And The Day Came

Introduction to And The Day Came
I’ll never forget. I’ve tried, but I simply can’t. People have begged me to forget, to let it go, but some things become part of you. These events are etched into my memory, and they have formed the foundation of who I am today. The good and bad memories of my childhood have molded, cursed, inspired, haunted, and strengthened me. To forget my past would mean forgetting who I am and where I came from. Forgetting my past would erase the lessons I’ve learned, lessons from the pain and hurt and the healing and love. So I refuse to forget. I refuse to live a life hiding in silence, even if my remembering and sharing my lessons makes some people uncomfortable.
We all can learn valuable lessons from our past, especially from the memories that came from hurt and/or hard work. I had never viewed myself as valuable because of the pain I endured or mistakes I made; rather, the value and wisdom I’ve garnered comes from processing the pain and continuing to learn how I can use my life lessons to shape me for the better. And, I hope, impact the lives of others as well.
These days, I’m amused by mainstream, romantic tragedies—Danielle Steel-like stories where the heroine finds peace, understanding, and, of course, true love after many adversities. But life isn’t a three-hundred-page romance novel, nor is it a Hollywood, made-for-TV movie. The last twenty minutes of our real-life stories never erases or repairs a lifetime of pain. Some people may only remember people’s lives for the pain they endured, but if we’re lucky, those of us who have survived, healed, and prospered will be remembered for how we overcame, in spite of those unforgettable events. I believe God uses our true-life pain to help others process, overcome, heal, and flourish. He redeems the pain that overshadowed our lives or nearly destroyed our families and us for growth, for good, for ourselves and countless others. So we can’t and shouldn’t forget. Instead, we should share our life lessons with others. We should share the depth and origin of pain. And, if possible, as it is in my case, we should share the journey from despair to true forgiveness and healing.
Pearls form only through pain or adversity. A tiny grain of sand, which settles in a crevice of the shell and creates hardship for the oyster, causes the creature to adjust, to defend, and to protect itself by covering the sand with a less-abrasive finish. Nacre, better known as mother-of-pearl, covers the grain of sand layer by layer like thin coats of paint. In much the same way, the hardships of life teach us valuable lessons that result in pearls of wisdom. The pages of this memoir contain many of mine.

Excerpt from Chapter 22: Rainbow of Safety
The door finally swung open and out walked Linda in a delicate flowing skirt. She looked as if she walked on air. “Lynnette, would you like to come in here with me?” Without uttering a word, I stood up and sheepishly proceeded to her private office. The small room felt like a serene sanctuary filled with every color from a springtime rainbow. The first thing that drew my attention was a beautiful cream-colored damask chaise lounge, so luxurious and inviting—the kind of chair only the rich and famous could afford. Opposite the chaise lounge stood a cushy midnight-black upholstered love seat with matching pillows. On the other wall stood a golden oak secretary desk littered with disorganized cubbyholes, scattered papers, and an extensive supply of pens, pencils, and markers, as well as colorful sticky notes attached to nearly everything. A glass fish bowl filled with various rocks and colorful crystals perched on one of the small side tables. I had never seen such a unique assortment of stones and found myself especially drawn to the beautiful pink crystal nestled against the bowl’s edge.
For the first time in over seven years, I felt like I could truly breathe. I didn’t know what to expect from my time with Linda, but I felt secure, protected, and genuinely cared for—unconditionally. Linda had a disarming way about her that made me feel incredibly safe. I knew she wouldn’t hurt me or give me dirty looks for things I hoped I would have the courage to say someday. Intimate details regarding the abuse were never discussed in our group; rather, we focused on the aftermath and healing. So sharing specifics was unchartered territory. Nervousness aside, her office—which represented her care, attention, and wise counsel—felt like a place I desperately wanted and needed to be.