband. He was excitedly chatting up his brother in Greece, informing him that the happy event was on its way, and he was about to become a father. He was completely out of touch with my pain. Then he shoved the phone in my direction, prompting me to "talk" with his brother.

"No!" I gasped, shaking my head vigorously and gripping the side of the bed while panting and sweating hard with contractions.

His smile disappeared into a disconsolate pout, as he begrudgingly got off the phone and then retreated into a dejected, self-indulgent sulk. Inwardly I felt enraged. I wanted to grab both him and the Nazi nurse by the lapels, and give them a taste of what I was feeling--perhaps along with a knuckle sandwich to keep them both from opening their ridiculous mouths again.

Throughout the long, wearisome hours of a sleepless night, I found myself praying that the delivery doctor would not be so heartless. My prayers were answered. The woman doctor who entered the following morning was like a breath of fresh air--empathetic, encouraging, and an over-all ray of sunshine.

"Come on! You can do it!" She cheered, as labor stretched on with no apparent end, and I found myself collapsing into exhausted sobs.

My baby girl was born at 11:15 the following morning. I was too exhausted to hold her, and could barely keep my knees up as they stitched me back together. I didn't know at the time, but I had lost an alarming amount of blood--enough to have the medical team sufficiently worried. Throughout the next day as I recovered, I was shocked at how little my own body obeyed what my brain willed for it to do. I was constantly shaking with chill, and my limbs and fingers felt as though they had suddenly turned into the consistency of jello. I could not even go to the bathroom without assistance, and every part of my quivering, trembling frame felt like a 90-year old woman.

Over the following days some of the medical staff were kind, understanding, and helpful--others were not. There were nurses who closely monitored new mothers, eyeing them suspiciously, ready to pounce over any possible indication that she might be negligent, unloving, or in any way unfit, and perhaps should have a note written in her file for Child Protective Services to pay a home visit. After days of hearing high-strung nurses shout and make accusing lectures, I felt as though I had somehow wound up in the insane asylum--what sort of establishment was this?! Was I in a hospital recovery ward, or a police interrogation holding cell? I felt that I would have a nervous breakdown if I did not leave as quickly as possible, and all I could think of was getting my new baby safely home and away from the "wardens".

I was such a nervous wreck that by the time I got finally got inside the security of my own house, I collapsed on the couch and burst into tears. My husband responded with irritated disgust:

"What is wrong with you?!" He demanded reproachfully. "You just became a new mother to a beautiful baby girl--you ought to be ashamed of yourself for acting this way!"

My head was swimming with all the lectures and accusations I had endured over the previous four days and nights. I wasn't sorry to be a new mother--I was overjoyed, and so overwhelmingly in-love with this precious little life that was mine to hold, nurture, and care for. Why was everyone around me so quick to judge and assign motives, thoughts, and behaviors that were not there, and which had nothing to do with reality? Why was everyone talking, but no one listening?

Going back to how I started, with my friend's statement regarding her present spiritual and emotional condition--I understood by experience the utter chaos and destructive toll that can happen in a hospital--particularly the birthing unit--when the individuals who are there to "help" are merely and mechanically "qualified" for their job, but utterly lack any sort of emotional understanding or empathy for the human beings they have been trained and enlisted to "help". And that brings me to an important metaphor: the Church has often been described as a Hospital for the sick, wounded and dying. Ironically, the Church has also been labeled as the only army that shoots its own wounded. The sad truth is that, despite all best intentions (the Nazi nurses I encountered were very well self-assured regarding their own good intentions) sometimes the Church inadvertently euthanizes the sick, wounded, and dying who come through their doors seeking help. Instead of easing pain, they shame you for feeling it. Instead of offering help, they point out the ways that you should have tried harder, done better.
Instead of respecting your vulnerability, they leave you feeling more naked and exposed than before. It is a sad reality that often those "qualified" do not always listen to better understand and to help, but instead to find symptomatic evidence to support their own preconceived diagnoses. Such individuals tend to care less about being there waiting with you through the tears and dark nights of the soul, so much as to write you a pat-answer prescription, refer you to a 10-Step program, or even send you elsewhere... I know, because I have been there too.

To anyone out there who has experienced the pain, shame--even trauma--of this, I deeply sympathize. I also would like to offer a few words of hope and encouragement. If you have found yourself in the vulnerable position of needing help, only to find that the ones you turned to for help were anything but helpful, please don't give up. Understand also that their actions and responses are not necessarily a reflection upon you and your circumstance, but may have everything to do with their limited experience and vantage point. Please also try to understand (I know this is a stretch) that even if their behavior may come across as unloving, that does not always necessarily mean that they do no care about you. I have often encountered individuals whose words and responses stung with seeming indifference and lack of loving concern. I could easily write them off as "Un-Christian" or tell myself that they simply don't care. Yet, when I look more closely, I realize that (with perhaps a few exceptions) most people DO truly care--they simply may be overwhelmed and confused as to how best to help. Their befuddled efforts are not the result of a lack of caring, but more a lack of experiential understanding (empathetic understanding that can ONLY come with unique experience). They may be struggling through their own confusion as to how best to help or advise you, and might even feel inwardly ashamed that they don't have answers to provide. Ask for God's help to extend forgiveness and grace; and then (with God's help) give to them the gift of empathy and understanding, which they were not able (adequately) to convey to you. If necessary, it is okay to let them go--just don't discontinue seeking help and guidance. Don't allow the short-comings of a few (or even several) individuals to steer you away from the help, healing, and wholeness that you need. Continue (prayerfully) to seek out experienced individuals who can lend truly insightful perspective, wisdom, experience, and encouragement. Seek mentors, not buddies. After all, if your life depended upon qualified and timely medical assistance, you would seek out the best qualified experts to be there in the hospital with you--not a buddy who commiserates with you in your pain, by merely offering sympathetic commentary regarding your circumstance. Like my friend, you must be tenaciously choosey, wise and discerning regarding whom you allow to be there with you in the birthing room, while your soul is in labor.

Lastly, I would leave you with this: if you find yourself Today in unbearable emotional pain, God has promised you this directly from His Word:

Isaiah 66:9 NCV
In the same way I will not cause pain without allowing something new to be born,” says the LORD. “If I cause you the pain, I will not stop you from giving birth” ...says your God.

Trust that, while others may have contributed to your suffering--even made things worse-- that the LORD will not allow it to all be in vain. Trust that the same Savior Who is at work in you, is also at work in the ones who wronged you. Trust that the same JESUS Who brought the dead back to life will be your great Healer, too. Trust that on the other side of this agony and (seemingly endless) suffering, that God will cause you to give birth to something beautiful, precious, and beyond amazing, to His praise and glory. Trust that He will again give you strength, hope, and joy overflowing... Because He will... in His good time. But for now, pain is a part of both your birthing and your healing. So while you are hurting, have grace with yourself--and don't allow Satan to condemn, belittle, or shame you for the painful travail you are experiencing during this "birthing" process. It is alright--even necessary, sometimes,--for you to place boundaries around yourself--not everyone has earned the right to be in the birthing room with you; as such, you owe no one the right of admittance. Surround yourself with people who will help and encourage you through the pain, and who will help point you to the sunrise on the other side of your night. Pray, and ask God to send you the sort of experienced, caring "doctors" who (like my own), will roll up their arm sleeves to labor with you, while cheering you on:

"Keep pushing forward! You can do this! You're gonna make it!"

God is faithful, and He will provide. And one day, after you are on the other side of this pain, you will find that He has used all of this to make you into a wise, understanding, compassionate healer for others --hurting souls who, like you, are laboring through these dark nights of the soul.

--C.A. Clark

The Devil's Bait

One of the oldest tactics in guerrilla warfare is to send "bait" to lure the enemy into a trap. Often this "bait" will take the most innocent, innocuous form possible: a victim in dire need of help. The intended outcome is that the advancing troops will see the "victim", and be lured by the compassionate desire to "help", only to be fall prey to merciless attack and slaughter. It's lowdown, dirty, and there is absolutely nothing fair about it--it's used because it's effective, swift, and it WORKS... usually without any survivors left to tell the tale.

Take a moment to transfer that concept to spiritual battle. Because in my lifetime, I have witnessed multiple battle-seasoned Christians--even outstanding pastors--fall prey to this dirty tactic of the Devil. Our enemy well knows our (God-given) desire to bring the lost into the fold, and into the safety of the arms of the Good Shepherd--and he is mercenary in using this desire against us, to our great downfall. A needy, broken woman in "desperate need" comes their way, imploring for help. And little by little, like a frog slowly boiling to death in stew pot, they take the bait. They might have started off very well intended--they saw a need, and they rose to the occasion to meet it. And then before they knew it, the "victim" had so consumed their lives, that they abandoned all else--even Christ. I have seen pastors abandon their wives and children, claiming that they felt "called" to go and "save" some woman, whom Satan had sent as bait into their congregation. I have seen others abandon God's plan for their life for a homosexual relationship, because they felt such great "compassion" and "love" for a hurting individual, who "desperately needed their help".

Last night I found myself having a very sober conversation with my teenage children:

"At some point in your lifetime," I told them, "You will meet someone who DESPERATELY needs your help... God has not sent them, and God has not called you to save them. That is a tactic of the Devil, designed to make you fall. There is a fine line between being 'Jesus with skin on', versus taking on the role of the Savior. We are called to POINT people TO Christ; we are NEVER called to BECOME Christ."

To take on the lofty role of the Savior is to exalt ourselves to the place of God Himself, and to foolishly stroke our own egos. It is idolatry, mixed with human pride and arrogance. To take such a sacred mantle upon myself is to ascribe weakness to the saving power of Jesus Christ, and in effect to say that He, Alone, is not able to save. That is blasphemy. And, in the same breath, to take on such a position, is also to say that I view myself as All-Powerful in "saving" others. That is also blasphemy.

Beware the pitfalls which the Enemy of your soul has laid. Beware the troubled "victims" in your path--some have been sent directly of Satan himself to make a victim fatality out of YOU.


--C.A. CLARK

A Message for These Times

"Fear not [there is nothing to fear], for I am with you; do not look around you in terror and be dismayed, for I am your God. I WILL STRENGTHEN and HARDEN YOU to DIFFICULTIES, yes, I will help you; yes, I will hold you up and retain you with My [victorious] right hand of rightness and justice." --Isaiah 41:10

This has been my life-verse (literally) since the day I was born. Ironically, however, it was not until the last couple years that I noticed the part in which God says, "I will strengthen and harden you to difficulties..." Apparently a lot of translations leave that bit out, but you can read it in the Amplified Version. I'll be honest with you--the first time I read that I got cold feet. Why? Because it didn't fit with my notion that God would rush in and save me out of my trials. No, instead, it was promising that God would lead me right through the thick of it--and my weak will found itself quivering at the thought of fighting my way through battles. But as time when on (and difficulties continued to present themselves in various forms), I found myself doing more introspection. Did I really want to remain frightened over the unknowns, or to become a Warrior--to be, as God promises, "MORE than a Conqueror"? I was in the throes of anxiety one day, when I found myself praying, "God I want that--I'm tired of being overwhelmed by fear and uncertainty. I'm tired of my own faithlessness. I'm ready for you to harden me to difficulties, and to make me into a fearless Warrior. Please do in me what You have promised to do."

From that day on, I saw God begin to work a change. Things that had daunted me and that I had shied away from out of personal insecurity, I now ran towards with fearless anticipation. I'm not saying that I don't still wrestle with doubts and anxieties. But what I am saying is that I've seen God working in me to overcome, despite these.

For many Christians here in America, we have grown fat and lazy due to our affluence. Even our "impoverished" areas are nothing in comparison to the truly destitute and impoverished in 3rd World Countries elsewhere. I know, because I've seen with my own eyes. Here, we cry about our misery because the government doesn't pay us a living for no greater reason than by virtue of our very existence. Talk about weak and apathetic! Amidst all of our whining and self-pitying and demands, we truly have no idea how good we have it in this great and wonderful Country of ours. Previous American generations understood this concept, and they fought, bled, and died to preserve the safety and freedoms we so absent-mindedly take for-granted. Today's generation, by contrast, is frivolous, mocks our military and police force, demands that the government provide free narcotics and contraceptives, and expects to be spoon-fed while spending their days lounging on the couch in front of the X-Box. Their idea of "heroism" is living a virtual reality by playing video games such as Guitar Hero, or else screaming their right to murder and exterminate their unborn children.

So here's where all of this brings me: as much as I would like to see life return to normal (in the sense that I'd again like to enjoy better financial security, mingle socially with friends and peers, go to that restaurant, or take a day trip somewhere), I'm honestly not praying for God to speed up the process for America to "get back to normal". Why? Because America's "normal" has become extremely self-indulgent and pathetic. Instead, I'm praying for God to do the work which He originally intended through all this chaos: to turn our eyes and our hearts back to Him, and to take us from being weaklings to becoming Warriors again.

So buckle up, America! Because God's plan through all of this is not to remove your problems and make life cushy for you again. Instead, He's about to toughen you up by helping you shed pettiness and narcissism, and instead learn how to become a Fighter--along with what things are truly worth fighting for.

(*Side-note: things worth fighting for do NOT include toilet paper, or 60-inch flat screens on Black Friday. Just saying.)

A Word About Adlai

A while back a book club (which had read my book) invited me as a guest for their discussion. Something which one woman pointed out (and rightly so) was her frustration with the protagonist's unrequited pining and lingering infatuation over a love interest who had (quite clearly) moved on. Why would I have my leading character demonstrating such overt, naive immaturity? The answer was simple: because I've known too many girls--and even middle-aged women--who have done the same. It was never my intention to present a flawless, enwisened-beyond-her-years heroine with an omniscient sense of direction, and an eagle-eye perspective for where her life is meant to go . Because (let's face it) most couldn't relate to having-it-all-together, anyway. So instead, I created a character with a woeful amount of immaturity and insecurity, who has become accustomed to fear and loss, and therefore allows for her decisions to be led by her own emotions and fight-or-flight impulses. But, thanks to the loving guidance of a few seasoned mentors Providence deems to send her way, she (ever so slowly) begins to learn and grow past her infantile grasp of life and love. It is a painfully slow process, I will grant you--but it is my hope that the wisdom and experience offered by her advisors will help make up for this. My books weren't intended for those of us who have grown past those trying years, but for the young woman presently caught in the confusing chaos of try to find her identity, her God-given purpose, and this mind-boggling, elusive thing called True Love.

And to all my readers, thank you for your avid interest, input, and very fine support!

My Life, Uncensored —C.A. CLARK

I can still remember, as a little girl, rushing to the movie theaters with my father on a weekend afternoon, to watch Disney fairy tale classics such as Snow White, Cinderella, and Sleeping Beauty. We didn’t have television, and I savored every moment of these rare, delicious treats—these journeys deep into the heart of imagination. The color, the vivid imagery, the magic… to my child’s eye, there was nothing like it. And of course, there were the villains—dark, formidable, and terrifying—and yet it was their very efforts to thwart the heroines that paved the way for destiny.

Although movie-watching was something we seldom did, my mother was an avid reader, and strongly encouraged literature through read-aloud times, and frequent trips to the library. I was told that I could take as many books as I could carry, and I made good on that score. I remember those lazy days spent out in the sun, surrounded by the piles of books I’d managed (with much sweaty labor) to carry back. And the books that were my favorites always held these things in common: elaborate drawings, capturing dazzling beauty and magic; and unrequited love triumphing against evil, despite all the dangers and harrows set against it. Because if there were two things in life that I craved, for as far back as I can remember, it was beauty, and the desire to experience this wonderful curiosity called “being in-love.”

… How ill-prepared I was for reality.

I remember (as a young woman) hungering to hear those words “I love you” spoken by the man to whom I had given all my affections. It would take years for me to learn that this phrase far too often proved as hallow as the men lip-synching it, for the benefit of capturing the hearts—and bodies—of gullible girls such as myself. I found myself travelling the world and across continents, searching in vain for the adventure and love I secretly yearned for. At age 23, I was in New York, completely disillusioned. And the wake of that prepared me for a dangerous gamble. Hassan was from Egypt—an exotic land rich with culture and history, and he spared no expense in his efforts to woo and attain me. And though I knew little of him, his personable, easy manner, gregarious smile, and apparent earnestness won over my doubts. In a few short months, a ring was on my hand.

My premature trust proved itself all too soon, following my pregnancy with our first child. In his eyes, I was now property. Childish temper tantrums quickly escalated into threats to commit violence. As an American woman, I rebelled—I was free born and independent, and knew better than to kowtow to some primitive notion of my “place” as a female. But this did not quell the fear I felt when answering back resulted in a lit cigarette being held to my eye, as my husband threatened to burn my eyeball out of its socket. Casually he informed me that he could and would kill me, if he felt my actions ever warranted such consequences. I was horrified. Day in and day out, I dealt with a constant assault upon my mental, emotional, and psychological faculties. With manipulative skill he would whiplash me, causing me to question everything I thought I knew. I began to feel confused, and found myself no longer able to remember what was occurring from one day to the next. Depression and anxiety overwhelmed me, to the point that I felt myself tipping off a precipice towards a nervous breakdown. My husband mocked me for my pathetic, emotional weakness, and advised me to have myself removed to the care and oversight of a psychological facility. My fears regarding his threats (according to him) were nothing more than hysteria, on my part. And he deemed me unfit to manage tasks such as holding a job or driving, as he demanded that I give up both my employment and my vehicle, and resign myself to the house. Despite all of this, my greatest fear was of what might become of my infant daughter. I well knew at that point that Hassan was seeking to build a case against me by making me appear to be an unfit mother, so that he could permanently wrest all custody of my child from me. And he had already spoken of his desire to return to his homeland. Conversations with his brother consisted of joking comments regarding my infant daughter’s betrothal to his young nephew. He also informed me of his wish to have her female parts mutilated by removal, to ensure her sexual chastity and obedience in future. His views and intentions left me chilled to my core. I had to find a way to escape and get my daughter away to safety.

I began to play a dangerous game. By day, I was secretly making phone calls and building connections… planning. By night, I was the dutiful wife, acting out the role of pretending to be happy in a marriage that was nothing more than a facade. I could feel my husband’s suspicions mounting, along with his hatred, as he would question and cross question me in endless interrogations. Then one afternoon, it all erupted, as he spewed vulgarity, insults, and profanity all over me. The look in his eye told me that to him, I was little more than an insect he could crush under his heel. Callously he announced that he was no longer interested in the marriage, and told me that I could walk out the door. I knew that he had no intention of actually letting me leave—at least, not with my child. With those words still ringing in my ears, he left to go to work.

I could feel panic setting in. My plane ticket was not for several weeks out—what was I to do? Frantic, I called my mother. I could feel the silent fear in her voice, even though she spoke in a steady tone: “Get off the phone NOW. Get packed. Get out!”

I scurried around our small apartment, packing. By nightfall I had everything in my car, together with my baby girl, and we were gone. It would be a few more hours before my husband would return... By then, the house was empty.

The following days were a blur of exhausted activity, preparing to fly back to my home state of Oregon. Then at last we were off, though not quite home free. Weeks turned into months, then almost a year, as I waited with bated breath for the divorce settlement--and, I prayed, sole custody of my child--so that I would never have to fear her abduction to some far-off country in the Middle East. I didn’t know then what the symptoms of post-traumatic stress were, but I was already plunged head-long into them, and sometimes it seemed as though I couldn’t get to air above the crashing waves. Fear, exhaustion, and desperation pushed me to the brink—to the point that I despaired of life. And in between were the periodic adrenaline rushes, when fight-or-flight instincts ran amuck with my thoughts and emotions. Confusion, paranoia, and rage permeated, as I lashed out at anyone I supposed posed a possible threat. Nightmares haunted my dreams, as I found myself screaming with visions of my child being ripped from my arms by my ex-husband, her sweet tiny face disappearing forever.

At last I sought psychological help through therapeutic counseling. And in those sessions, I poured out my tormented feelings of stupidity, weakness, ignorance, inefficiency, anger, and self-loathing. Intellectually and instinctively, I had known from the start every time something had felt “off”. Yet I had chosen to ignore my instincts.

More discouraging still, was the reality that there was nothing unique about my story. The number of broken female survivors of abuse were more than could be counted, and our stories, though varying, were much the same in summary. They all echoed of pain, shame, guilt, and defeat, as we struggled to carry on and affirm our own self-worth, pull double-duty as parents, and feed and shelter our children—usually with little or no child-support coming in. And then there was the constant wondering: How much has my mistake harmed my child? Will I ever be whole enough to be all that she needs me to be?

It was over the course of this journey through hurt towards healing, that I heard one of the most powerful phrases that was to change my life: “You can either be a victim, or you can be a victor. But it is impossible to be both.” I knew that I had a choice to make. I could either stay caged behind the bars of my fear, using blame as a crutch, or I could choose to embrace the lessons learned from my follies. And even more—perhaps I could help others to overcome as well.

I started spending time with and mentoring younger women and girls. And in their voiced yearnings and stories, I saw myself as an unseasoned, immature girl lacking in worldly wisdom. As I looked back over my life, I saw that the paths I had chosen had started with naivety in my formative teenage years. And while craving romance was natural, my misconception of love had led me into a web of lies, the dangers of which I had narrowly escaped. At that time, I had already been piecing together the outline of a book series and had begun writing the first book. What if I could speak to young women through the voices of my characters, and help them to avoid the pitfalls I had stumbled into? What if the central character was a young girl who embodied all of us—our desires, our fears, our immaturities, and greatest hopes and aspirations? What if I could help them escape into another world—one that offered them the brush of whimsy and weaving of magic that we all crave—all the while taking them on a journey into their very own souls, causing them to find their own inner strength and courage to face heartache and difficulty in the real world?

Writing a book series as single mother was easier said than done. I struggled through many years of great poverty (and a few more heartbreaks) as I battled to support myself, raise my daughter, and (perhaps) take another chance on love. But in writing my books, I found myself challenged. I was growing up, shedding naivety, and learning to embrace the life I had been given. I was learning to seize hold of the opportunities granted, rather than just waiting for dreams to magically come true. I was finding my own strength, my own voice, and investing in myself so that I could enrich the lives of others… To this end, my book series, The Crest of The BEAST is dedicated.



*Critically acclaimed Author C.A. Clark (“Charlie”) married her childhood crush in 2017. Her husband, Lloyd, is her greatest supporter and fan, and likes to brag that very few men get to marry their favorite author. Together they have a blended family of four children, and know that part of the secret of a happy marriage is learning to fall in-love with the same person over and over again.

No Regrets

In recent times I've noticed with grave concern and that there's been a surging tide of fallen-away (former) Christian believers--both on well-known platforms, and among personal acquaintances. Men and women, who once stood strong for Christ and Biblical principles, are now claiming disenchantment with their former beliefs, and renaming themselves: "enlightened", "illuminated", "under deconstruction", or "no longer Christian, in the traditional sense". In place of the values they once cherished and stood for, they are indiscriminately embracing virtually everything that both Christ and the Apostles warned the Church about. As I read about the latest "fall-outs", I find myself grieved--not just for them, but for everyone joining in with them. I also find myself shaking my head in wonder and astonishment--how could they not see through the facade of glamour and illusions of happiness that they are chasing after?

Allow me to provide some context: I am not speaking from an unblemished past. Rather, it is the shame and pain of my past that has always shown me my dire need for Christ and His Lordship over my life. There was a time in my younger years, when I allowed restlessness and lack of fulfillment to open doors into "forbidden pleasures". But, like any experience, the novelty eventually wore off; and, in place of the happiness I sought to attain, I found myself instead surrounded by the stark ruins of my choices. Instead of a Paradise, I found a graveyard. Rather than being alive, my Soul felt as if it were tasting Death. The Scriptures are right when they say, "Do not be deceived; God is not mocked: what a man sows, that he will also reap." (Galatians 6:7)

I still vividly remember the shame slowly descending into an uncontrollable spiral of endless weekend nights spent in a drunken stupor. I remember the deep regretful remorse of waking up in bed with a man to whom I was not married. I remember the unspoken shame of my illegitimate pregnancy. I remember the loneliness and isolation that accompanied realizing that I was now a stranger to individuals who had once been my closest friends and mentors. And I remember craving the Presence of Christ, together with His holiness--then banished from my life by my own dissolute choices. I remember feeling the dreadful fear that clutched at me in the night--it was more than just a physical darkness; there was an evil presence lurking--a spiritual entity of malevolent intent--that would cause fear to well up inside me during the night hours. And then there was the silent, growing terror that became my new reality as my premature marriage revealed itself as a web of lies and deceit, masking the face of psychopathic abuse and threats of violence and murder. Deep shame, constant fear, and blind confusion ran with me as I fled, running away in the night with my tiny daughter... And then there was the painful shame and isolation of starting over again, alone, with greater burdens and responsibilities than I had ever had before--and the guilty knowledge that I had brought it all upon myself, in my quest to "find myself".

To those disenchanted former believers out there, I would say this: after your choices have created a life for you that you never before intended, I pray that you remember this: remember that the same compassionate, humble Jesus who restored a back-sliding Peter, is the same Christ who can breathe life back into you. And while I ache for the painful consequences which you do not yet see, their purpose will be to point you back to the One Who created you--Whose very breath is in your lungs. There will be struggle--lots and lots of painful, back-breaking struggle. But Christ will be there to help you, if you let Him. And the same God who made bitter waters sweet, can do the same with your life. What is ugly, marred, and shameful, He can turn into a crown of beauty and grace. He can turn the reputation of a self-indulgent prodigal into a legacy of honor and faith.
Let me tell you what I have been so blessed to experience, after returning to Christ:
The incredible, blessed Peace which surpasses all understanding, in the midst of chaos. God's gracious, miraculous provision when I most needed it--and least deserved it. Great hope and restored faith, in place of despair and hopeless futility. Honor, in place of shame. Restored holiness, in place of depravity. Strength of character and integrity, in place of spineless wavering and double-mindedness... And together with that, the beauty of living WITHOUT Regret. And let me tell you from experience:

I have never regretted acting with integrity and honesty, and doing the hard work necessary, rather than compromising for a "quick-fix" short-cut. I have never regretted living in a way that helps my precious children see Christ in me, and helps point them back to their Maker. I have never regretted the peace and tranquility of the LORD's Presence, that accompanies obedience to the leading of His Holy Spirit. I have never regretted living under the constraint of the Holy Spirit, instead of the uncontrollable dictates of my fleshly inclinations. I have never regretted letting the LORD grow me into a woman of chastity and honor, from the place of a wayward, weak-willed girl desperate to fill the void. I have never regretted waiting until my wedding night to be sexually intimate with the man I am now blessed to call my Husband (and I know that he feels the same way). And I have never regretted the beauty and peace of living a life to the glory and honor of Christ... No regrets...Not. Ever.

Will you be able to say the same?