I am an extreme advocate for those who are
oppressed, discriminated against, demeaned and devalued, wounded, beat down,
discouraged, timid and forgotten.
I am very vocal
about my discontent to those who oppress. I had a revelation that people who
intimidate, oppress, devalue or wound are really just BULLIES, grown up.With that revelation, it made me realize that the people who dislike me, are the very people who are bullies. They don't like that I stand up for myself or others. They don't like that they can’t intimidate me or scare me or push me around. So they try to get others to dislike me by lying and gossiping about me and my family. Their way of life, BULLYING, is challenged by how I live my life, and it infuriates them.
Even my husband, at times, has a hard time swallowing my “in your face” approach to life, as he was created by God to embrace the world differently. Yet, he laughs at my rants and raves and hugs me as tears flow down my face in frustration at the pure wickedness that saturates the hearts of mankind. He, is patient, diplomatic, patient, quiet, and demolishes mindsets and oppression in a very covert manner. I wish I was more like him. It is an amazing gift and character trait that the Lord has given him.
I was not created that way. I was told my whole life that the way I
approach this life is harsh, angry, aggressive, conflicting, intense,
intimidating. So I spent the better part of my early years, denying who God
created me to be. My denial did not change me, in fact, the more I tried to
pretend I was someone else, that was acceptable to our society and the "church", the more I
relied on who God made me to be to survive.
I am almost forty, arguably close to the half-way point of my life. The
last 20 years have been spent in Parentland. Raising kids with the sole purpose
of protecting them from what I experienced my first 20 years. I didn’t realize
it at the time, but it solidified my being in Christ. The concrete of my soul
set and I began to appreciate the raw nature of my existence. Many people wonder at why I am the way I am. I did for many years and I am finally coming to that revelation. Let me show you, if you will, a glimpse into the making of Teresa Beukers:
I was born in the mid 70’s. Mom was a
hippie, dad was a military man. Both grew up with extreme rejection. Dad was a
product of rape, born to a 15 year old girl who had no one to turn to for help.
Mom, was born to a mom who was treated like dirt by her husband, unfaithful and
angry. Both were neglected. Dad ended up in an orphanage at the age of 7 and
mom ended up raising her siblings in fear.
It was not a match made in heaven. They
were both broken and lacked the experience of true love. I was the first born.
They loved me and doted on me. I was their savior. I was looked at as the child
who would keep their marriage intact. 3 years later, when my newness wore off,
and marriage problems persisted, my mom announced a baby boy. The golden child,
the very thing my father wanted more than anything. They worshiped him. They
adored him. Even still, his deity was not enough to save their marriage. My
father cheated on my mom, countless times and she was slipping into a world of
hopelessness and depression, that she never recovered from. My mom ended up in the hospital for “back surgery” after my brother was born. Years later, hints from friends and neighbors and herself told me otherwise. We stayed with Dorothy Woods, our next door neighbor, during her stay in the hospital. Dorothy, my surrogate mother, African American, funny, beautiful, amazing cook. She treated us like her own children. Rocked me on her lap as she sang to me. I loved her. I did not know that she was a “different color.” She was just Dorothy. A woman who loved my brother and I. She became the foundation of my love for people of all colors and races and religions.
By the time my mother came home from the hospital, my parents’ marriage was over. I recall fights and broken items around the house from my dad’s fits of rage. My mom was always sad. She was being bullied by him and did not know how to stand up for herself. She watched her father do it to her mom, and her mom slip into manic depression, so lacked the knowledge of skills to cope with the abuse. She stayed married to my father, tried to work it out, and tried to find faith.
She started going to different religions to find solace and healing. Not long after, she became pregnant with my sister. By this time, she was putting me on a bus every Sunday to go to the local Baptist church. I learned about Jesus. I felt love. I felt empowered. I felt peace. I learned that I had a voice. People listened when I spoke and were amazed at my hunger for truth.
One day, as I was playing my Fischer Price
record player, with my Christian records, my dad yelled at me and told me to
turn it off. I asked him why. I was 5 years old. I remember it vividly to this
day. He was laying on the deep brown velvet couch in the living room. He didn’t
want to listen to that Jesus nonsense and told me so. I remember thinking that
he was wrong for telling me I couldn’t listen to something, just because he
didn’t believe. I told him “no!’ He flipped out on me, grabbed me by the arm,
threw me into my room and told me to stay there for being defiant. I did not
cry. I refused to cry. Looking back, I see
now that at an early age, I saw the hypocrisy of his actions. He was being
defiant towards God, but expected me not to be defiant towards him.
My mom carried my sister full term, and she
was born 3 days after Christmas when I was 5 ½. Six months later, right before
my 6th birthday, my father walked out on his family. My mom was in
her robe, holding my six month old sister, my brother, had just turned 3. I was
standing there, next to my mom, holding my brothers hand, watching as he drove
away. When he turned the corner, my mom walked into the house, put my sister in
the swing, went into her room and just cried. It shattered her very core. So
deep, that she was never able to recover. Even as she sat on her porch,
diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, given 6 months to live, she told me how much
she loved my father and how she had never fully healed from his abandonment and
rejection.
She remarried 2 years later and I was
swooped into another life of pain, rejection and abandonment. The first 5 years
of my life proved to be the very foundation for who I am, even now. For me,
life was cruel and unfair. It was unpredictable and harsh. I had to learn how
to survive. I took care of my brother and sister as both my mom and step dad
worked crazy hours. We had a nanny take care of us, when they were at work, so
I was being raised by someone else’s standards during the day, and my mom and
step dad’s standards during the evenings and my father’s standards on the weekends.
It taught me how to be flexible and aware.
A year later they had a son, and so began
my life of servitude. He was treated like a Raja, like I had read in Secret
Garden. I started taking care of him when he was in his crib. Waking up in the
middle of the night to give him a bottle or rock him to sleep. His room was
upstairs next to mine and my parent’s room was downstairs on the other side of
the house. They didn’t have monitors back then, they had older siblings. I
became a mother at 10 years old. I did my sisters hair before school, I made
lunches for all 3 of us. I helped with homework, set the table, did the dishes
and changed diapers. I changed sheets when my sibling wet the bed and helped
them with baths and chores. I was no longer a child, although I desperately
wanted to be one. 
