Brushed By His Wing

Out of nowhere a big hawk swooped down to windshield level. He flew in front of our car, wings spread wide, as if to lead us out of the woods of Maine. We followed him, keeping up with his speed as best we could.

My husband and I had been privileged to spend a few days at a fisherman’s cabin on Grand Lake Stream in 2004. No electricity or plumbing, but there was a propane tank and an outhouse. Our morning coffee view was secluded and calm.

Fisherman’s Cabin at Grand Lake Stream 2004

Coffee on the lake



    

 

The giddiness that pulsed through me was unlike anything I had felt in a long time. That moment absorbed and transported me back to when I was six years old when I knew, I knew, I knew I had flown over Aunt Park Lane with my arms spread wide like wings.

1969

I was at peace when I flew, not above the trees or rooftops, but midway like a hawk in the woods of Maine near Grand Lake Stream. I glided effortlessly in the gentle breeze, amid the tender trees, taking in all that surrounded my scope. Amazed. Vivid. Calm. Peace. Freedom. Hope.

The Grand Lake Stream hawk resurrected a smoldering memory that had left an imprint on my heart. A fleeting moment that was unencumbered and safe.

Since my book launch in August 2017, I’ve had much time to breathe and reflect on the accomplishment of writing my memoir and listen to victorious stories about family restoration that followed as a result. My life story leading up to the release of my memoir was a fight. A book launch where 100 people came was a huge victory in the face of my adversary. But then during the summer of 2018, the thick humidity and endless summer rain coupled with life stuff pushed me to the edge and primed me to take the bait and feed on it. The reality that my dad was angry, unavailable and never ate in my house. So I was rejected again. To make matters worse, I observed confident women or fruitful families, and almost always the common denominator, or so it seemed, was they had been raised by a father who loved them, prayed over them and gave them a blessing of sorts that said they could accomplish anything, even in their failings they would know victory.

And for those that succeeded without their dad’s help…well…I wondered…what happened to my fight?

I was hit with a wave of emotional loss when the back of my freight train of life was about to slam into me. How can I encourage others when I’m feeling this way? What a mess. I was tired and almost didn’t care. I screamed, “It’s not fair!”

Okay Tammy Sue, breathe. You can do this. Suck it up. And I did. Even when life challenges crept back in. I was tired but that was okay until the final taunt this fall when a crafty co-worker attacked like a snake in the garden. I let it compound the negative losses rather than let my positive victories stomp on the snake. I questioned everything and seriously wondered what the point of being good was anymore because it seemed being loud or being a cunning witch won the day. Everything sounded stupid to me and I became hardened to enjoying things because eventually it will get stripped away, stolen or broken so why should I care anymore if none of this matters in the end.

Mid December 2018, I stood in church with my husband Curtis, surrounded by a group of people in jeans and flannel shirts who foster authentic healing.

When the pastor finished preaching he made an altar call. Everything in me knew I needed to release something before the freight train won, but I was afraid to face my brokenness. I was afraid if I went up to the altar I’d cry and never stop. To avoid the fight with the dialogue in my head I closed my eyes so I could be absorbed by the music and safety of the place where I stood holding onto my husband’s arm. Next thing I knew the congregations voices grew loud and louder and louder. I felt surrounded by a large robust choir whose rhythm absorbed me until nothing else existed. At that moment I had escaped like when I was six and flew.

Courage and confidence rising, I moved a foot in mental preparation to go to the altar. Then it happened. Another imprint on my heart stopped me in my tracks and placed me in the chair of my eighth grade art class as if it was yesterday. The teacher asked the class a question. Immediately I smiled and raised my hand because I knew the answer. As fast as my hand went up, doubt and uncertainty crept in and beat my hand back down telling me surely I was wrong because I was stupid. The other student who left her hand up had the right answer. The same one I had. I sat there deflated and embarrassed.

How did a forty-year-old memory pop into my head, crisp and fresh, in the middle of an altar call when I was having a surreal moment? How did it stop me in my tracks, making the hand of my heart go back down by my side?

The broken little girl froze at the altar unsure if she had the right answer. She didn’t even know she was thinking that way but she knew she didn’t want to get it wrong. And the last thing she wanted was to look stupid because then her dad would be right.

The worship band continued to play the last song, ‘O Come to the Altar…Are you hurting and broken within….?’

God wasn’t going to let my freight train run me over. Instead He brought the altar to me because my heart was crying. He showed me a vision, not to make me feel worse, but to say this is a stronghold that has turned into an old gnarly root that must get cut off and thrown into the burn pile.

Unlike the mean co-worker who dismisses me like I’m an object, or my dad’s death bed blessing which stated I am stupid and can go to hell, I felt God was saying let me help you get back to a safe place where you can fly, only this time, let me shelter and guide you with My wings. (link)

drawn by Tammy Sue – 1981 

CREDITS:
Photo: Willey archive
Drawing: by Tammy Sue 1981
Excerpt: “I was at peace when I flew, not above the trees or rooftops this …“ paragraph is from my memoir Wounded Song (link)
Song: title & first line: ‘O Come To The Altar’ by Elevation Worship