His Morning Sun

© 2006, 2016 Morning Sun Yellow Pony.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Author Photo by Morning Sun Yellow Pony.

Cover Photo by D.B. Allan.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide. Used by permission. NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION® and NIV® are registered trademarks of Biblica, Inc. Use of either trademark for the offering of goods or services requires the prior written consent of Biblica US, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-3472-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-3473-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-3471-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016904076

WestBow Press rev. date: 4/6/2016

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1   A Young Life

Chapter 2   Honey, God Loves You

Chapter 3   Adult Results

Chapter 4   Turn for the Good

Chapter 5   Some Thoughts

Chapter 6   A New Identity

Chapter 7   Fear and Codependency

Chapter 8   A Time to Forgive

Chapter 9   It Is Over

Chapter 10   Maintaining Your Footing

Chapter 11   Finally

This book is, first and foremost, dedicated to my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. For without Him, this book would not be possible. I give God all the glory, honor, and praise.

I also dedicate this book to the memory of my grandmother, who loved me through it all.

Finally, I dedicate this book to every soul around the world who is wounded or has ever been wounded in one way or another. May God richly bless you, and may you find healing here.

INTRODUCTION

From the time I was in my twenties, people have told me that I should write a book about my life because I have been through more than most people. I have attempted it more than once but could never get past any particular point. Why? Because it wasn’t time to write the book yet. What would be the point of writing a book about a tragic life if there was no happy ending or valuable lesson in the story? I kept overcoming and overcoming, surviving and surviving, but the point is to more than survive, more than overcome.

In spite of every other title that I might carry throughout my life, I am a teacher. I believe God wanted my life story to be something one could look at and see the root of the disorders, the results of the issues acquired and carried, and the lessons and healing to be had at His hand.

There is absolutely no glory or glamour in putting my life story on paper. I have had to fight guilt, shame, and embarrassment with every moment of the writing that follows. No one could be more repentant. My story is tragic and my mistakes terrible and huge, but my God’s grace and mercy are simply awesome. I have absolutely no reason to bare my soul or share my guilt and shame, except to help others. I know I risk potential rejection from the world, and one small book won’t make me rich—that’s for sure—but I am not doing this for gain. We live in a lost and hurting world. There are so very many people, in this country alone, who are walking wounded with dysfunctional lives.

At minimum, I spend a third of my time on reservations in the United States and Canada. I minister in prisons, but there are more prisons than I can get into any time soon. I minister to children, the homeless, and addicts, but there are more down-and-out homeless people, addicts and everything else than I can reach in a lifetime—even if there were a hundred of me. I run at the speed of light and still can’t reach everyone who needs or wants help. Through this book, I believe I can reach more people who want and need help.

Note: Throughout the book, I do not capitalize the name of satan, the devil, or the enemy. I refuse to do so, as I address him for what he is.

Some of the people who would have played integral rolls in the book don’t want their names mentioned, so I respected that. I have left out certain points in order to write those specific people out of my story. Did I get every detail correct and in the right order? Probably not! Can I prove everything I wrote? Absolutely!

I’ve done my best to cover the areas of my life that are most pertinent, but this book is not about me—understand that, please. I didn’t write it as an autobiography; I’m nobody famous. There isn’t a PhD after my name; my doctorate is in actual life application.

The words to a song I wrote come to mind. The song is called The Grandmother Story. The last line says, I just hope that she can hear my prayer; that I can encourage just one soul with her same words that let me know that she and God cared.

The last line of another song I wrote, For the Children, says, If I can give just one child hope, and they can smile again, I’ll bear it all for the children. The sole purpose of sharing my story is to show what happens to all of us, what the repercussions are, and how to fix the problems. God has provided a method that really works in everyday life. This book will take you from who you believe you are to who you really are. It takes all the habits, vows, and decisions, showing how we got that way and how to get out. I feel this book’s greatest accomplishment would be to cause you to take the tools provided in these pages and diligently put them to work in your life, bringing forth healing, peace, and the joy that goes with it.

I actually wrote His Morning Sun in 2006 and self-published the book. This is the updated new and improved version. After reading this book, if you have questions, feel free to e-mail or write to me. Contact information is provided at the back of the book.

TV personality and author Dr. Phil McGraw has said, I want you to get excited about your life. Well, here is my adage: I want you to heal your life so you can get excited about your life.

God richly bless you and reveal Himself through these pages.

CHAPTER 1

A Young Life

A Cherokee grandmother stands in the early dawn, face-to-face with Creator, as she does every day. Creator speaks to her: A child is coming. This child will be born at sunrise in the heart of the buffalo calving season. This child is coming to do great things for the people but will endure great hardship first. You will name this child Morning Sun. As she turned to her Bible, lying open on the table, there appeared Isaiah 61.

My paternal grandmother was full Cherokee and a truly devout Christian woman—she walked her talk. She would be a most major influence in my life. She was the first person to teach me that I could walk in my culture and still walk with God. The first music project I recorded had two songs that I wrote about her.

About a year later, I was born on my grandmother’s living room floor, barely holding on to life, due to my mother’s attempts to abort. I arrived at a Texas dawn, exactly when God had told my grandmother that I would.

My mother was a very troubled person, marrying my father to get away from home. According to her siblings, she was cruel and angry even in childhood, although no one has an explanation as to why. Her family was Cherokee and Jewish. I have been told that my maternal great-grandfather escaped from a German concentration camp and stowed away on a steamship bound for America. My mother was very fair-skinned, with auburn hair. I’ve been told that when they attempted to give me to her when I was born, she saw my shocks of black hair and said, Get that away from me; it’s not mine. The first thing I remember knowing about myself is that I was born an unwanted child. The last I heard of my mother, she was an incredibly cruel person.

My mother’s verbal, emotional abuse did so much damage to me. She did hit me, but the emotional abuse did the most damage. When my mother reached the point of hitting me, her behavior was just insane. She always hit me about the face, head, and shoulders and would not stop. I could be lying on the floor, unconscious, and she’d still be hitting me.

We went to the Gulf Coast when I was a toddler. She took my little hand and walked me out to the water. Then she lifted me up and took me out into the water, well over my head—and then let me go. She turned and simply walked back to shore. I’ve been told that I drowned. A bystander pulled my body out of the water and revived me. No one seemed to know how this toddler ended up in the water, but apparently such things happened all the time. Years later, I realized why I was afraid of the water.

To the world, she was the perfect mom. She was a good cook, and the house was always very clean. She was an excellent seamstress and a member of the PTA. She went to church on Sundays because my dad made her, but she did not believe in God. She said, There is no God. You create your own heaven or hell right here on this earth.

I don’t remember my mother ever doing anything with me. She never told me that she loved me or that she was proud of me. She never held me, hugged me, or played with me. She said such cruel things to me and about me. In a correspondence she sent to my lawyer, who was a stranger to her, she said vicious things about me, and she hadn’t seen me in over twenty years. Little girls always want to help Mom and learn to do the things that Mom does. Little girls learn how to be women from their mothers, but whenever I wanted to help my mom or learn something, she always told me to go away. If I wanted to help in the kitchen, she would say, Just get out of here. You’ll only make a mess, so go away.

Nothing I did was ever good enough for her. She insisted she wasn’t being cruel; she was being honest, and her harsh treatment was just her wanting to teach me what was best for me. People would say how beautiful my mother was, but I never thought so. How can cruelty be beautiful? She wanted to be a model or some sort of celebrity, but that never happened.

My father was very tall, slender, and handsome. I imagine his childhood was tough. His father was an alcoholic who beat my father regularly. When my father talked about his childhood, he always talked about an extreme poverty level. He carried that extreme-poverty mentality to this death. I believe my father would have been considered a workaholic and perfectionist. I tend to be a bit of a workaholic also; I never really learned how to play. I cannot remember doing many fun things together as a family. We did go camping once or twice a year. My father greatly loved the ocean and liked to go fishing. He also played guitar and sang. He was not a professional musician. But he took me with him when he went to play music a couple of times. I really enjoyed that.

I know little about my parents. My mother’s parents were very good people. I spent brief periods of my early childhood in and out of their home. My memories of them are wonderful, giving me brief respites in my otherwise brutal life. My mother’s siblings always held their parents in high esteem, but my mother had a grudge against them.

I didn’t know my paternal grandfather; I met him only once. My father’s mother spoke of some of their life. She and my grandfather divorced when my dad went into the navy. My grandfather was very abusive, unfaithful, and a severe alcoholic. He also molested their daughters, though my grandmother didn’t find out until years later. My grandmother, however, came from that old school where no one talked about anything. You didn’t air your dirty laundry.

My father was a hard worker and extremely intelligent. I can trace certain intellectual attributes of my own back to him. As I mentioned, he was a perfectionist—my mother was as well—and when he encountered the slightest imperfection, he would unleash his temper. My father was an alcoholic and very abusive. He came home drunk every night or with the means to get drunk. My brother and I were beaten regularly. My mother was an antagonist; she just couldn’t keep her mouth shut. She always had to get in his face when he came home, and it would set the tone for the evening. They fought those screaming, throwing, bloody types of battles. When he would come through the door, she would tell him everything my brother and I might have done wrong during the day, even if she’d already punished us. He would take off his belt, find his whip, or double up his fist, and we’d get it again. I remember only one time, maybe twice that my mother ever defended me against my father.

His sense of humor was all messed up. He thought torture was funny. He thought scaring us to death was just hilarious. Seeing how long we could hold our breath under water or beneath