Cheryl's Testimony

I'm a believer who struggles with control, food issues, and healing from racial trauma. My name is Cheryl. As a young girl, my life seemed incredibly normal. My parents, as far as I knew, rarely argued. In fact, there was a great deal of laughter and fun in our house. My mother was a wonderful homemaker and the best cook I've ever known. My father was in the military and he completed most of his travel before I was born. Every Saturday morning, I'd wake up to his rumble of laughter as he watched his favorite cartoon, The Roadrunner, and each night before dinner, we blessed our food and recited Bible verses from memory. On Sunday mornings, my mother clothed me in a beautiful lace dress every Sunday with ruffled underpants, patent leather shoes, and those fold-over lace socks. I could hardly stand being so done up. My church was always fun. I loved Sunday school and the music, but two hours in that frilly outfit was almost too much for this tomboy. The ride home from church was always fun and entertaining. We would load into our car, we talked, we argued, and laughed the entire trip home. I couldn't wait to get home just to climb and sit on the branches of my mimosa tree, which was perfectly situated in the center of our front yard. Our home was secure and full of love. Our family was our focal point, and my father was the center of my world. He could do no wrong. Our house was one of the neighborhood home bases for Friday night shenanigans, hide-and-seek, dodgeball, foxes cross the river, and Red Rover. And most of the families on our street had a signature whistle, and so when our father stepped on our porch to call us in for the night, we'd better be on our way before they got to the end of their respective whistle. And there was always a sense of excitement when my father walked in after a long day of work.

It felt like a perfect world, and I loved everything about it, until that one day he walked in. Everything felt different. He was distant, and even at my young age, I could feel the temperature drop as he passed by, walking resolute as if on a mission. He didn't acknowledge me as he passed through the living room toward the closet at the end of the hallway, and I watched as he began to remove his things and place them in a bag. I knew something was terribly wrong, because he didn't say a word. He didn't pick me up and toss me over his head like he did every other day of my life. My young heart and mind couldn't comprehend what was happening. I watched his every move in utter disbelief. It felt as if my entire world was standing still, except for his deliberate, unfamiliar action. What was happening? In an instant, my perfect world changed. The rug was ripped from under my feet, and it threw me to the ground. And after what felt like an eternity, my mother's call jolted me out of my daze, and we gathered together in our living room for a family meeting. My father began to explain that he would be leaving. I leaned in, listened closely, and latched onto his every word as if I could grab each word and pound them into the floor like tent pegs. To keep him from going away. I was powerless to change his mind. He would be moving, and I was not going with him. I could not believe what was happening. I could not believe what I was hearing. He said he would be living in a boarding house on the other side of town. He promised to call. He would visit and would be a part of every holiday. Life wouldn't change that much.

Though I couldn't quite wrap my head around what was going on, I held tightly to every promise he made. Why wouldn't I believe him? He was my daddy, and I was perfect, and I thought I was his favorite. I was certain he was not going to forget me. Because he promised. Truth came to light the day my father's mother came to visit and refused to stay with him at the boarding house. I was outside, standing by my mimosa tree, when my grandparents pulled up. As I braced myself for my grandmother's tight hug and that loathsome bite on the ear, she rushed past me like a freight train, fussing under her breath about a bunch of other kids. I couldn't figure out what she was talking about or who she was talking about. I found out quickly that my father had another family on the other side of town, and he chose to live with them. He chose them. Now there's a period of my life after my father left. that I can't recall because my world seemed to be frozen in time. I continually questioned my mother about my father's leaving. Looking back, I can't imagine how painful it must have been as she painfully answered my questions and comforted my broken heart while facing her own questions and gathering the pieces of her own shattered dreams. All the while, her faith remained her bulwark. Psalms 91 verses 1 and 2 were her lifeline and have become mine as well. He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge, my fortress, my God. In Him will I trust. Reality became inescapable down the road. Now, in the beginning, he fulfilled his promises. However, numerous times I waited with excitement for my father's visits,

but he started not showing up. I would sit patiently on the couch, expecting him at any moment. Friends would stop by, pleading for me to come out. I desperately wanted to play, but I couldn't risk leaving the house in fear of missing him. Even my beloved mimosa tree could not will me outside. Anticipation melted like a popsicle on a hot cement as minutes turned to hours, hours to days, days to weeks, and weeks to months. Promises proved to be empty. What began as hopeful anticipation shifted quickly to utter devastation in every sense of the word. I wondered what I did to cause him to walk out and then not show up. I knew I was to blame. I just knew I was to blame. My young mind could not navigate the depth my pain, the depth of pain my soul endured. This is when food entered my world as comforter and companion. While my mother gave us permission to ask questions and express our feelings, we were not allowed to speak negatively about my father. She could have easily hated him, yet she taught us. She could have easily hated him and taught us to hate him as well. Instead, she insisted that we pray for him and that we call him every week. She molded the characteristics of, she modeled the characteristics of virtue and grace in the midst of her pain. This was my first personal encounter of Christ-like character. Things changed quickly and drastically for our family. We didn't have very much money after my father left. We went from living a typical middle-class life to going without life's essentials. Financial support did not come immediately or easily. When money did come in, it wasn't enough to cover our basic needs. There were many times we had no idea where our next meal was going to come from.

And my mother was determined to trust God in the season. She didn't drive, so she counted on the goodwill of friends for simple conveniences like a trip to the grocery store. When our electricity was turned off due to non-payment, our neighbors allowed us to string an extension cord from their house to ours until my mother could afford to pay the bill. And on cold winter winter nights, we'd huddle around the oven and then sleep together in the living room to stay warm. When I asked how our needs were going to be met, she always replied, from your father in heaven. Countless times I heard mama singing her prayers and calling on the name of Jesus from the very depths of her soul, mostly at night when we were all trying to sleep. Most nights lying in bed, I could hear my mother singing like this, Jesus, bless my children, cover them, Lord, protect them, Lord. And then she would say, remove any friend from them that's not from you. And I'd be laying in my bed and I'd say, no, no, no, no, don't do it, Jesus. I need my friends. You know, those prayers truly helped shape my life. My mother's faith was foundational, contagious, and necessary as I walked through difficult seasons in my life. As the years passed, my personality shifted from fun-loving to introspective. I went from believing everyone loved me to thinking no one wanted me around. This mindset plagued my existence for most of my life and food became my constant companion and comfort. As high school came to an end, I realized I wasn't ready. to start college. But my mother made it very clear that no child of hers would be sitting in her home without a job or without going to school. And I somehow remembered my love for dolls. In truth, as a young girl, I enjoyed receiving dolls just so I could cut their hair. So I knew I needed to enroll in the School of Cosmetology. After a few years working as a cosmetologist, I made my way

to Earl Roberts University and kept change in my pocket by doing other people's hair. And when university became too expensive, I moved back home and I met someone who attended our church and needed a place to stay. And my mother agreed to let him live in the apartment that was attached to our home. We became quick friends and very soon after that began to date. And not long after we dated, he raped me and it rocked my world. After that dreadful experience, I made the unwise choice to get married, thinking that it was the right thing to do. And in the short time we lived together as husband and wife, and before divorcing, I came to the harsh reality that families don't always speak to each other for days. It was shocking to me since my mother, Mama Luke we called her, didn't tolerate any nonsense in our home. When we fought as kids, we had to talk it out. Then we had to get on our knees, hold hands, and pray for each other after we received that rod of correction. Yeah, Mama Luke didn't play and we learned to get along. So things began to deteriorate the moment we arrived home from our wedding. And in a few short months, we made the decision to separate. And while separating our belongings, an argument broke out. And before I knew it, my ex-husband threw me to the ground with his legs straddled across my body and he began to choke me. And as I lay there, helplessly grasping for air, I thought I was going to die. Somehow, and thankfully, I escaped that moment. In the midst of the madness of that time, a friend invited me to visit them in Austin over the Thanksgiving holiday. And during the trip, I realized I needed to leave my home or I'd end up dead or in a mental institution. In the very next month, I moved to Austin. My friend, of course, my first course of action was to locate a church home. And it took a phone book, if you remember phone books back in the day, and a few weeks to find the church that I attended at that time. That was over 30 years ago. You know, the local church is the most powerful, one of the most powerful institutions around and it has been a stabilizing force in my life. My divorce was finalized after I moved here to Austin and I felt incredible relief. I also felt like a miserable failure and unsuspectingly continued to deal with the pain through the silence and ease of an unintentional addiction to food. Somehow eating french fries, whether hungry or not, made me feel better, although the feelings never lasted very long. In 1995, we found out that my mother, the matriarch, and glue to our family had colon cancer and soon would pass away. How would I live without the strength behind my existence? We talked every day. She prayed for me. She was my confidant and counsel and now she was gone. And I suffered that loss, the loss of her death in silent pain, yet

continued to move forward finding temporary gratification and relief from food. My longtime companion. From 1998 to 2001, I experienced uterine and thyroid cancer along with a complicated appendectomy and while continuing to work and serve in the church, I frequently turned to food for that temporary relief. Life seemed to balance out after the next few years, yet my addiction began to increase and I was unaware. I was determined to reconcile the broken relationship with my father in 2009 and planned a trip to visit him. At the last minute, I postponed my visit due to work complications and my father died the next month. This incident activated a slow emotional downward spiral that would last several years. I experienced challenges and transitions with families and friends. I thought I released these painful situations over to the care of God, but subconsciously I said to myself, just keep moving forward one foot in front of the other. In August of 2014, I became the Celebrate Recovery pastor at my church as a result of a staffing transition. And I have to say, initially I wasn't excited and I quickly realized the enormity of this amazing ministry. You see, Celebrate Recovery is not a side hustle or small department inside church culture. It's a global ministry. What have I gotten myself into? In February of 2015, I had a breaking point. I had a verbal altercation with a coworker and that was the beginning of another undoing. I felt alone with no one to help me navigate the details of this awful experience. And food became the warm blanket of comfort on a cold winter's day. It was all I could do at that time to get up and eat and go to work and eat and get back home and eat.

And then I began to plan and launch a women's step study. And I realized at that time that I was without a leader. I resolutely and boastfully said to myself, I am the women's pastor of our church and I've led a number of women over the years. I will take these poor, hurting women through a step study. And I'm happy to participate in their recovery. Little did I know that God was about, that I was about to embark on a personal journey towards recovery. My life was about to get lit up. I quickly realized that I had more than one issue to deal with. Food addiction was only the first layer. I could see that when my father left, I subconsciously began a quiet and constant love-hate relationship with food. It brought comfort and never talked back. It never walked out on me. Food was available for celebrations, heartbreak, chaos, and peace. Yet I hated the short-term calming effect that was followed by shame. And I could not control its devastating grip. Romans 7.15 through 17 says, I don't understand myself at all, for I really want to do what is right, but I can't. I do what I don't want to do, what I hate. I know perfectly well that what I'm doing is wrong. And my bad conscious proves that I agree

with these laws that I am breaking. But I can't help myself because I'm no longer, because I am, I'm no longer doing it. It is sin inside me that is stronger than I am that makes me do these evil things. Lesson two in the journal, in The Journey Begins is called Powerless. When I read the word powerless, preparing for that lesson, my heart sank. This is exactly how I felt, incapable of making anything in my life work out. As I began to read principle one, realize I am not God, realize I am not God. I admit I am powerless to control my tendency to do the wrong thing and that my life is unmanageable. My heart sank again as I realized that I had control issues. I began to work this step. As I began to work this step, I embarked on an emotional spiral and was unaware that I would ever recover. I walked away from that lesson for a moment because I couldn't concentrate. And then I gathered the nerve to talk to my sister and ask a simple question. Do you think I'm controlling? Well, in my family, we can have a complete conversation with just one look. Her response was inaudible and her look said everything. I knew I was controlling. Her look said everything.

I knew I needed a break. I wanted to get away for a short period of time and God delivered. A friend of mine won a business trip and asked if I would go along. Yes, I don't care where we're going. I don't wanna see anyone. I don't wanna talk to anyone. Just take me away. When we arrived, she began to unpack. When we got to our hotel, she began to unpack and she could not contain her excitement. Girl, she said, God blessed me with this trip. This is perfect. I am gonna reset. When I get back to Austin, I'm gonna reset. In my mind, I said, girl, you go on and reset. I'm going to sleep for a few days and I'll check you later. As I said that, I heard a whisper in my heart. It is time. for you to reset. This is when my recovery kicked in in full motion. When I returned to Austin, I made an appointment with my doctor and as they began to talk about the changes I needed to make, I shut down emotionally. Her words began to sound like Charlie Brown's teacher in my head. I couldn't handle the reality of my next steps. I had to break off this lifelong relationship with my closest companion, food. Then I remembered there's a McDonald's right across the street, a Big Mac and fries. Surprisingly, I began to calm down. This is when I realized that this would be the last time that food would control my life. I knew that my life was unmanageable and I was acutely aware that my life was not what it appeared to be. I was hollow, empty, insecure, angry, isolated, out of

control, and alone in my Christian world. Romans 7 18, For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. Proverbs 11 14 says, Where there is no wise, intelligent guidance, the people fall and go off course like a ship without a helm. But in the abundance of wise and godly counselors, there is victory. I knew that I could not embark on this healing journey on my own. My sponsor and my therapist have been heaven's gift to me as I continue to work each step. Food no longer holds center stage in my life. I initially thought that somehow through this phase of recovery I would lose weight and keep moving. However, I found that I still struggle with food and the struggle is real. You see, food is not illegal because we have to eat. I also have to note that food no longer has a grip on me. I'm learning to manage my food and my emotions separately. My journey towards healing is ongoing. You know, the events of 2020, including the increase in racial tension and various personal interactions I encountered during that time, brought to light some deep-rooted pain I needed to confront. Fortunately, Celebrate Recovery cultural communities offered a secure and safe place to work through this trauma. I was not aware that trauma existed and I'm still working on that healing process. If you're new to Celebrate Recovery, I want to personally welcome you. You know, experiencing freedom from addiction, hurts, hang-ups, and habits is possible. I would like to encourage you to come back and to keep coming back. CR is a wonderful family who will stand with you, encourage, and challenge you toward continued victory. It is worth it. Thank you for letting me share.