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When I was in high school, I surprised everyone — including myself — by deciding that I was going to become a pastor.

Until then, my career choices had all been conventional. Various types of engineering. Law. Politics. Business. But one Sunday night, I decided — without any prior thought — that God was calling me to ministry. I didn’t know why. It just felt right.

As well-meaning adults in ministry tried to direct me over the next few years, I found out that I was nothing like them. There were square hole and there were round holes in church ministry. I was a hexagonal peg that didn’t fit into any of the holes.

During my last year of college, I served on a church staff as youth minister. Each Sunday and Wednesday, I drove about 40 miles from Tuscaloosa to Carrollton Baptist Church. I taught classes to students and I preached for the congregation at times when the pastor was out of town.

The last time I preached there — at the pulpit you see above — seemed to make clear that I just wasn’t cut out for this job.

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It’s always the worst at night. I have no idea why.

That’s when the images and sounds flood my mind. It’s as though someone made a movie and I saw only the first part. I loved the movie and wanted to see all of it. I loved it so much that I wanted to live in it, but I couldn’t.

And then someone had all the images and sounds and smells and emotions from the rest of that movie — and feeds bits and pieces of them to me at random times. It’s warm and loving images of love and family and home and everything I’ve ever wanted.

There‘s a projector on the inside of my skull — and someone plays those images. What I see teases me and torments me, but I can’t make them go away. I don‘t even know whether I want them to go away.

She’s always there. But she’s not really there.

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It’s hard to forgive other people, but it’s far more difficult to forgive ourselves. I know this is true, because I’ve struggled with it for years.

I listened to a podcast episode tonight about how victims of narcissists often lash out at other people in behavior that seems remarkably similar to the behavior that was done to them. I’ve known for years that this is true, but I prefer to avoid the subject.

Thinking about it makes me feel guilt and shame. I struggle to give myself the grace of self-compassion and forgiveness.

I’ve talked with you over and over about my struggles with coming to understand the narcissistic abuse I went through as a child. The thing I seem to have struggled with the most are my fears of having learned too many of my father’s dysfunctional ways. (Here‘s an example from about 18 months ago.)

As I listened to the podcast discussion tonight of how easy it is for victims to repeat some forms of what was done to them, I felt the shame return — and I was reminded that I still haven’t mastered how to give myself compassion and forgiveness.

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