My name is Elizabeth (Betty) Jones Barber. I am 73 years old, a wife, and the mother of three precious daughters. I was blessed to be an elementary school-teacher most of my adult life. It was a dream come true and I passionately loved the children with whom I was entrusted.
When my health resulted in having to give up teaching, I was lost for a couple of years. I hadn't realized how much I'd allowed my profession to define who I was.
But, I finally realized that my identity lay in being a child of the Most High God. I am His daughter, loved by Him, kept by Him, and deeply indebted to Him. That is all the identity I need.
Last year, in early 2012, I was diagnosed with the progressive brain disease of Parkinson's. It has progressed so rapidly in this short time that I'm losing much of my mobility. I have a strange peace with this disease that has robbed my body of the ability to turn over, get out of bed, or even dress myself alone. I am fortunate to be loved deeply by my family and they have sacrificed much for me.
But, I have a deep urgency to get my story out for those to whom I've been asked to give it. For several years, my friend, Martha Stevenson, and I have led sexual abuse recovery groups with varying degrees of success. Five years ago we began using material entitled "In The Wildflowers" produced by the American Association of Christian Counselors. We've seen such healing take place in the lives of the precious women whom God has allowed us to get to know and love. It is for them and the one of every three women who are sexually abused before the age of 18 that this story is written. It is them that I've been asked (commanded really) to tell it and let them know of the power of our Heavenly Father to take what we thought would kill us and turn it into a gift to us and others. I am going to share a poem God gave me in 2010 for His precious daughters who are hurting.
But, first, I want to let anyone reading this to know that I will safeguard the identity of anyone who might have been a part of this story. I respect your privacy and realize that your story is not mine to tell.
Tell My Daughters
My Child,
Tell My daughters
I know they are hurting...
I see their tears and feel their fears.
I understand the rage beneath the smile
that's ravaged them since they were a child.
I know those who are crying and inwardly dying,
Even as the past they try denying.
They really don't believe the effects were so bad,
so, can't understand why they are sad.
They feel they are covered with a robe of shame.
Tell them I know about their pain,
Tell them I saw...
When they were afraid and so confused
As they were used and terribly abused;
When they wanted to die for lack of hope
and felt they wouldn't be able to cope;
as they tried to tell and no one believed.
Tell them I saw, that I'm never deceived.
Tell them I understand...
why they decided I wasn't there,
that I didn't protect them and must not care;
that they must keep themselves safe from pain--
not let anyone close enough to hurt them again;
why they turned to other things instead of Me;
too frightened of Me and intimacy.
Tell them I understand---and I wait.
Oh. but tell my daughters
what I've done for you;
tell them all of the ways I've brought you through--
from the depths of despair and loneliness
to heights of pure joy and happiness'
from the anger and fear that filled your every night
to My perfect peace that took away that deep fright
from shame and disgrace to restoration and redemption
with a heart that's now free of all condemnation.
Tell them how I took your greatest pain
and turned it into your greatest gain--
a heart of passion for them.
Tell them I want nothing less for them.
My gift to you, Child,
is to tell my daughters for Me.
-Betty Barber
June 2010
Co-facilitator of "Understanding & Healing Hidden Hurts" Ministry
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