A continuation of my attempt to finish a book I started in December 2017. Posting chapters in an attempt to organize it all and finish.
I don’t want to talk about this. But it’s an important part of the story that I could but think maybe I shouldn’t rush and gloss over like I’ve pretty much always done before. So…
I really tried. To go back to Manna House and go with the flow. I really wanted it to work out. And I only had a few months left until December 19th. When the man I’d never met was going to come into church and whisk me away. Even though I didn’t know his name or what he looked like.
But, God. With the information I was learning from the codependency class and my research on spiritual abuse, I was presented with invitation after invitation to confirm my worth, my value. Stand up for myself and most importantly for the truth. Of God’s Love number one among them.
Life was so busy that I don’t remember the timeline perfectly. But the gist of it is that I felt like despite my best efforts to avoid conflict, I’d repeatedly get cornered and forced to make a difficult decision to go along with something I didn’t stand for or walk away.
At least one or two additional times before I finally left for good, I’d get the courage to leave but then after the initial relief of freedom, the condemnation would swoop in and I’d let the guilt send me crawling back. Hoping being the bigger person would inspire long-lasting change in others. But it was always short-lived. And a really unhealthy pattern had been developing. It wasn’t beneficial to anyone or the mission. In my opinion.
But I was the Never Give Up girl. That’s where I was coming from. So it would take a lot more before I finally quit.
Some friends I met long before, while working at The Scooter Store in New Braunfels, would welcome me in at least twice before I’d get the courage to finally step down from Manna House. And God knew what He was doing because one of them, Jeremiah, was from California and more than familiar with Calvary Chapels. Still believing in God, but no longer attending. And his wife, Lydia, a dear friend who would not hesitate to jump in and fight on my behalf while others preferred to keep their hands clean, was raised with a similar background as mine.
So they both spoke my language. And basically were the only ones who knew even a little about all that was going on. Because even though they didn’t go to church, Life and Love in them was undeniable – obviously by their immense generosity and patience with me. So despite my intentions to not speak of anything that was happening, I’d find my usual restraint fade away when they welcomed me.
I’d run away to their house for a few days. And I didn’t have to explain all the nuances of everything that was happening. They totally understood. Whereas others meant well, but doubt would creep up when the others encouraged me because I wasn’t sure they could completely understand or relate.
But because they spoke my language, I could hear Lydia and Jeremiah when they’d mirror back to me that I wasn’t out of line for suspecting that there were issues greater than just me at Manna House and Calvary Chapel San Antonio. And when they’d validate my suspicions that a healthier reality existed out there that I could choose to partake in, I’d feel such a relief in the freedom of those first few hours with them at their house. Feeling like I was beginning to finally breathe again.
But my entire life the barage of lies had conditioned me to be very uncomfortable with joy. Like happiness was something for immature ignorant people to indulge in. Too good to be true. Even scary. An illusion that could be too easily snatched from and used against you.
And then more importantly, what if I was giving up everything that had been the best I ever knew for some stupid foolish hope? What if it was true that I had to settle for everything Manna House and Calvary Chapel San Antonio asked of me? And instead threw it all away? That would confirm every bad thing anybody ever said or did to me. If I was wrong.
Those thoughts would hound me. I didn’t even think to resist them very much because my knee-jerk reaction, since they had accompanied me from my earliest youth, was to accept the guilt as gospel-truth. And go crawling back to try to hold the world together by my own strength yet again.
But God fought harder for me. God wouldn’t let me give up on my healing. Like a strength and endurance coach. Gradually increasing how much I could handle each time, how many reps. Back at it again after every rest. As much as I could handle, as fast as I could go. Until I would want these good things for myself. The point was never blind obedience for Trinity’s “ego”. But rather deliverance into a better life that I couldn’t even for the longest dare dream for myself.
And so things never settled. The crisis continued. As I guess was ultimately for good. And in that, I have come to where I can begin to give all the players involved even a bit of thanks. The people who brought me to each point in my growth. Challenging me where I never would have otherwise went. They might have meant otherwise, clouded by their own issues. But God knew I could take it. That it would ultimately heal versus break me.
Every day: “What will it be? Will You trust Me? Or do you still think Egypt and Pharoah is all I want for you? I know why this is so difficult for you. I don’t want you to do another lap in the desert, but if you aren’t ready yet, I’ll walk with you ever step of the way and will never cease in committing to helping you see and know how much I Love you. How free you are to leave, Live, and really BE. That the desires your heart refuses to stop seeking are not there to trick or torture you. That you were never meant to simply fit in. But rather step into all the uniqueness of who you fully are.”
Now I can hear all of that loud and clear. But back then I was so far gone in religion that whispers were all that got in. But the Word does not return void. And so seeds were growing in me despite my best attempts to stay static for the sake of arresting the minimal comfort of this layover between my origin and a final destination that was inconceivably foreign to me for almost my entire life even up to present time.
“For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.”
“All who ever came before Me are thieves and robbers… I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly.”
But growing pains are not always smooth sailing.
And the idea of Mr. December 19th was what was probably keeping me holding on for as long as I did. Determined to prove to God how much faith and belief I had. So hopefully we could expedite this whole “test”, right?
In that, much to my embarrassment now, the thought came to me to basically discuss my future wedding with the preacher. (Ugh. You just can’t learn the easy way, can you, Sarah?) So I sent him an email. Requesting a meeting. He told me he’d let me know when he had time.
I think months passed. Over the duration of which God would periodically encourage me to revisit the issue with the preacher. Ask him if he had found any time. It was honestly easier for me not to have the discussion, but I followed through because I felt like God had impressed on me to do so.
And I’d see the preacher in social media posts. Hanging out with other church members in what appeared to be leisure time. But there was never any time to meet with me, such a significant part of a significant endeavor of his church.
Years later when I would take the initiative to reach out to apologize for something, he would then tell me that he didn’t make time for me because he basically didn’t know what to do or say in regard to what I wanted to talk to him about: Mr. December 19th. Understandably. But back when it was happening, there was no such communication. And so a divide continued to develop.
It culminated one day when one of the residents was basically misbehaving. Abandoning her child with us very temporarily. And I had previously tried to enact both professional and personal boundaries about this situation before. Felt strongly about not enabling this behavior for the ultimate good of the child involved. But I felt dismissed by those over me. And like the resident successfully played us against each other.
So on this particular day, I felt like the person who had previously not supported my attempts to enact some structure and hold this resident accountable was now tired of taking care of the resident’s child and trying to pass the burden back to me. I resisted because I thought it was the healthiest thing to do.
I wasn’t there to get run over. I signed up to show people the love of God while providing them an opportunity to get back on track. Not to enable unhelpful behavior just because we don’t want to dive in and fully show up for all that entails in confronting.
Of course I loved the child. That was never the issue. I had been in the hospital with her mother before she was born. But I had been learning from the codependency classes and the spiritual abuse research. And although I anticipated how my resistance would be seen as a gross insubordination, I ultimately answered to God and felt thus fully supported in setting this boundary.
Well, others didn’t think exactly so. And ran to the preacher to complain about me. I later found out he met with them, Julie included. Without me. To talk about me. When he hadn’t had any time to meet with me for the previous months.
The audacity. Especially when it was repeatedly said from the pulpit not to gossip and talk about people behind their backs. And yet everyone is up there at the church talking about me. Without even asking for my input. Again, forcing my hand. How could I in good conscience stand for this?
I remember they sent Julie back to tell me all of this. Not even communicating with me directly. And then to add insult to injury, as if I am some dog to be pacified, I could be wrong but I think the decision they made in the meeting about me was to send me away for a short vacation. I was insensed. As if to imply that I was the problem, that I couldn’t handle stress. When it was all so much more than that.
Yes, I finally quit. That day. I packed my things as they were all in church at a service. I emailed the preacher to tell him where I left the key. And I drove away. Totally homeless and unemployed. I saw it as God emboldening me to stand for what was right.
Sarah Nyhan 
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