As soon as I got back into my room, and began to settle in, the words of a song began to flow from my mouth and into my spirit. I heard myself singing, "God is too wise to be mistaken, God is too good to be unkind, so when you don’t understand, when you can’t find His plan, when you can’t trace His hand, trust His heart." Right then and there I knew part of the answer to all of my frustrations. I had accepted Jesus Christ as my Savior in my mind, but I had never given Him control of my heart. I had never trusted His heart because I didn't know His heart; knowledge of Him remained simply an intellectual fact. I operated from a "works" mentality. When I was good - I felt accepted. When I was bad - I felt condemned and I had to work hard to be forgiven. My friend, that is legalism; not salvation by grace.

When my doctor came around on Monday morning, she advised me that I would be released the next day. I was amazed. How could she discharge me from the hospital when nothing had been dealt with? There were still so many questions inside of me I needed answers to. How many other families were trying to deal with incest and sexual abuse? What was God trying to tell me in that? Where was the heart of God in all of this?

For over a year the scripture God kept putting before me was from Isaiah 54:4-8. In this scripture God says He will not remember the sins of my youth, but my favorite part was, "In an outburst of anger I hid My face from you for a moment; but with everlasting loving kindness I will have compassion on you." I was aware that God could not look on sin, so He had turned His face as my abusers violated my body and soul. Yet, where was He now? Where was the heart of God? I needed desperately for Him to come and sit with me, face to face, and share my pain.

None of my issues were dealt with during my hospital stay. Both my counselor and psychiatrist seemed to think my main problem was fatigue. They encouraged my family to help more around the house. I knew fatigue had a part in my problem, but it wasn't my main problem. Sure, I was cooking, cleaning, and washing clothes for Roger, Scott, Jessica, Michelle, Matthew (my wonderful grandson), and Pam (Michelle's best friend), as well as myself, but that was not the problem. No one seemed to hear what I was saying. I wanted relief from the issues surrounding my childhood. I, like Wanda, the wandering sheep, needed God to rescue my family and me.

When I left the hospital the following Tuesday, I was still angry with the church staff and tired from all the questions running around in my mind. I didn't really want to go home, I still didn't want to live, but I knew deep in my heart that God had a plan. He wanted me to know His heart and He wasn't about to rescue me until I learned to trust Him with mine.

They released me from the hospital with prescriptions. I was taking two Prozacs a day and was instructed to also take two Desryel tablets at night so I could sleep. For years I fought taking medication in any form. My sister and my mother were addicted to prescription drugs and I hated what it did to them. Yet, in January of 1991, I reached a point where I knew my depression was out of control. It wasn't a normal depression due to a temporary pain, years of neglect and abuse caught up with me.

My doctor tried several medications before Desipramine gave me relief. I stayed on it until August of 1993. I had been stable for a year while taking this medication, so I was confused when my doctor changed me to Prozac. She felt it was what I needed and I obeyed. I hated it. It was expensive and it made me irritable.

I tried to explain that I felt the Prozac was part of what got me in the hospital, but she disagreed and released me taking two a day. Thinking God was trying to teach me obedience in all things, I took it. When I came home from the hospital that Tuesday, I appeared calm to everyone else, but inside the crankiness grew. I did an excellent job of concealing it, after all, I had acted okay all of my life, this was nothing new.

One of the things Roger and I did after our marriage was set up family council meetings. There was so much stuff going on with his children we felt it was a good way to keep up with what was going on. So, it was nothing new to the kids when I announced that we would have a meeting that night. I knew they needed to air their feelings about what I had done.

I grew up in a family with several unspoken rules that I discovered were standard in dysfunctional families. They were: "don't talk - ask questions, tell others what goes on, etc.; dont' trust - what you see is not always real; and, don't feel - if your pain is exposed, it could get worse." I tried to do away with those rules for my children. I wanted to break the old adage of "children are to be seen and not heard." It was important to me for them to know they too could supply input into our family and let their feelings be made known, as long as it was done in a respectful manner.

So, as we gathered around the table that night, everyone was given the opportunity to share or ask questions. It broke my heart as I listened to them share the things they had dealt with both at school and church. People asked questions my children did not know how to answer. Roger told several people that I had gotten hold of some bad medication and the children did not know whether to tell the truth or this lie. They wanted to protect me and themselves, but they also wanted to tell the truth. After all, I had stressed to them the importance of telling the truth for two years and now they were being asked to lie.

In the family council they were allowed to share their anger and I was proud they were able to share so freely, but it didn't ease the pain. I wanted no secrets, there had been too many of those when Roger and I first married. From my own experiences I learned secrets lead to shame and shame destroys. Secrets had destroyed my mother and were now destroying my sister Carolyn.

Mother died in 1987, following three years of being locked inside herself by chronic, clinical depression. Following her death I had a long talk with a cousin of mine, who was mother's favorite niece. When she was taking a psychology course in college, her dad told her many of the family secrets. I was shocked when she told me how my mother became a surrogate wife for my grandfather when my grandmother was ill. Things began to fall in place for me.

Shortly after placing mother in a nursing home following her break down, she repeated over and over that it was "too late" for her. I would tell her how much Jesus loved her and she would cry and shake her head repeating the phrase. I begged her to tell me why it was too late, but she never did. I believe mother was locked into the misconception that forgiveness was unattainable for her because of this time in her childhood.

After talking with my cousin I began to understand my mother better. She often accused me of having sex with my stepfather. The first time she did this I was twelve. Looking back, I realized she would have been around twelve when her nightmare began. However, the picture mother painted of her childhood was one of being poor, but happy. She always talked about her having to quit school when in the eighth grade to care for her sick mother. When I began piecing things together I cried, hungry to hold my mother and tell her God loved her in spite of what had been done to her. I better understood her anger and frustration. I forgave her for the years of torment she caused me. Satan used her secret pain to steal her from me.

Two days after my release from the hospital, a friend of Rogers' from our church called and invited me to lunch. She recognized that I needed to get out of the house and I was thrilled with the invitation. After lunch she invited me to shop with her. Now, I am not a shopper. I usually know exactly what I want before I go into a store and then rush straight for it, buy it, and leave, but I agreed to go with her and risk getting bored. When we walked into the store we noticed a large display of dolls just inside the door. I quickly shared a story about a doll from my childhood. Yes, right there in front of everyone!

The year I turned nine, mother was dating someone, Carolyn was dating someone, and I was left alone more and more with my abuser. On a trip to the grocery store that summer, I noticed a beauty parlor doll on a shelf and just stood looking at it. When mother discovered that I was missing, she found me in the middle of the aisle standing and simply staring at the doll. She said, "Sharon, I know this has been a hard year for you, but if you will just hang in there, maybe you will get that doll for your birthday." My spirit soared!

Mother got married that October, two weeks before my birthday. When my birthday went unnoticed the only person I mentioned it to was my abuser. He appeared angry and said he would straighten things out for me if I would just stay quiet. I did. Just as I was reeling from mother's marriage and my skipped birthday, I was awakened on Halloween morning to the news that Carolyn was getting married! So, okay, now I was missing trick-or-treat! How much more can a child take?

Once my abuser told mother and Carolyn what they had done, both of them assured me that Santa would bring my much longed for doll Christmas morning. They went overboard to make up for their neglect. I was given money to go downtown to a movie every week! I enjoyed that more than anything. It was in the darkness of the theatre that I found escape in the characters on the screen, but what I really wanted was time with my mother and my sister.

Well, Christmas morning came and sure enough - there sat the beautiful little doll in her little chair under the Christmas tree! I was in heaven and busied myself styling her hair all day. I didn't even notice when the phone rang and mom and my stepdad started arguing. Well, reality hit when I heard someone knocking on the door and there stood my stepsister, Sheila! Within minutes mother escorted me to the bedroom and said something I have never forgotten.

"Sharon," she said, as she looked me in the eyes and held my chin in her hand, "Sheila is here and we did not buy her anything for Christmas. I am sure you don't mind giving up your doll for her. After all, you are nine and she is just four. You are older and you can handle not having anything."

I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream, but instead, I just stood there and somehow managed to say, "Sure, that will be okay." From that moment, until years and years later, I hated Sheila. At one time I even tried to kill her by pouring rubbing alcohol in her soft drink. I really got mad when she wouldn't drink it though!

So, I then shared with her that years later, as I sat in a counselor's office, he recommended that I get another doll to replace the one I had to give away. He told me to be sure it was a special one and to keep it displayed somewhere to remind me that I am a person of worth and value; that I too deserve to have nice things.

Well, I was picky. I wanted a doll with thick, blonde hair, green eyes, and I wanted her name to be Sharon. I searched everywhere from Wal-Mart to specialty toy stores and never found the doll. I had gotten so frustrated that I finally gave up my search. I had no interest in dolls whatsoever.

So, after telling Mary Ann my story, and seeing the concern in her eyes, I casually walked on my merry little way browsing around the store while she went in a different direction. From time to time I would check in on her, but discovered she was in no hurry. She was touching every item in the store, and that got on my nerves.

On my second trip through the linens department, something caught my attention. Glancing toward the wall I noticed a mantel with a beautiful blonde doll in the center. I had to have that doll. She was beautiful. I didn't care if she didn't have green eyes or that her name might not be Sharon; she was just beautiful. On close inspection I discovered that she had green eyes, a few freckles over her nose, and as I lifted up her tag I cried when I read the words, "Hi! My name is Sharon."

God's presence enveloped me and I felt His embrace. Only He could arrange for me to be in that store on that particular day with that special doll available and in plain sight. Jessica had given me some birthday money so I purchased her. She is a forever reminder that God is interested in the details of my life, as the Chaplain reminded me, He is in the little things. She is displayed in my room on a shelf with other memorabilia from my life, but not because I deserve it - just because I love being reminded of how intimately acquainted my Father is with me. If He did this for me, He will do it for you. I even bought Sheila a doll so she would know the issue was resolved.

That joy was short lived. Thanksgiving reminded me of the family I no longer had. I missed mother and the family gatherings we had shared. After eating we usually played cards while some slept. Roger's family was different. Most of the people in his family were extremely hard working people whose lives were so busy trying to get ahead they didn't know each other. I was miserable around them because all they talked about was what they had bought or accomplished, not what God had done in their lives lately.

So, we came up with the idea to get everybody out of themselves by writing on a slip of paper something good about someone else in the family. It turned out to be the best Thanksgiving I ever shared with them. Everyone had a good time listening to the descriptions of what other family members thought of them and the true meaning of family. I felt we started being a family that day instead of a house full of strangers meeting to discuss success. I loved it.

Yet, deep inside the irritation increased. I promised myself I was going to get my house in order before I went back to work. I planned to clean out closets and get the house decorated for Christmas. However, I soon discovered my energy level wasn't what it had once been. I was getting more and more irritable and decided I would increase my medication. I was now on three Prozacs a day and still needed at least a two-hour nap to make it through the day.

I was unable to think clearly. My mind was constantly filled with old memories and painful thoughts of rejection from those at church. As Thanksgiving weekend came to a close I still had many things left to do and promises to keep. I knew I had to deal with the pastoral staff and how I felt about them. I also had to deal with Carolyn and the friction between us. To top it all off, my brother John was coming for Christmas and I wanted everything to be perfect for him.

I kept up my routine of early morning quiet time, but could not sense God's presence. My mind was in a constant state of confusion. I wanted God's touch, His embrace, but I couldn't slow down, there were too many people I needed to please. My family needed me to be whole and I was doing my best to give them the appearance of having it all together. Learning to trust God's heart was swiftly becoming a foreign, forgotten idea.