The Heart of Rescue

The Heart of Rescue

This is the Reason I Write

By: Susan McKenzie  aka Tender Lily

The room was quiet and peaceful. It was all I knew, it seemed. Clean, tidy, and not even the hint of a breeze to turn the pages of time. No flies, not even a speck of dust floating through the air. This solitary room had been my home for as long as I could remember. I had few needs and far fewer wants, but it was lonely.

From above the plain kitchen table, the eyes of a man looked down, as if he were beckoning me to follow him. It was a framed picture of Jesus. There were no other pictures. As I looked around my one-room cottage, I wondered, “Isn’t there something more?”  Something was sparking and sputtering inside my soul. What was this strange, wild stirring in my heart? I became restless, because deep inside something had awakened and I knew I had to find what it was. Desire opened my eyes to see a door, where there had not been one before.

With heart racing, my fingers clutched the smooth doorknob. Before I knew it, the hinges opened softly, the door swept open, and deep blackness engulfed me. At first, I felt smothered by this inky black substance but it gave way as I pushed forward. The warm light from my open cottage door quickly diminished as I entered what appeared to be an underground labyrinth of clammy tunnels and echoing caves.

Accustomed to only the peace and quiet of my solitary cottage, I was startled to hear the groans and cries of people who seemed to be in long, deep suffering. Their haunted cries echoed back to me from the depths of this lifeless place. Compassion and outrage rose up within me, causing me to run forward. Who would dare to have the right to make people suffer life this?

I dashed into a cavernous room and it suddenly became clear that hundreds and thousands of people – as far as my eyes could see – had fallen into deep pits of quicksand and were hopelessly and endlessly sinking. They were desperately stuck and had no one to help them.

It took only a few minutes to process what I was seeing. The pits were unavoidable in this dark place. It wasn’t the victim’s fault for getting trapped, but there must be a way out, I thought to myself. And just then, I saw the Light. It was far in the distance but there was no other way out. The Light beckoned to me, and from a place deep within me, I just knew that if I focused on the Light and ran “blind” without looking down, I would make it. So I tore my focus from the pits and started running as fast as my legs could carry me. Hope was all I had but it carried me though the darkness as if it were full of light. My feet never stumbled – it was as if the darkness parted, as I plunged through toward the ever-growing beacon of light.

Suddenly, my feet touched thick, green grass, and a beautiful meadow with trees and flowers opened up. I joyfully fell into the soft, lush grass and relished the warm rays of the sun comforting my clammy skin. Birds chirped cheerfully in an atmosphere charged with life. The longer I soaked in the warm sun and drank in the beauty of this amazing place, the more charged with life I became. There was no longer any question of “something more” – this was the place I had always longed for. It was a place of abundant, vibrant life!

A whole new world beckoned me to explore the fullness of this exciting place. I wanted to know everything about the meadow. But from behind me, the cries of innumerable tortured souls could still be heard from the dreadful pits and I could not leave them behind. What if someone went back to tell them about this amazing place so close by? I quickly retraced my steps and re-entered the cavern. It seemed like a daunting task to pull each one out, but I began the work with a heartiness of spirit born out of my experience of soaking in the life-giving and life-sustaining meadow. The sun had warmed me and healed me from the inside out. The meadow had put a new resilience and boldness into me that brought the determination and the strength to get the rescue job done.

Recognizing the faces of some of the tortured ones – family members and friends, I shouted to be heard above their cries. I explained there was only one way out and that they needed to focus on the Light. But these poor souls had been smothered in the cold, clammy muck and mire of unbelief, doubt, and fear for so long that they could not see or hear the truth. They could no longer see – their eyes were blind and their ears could not understand my words. I realized it was my story that would cause them to trust me to gently lift them up and guide them out.

One by one, I pulled and dragged, and each time I deposited the weary soul on the life-giving green grass of the meadow under the healing rays of the sun. They would lie on the grass, listening to the music of the birds with the comforting warmth of the sun to heal their tortured minds and bodies and souls. Many of them went on to live in the meadow, exploring the depths of the richness of that world. But I kept returning to the cave, over and over again, bringing more victims out, one by one by one.

Some of the victims screamed at me, others blamed me for their plight, and once in awhile some would try to pull me into the pits with them. It seemed that my freedom to come and go created a fire of jealousy and made them feel worse! Their condition left them weary under heavy loads of guilt and shame, which seemed to become heavier whenever they witnessed me, clean of the stench of the pits. I worked more and more feverishly, trying to please them – trying to help them to see that they could also be free.

I grew weary, and spent more and more of my days and nights in the cave than in the meadow of light. I thought I was the only one and that there were so many to be saved. So I just kept working, until the joy of rescue turned into a nightmare of duty and obligation. And then I would wake up, glad that so many had been rescued, but very tired.

I began having “The Pits” dream over and over between the ages of 8 -10.  Night after night, I experienced the same dream. Until one day, it dawned on me that I had the power to stop the dream. One night I determined in my mind that I would NOT open that door. I would remain in the quiet room. It worked. The dream never returned after that decision. But the message was woven into the very fabric of my life. And that is exactly how my whole life turned out to be!

At age 5 I learned how to hear God's voice, at age 12 I asked God to send me to the gates of hell to rescue people. In my 30's, I asked God to give me His hardest tests. I'm not sure those were good prayers, but they do explain a lot.

It's the reason I share the "hellish" stories of my life. It's why I keep going back into the dark places. If just one person will hear my story and trust me, I can help them find peace. I wish so much that someone had been around to talk to me, during my struggles in the pits. There were so many days, I record in my diaries, that I just wanted an older woman to talk to.

I'm in my 50's now, so I guess that qualifies as "older". I want to give to younger women what I wish I had had… just someone to talk things out with. Someone who will tell the stories that need to be told. Someone who will say, "Enough is enough, let's get you out of this pit!"  You may not have been abused but you probably know someone who has. I hope you will help me spread the word that there is no pit too deep that God will not bring escape.

There are a lot of resources to help stop abuse. The purpose of this website is simply to  be a "way home" where you can meet fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers, and experience a Team Family Online. Stories convey the knowledge directly the heart. Life stories are the best way to mentor and teach. Sharing our stories makes us human.

I would love to hear YOUR story! Please send me a comment in the box below – write "private" if you don't want it published. Join my newsletter list below and let's stay in touch!

Susan

Tagged as: Choosing Love Today, Deborah White Dove, Dreams that Shape A Legacy, Getting Your Life Back, PTSD - post-traumatic stress disorder, Real People Real Stories, Writing a Life Story