by Carol Gustke

Created on: June 20, 2009

Memorable People In My Life

His name was Henry; a psychologist. He rescued me from the throes of co-dependency. He told me once that I was so co-dependent that if I died, someone else's life would pass before my eyes.

He oozed with love and acceptance. Laughed with me but not at me. Taught me questions to ask myself, such as, "How does that make you feel," "What risk is involved?" "What would you like to do?" When I used the word, cant, he replaced it with, won't.

Occasionally, instead of meeting at his office, he would treat me to lunch. He was a great conversationalist and shared himself openly with me. I'd say, "Henry, I want to talk about my problems." I was shocked to hear him say, "Carol," all we need to do is talk."

I once told him I didn't feel very spiritual. "Don't you realize that everything we do is spiritual?" was his reply. It took me a while to get the hang of where he was coming from. After an appointment, I would mull over our conversation well into the night.

In his own, easy-going, yet perceptive way, he ushered me into a world of self-discovery. Like a little girl who sticks her big toe into the ocean, testing the temperature, I slowly waded into a scary, yet exciting journey of emotional, physical and spiritual awareness.

During one of our sessions, Henry asked me to pray for him. He had a high fever and should have stayed home.

"What good is that going to do?" I asked. "I can't heal you."

"That's good news," he countered, "let's see what God can do."

Reluctantly, I placed my hands on his forehead and prayed a simple prayer.

In minutes, the fever left him and he felt much, much better.

I was stunned. "Wow, God does care, doesn't he?" That was the beginning of my personal relationship with God.

Henry taught a class on family dynamics. During one session, I became so agitated I had to leave the room. I walked to his office and he followed me. What happened next was totally unexpected. An anger begin to rise up in me due to the abuse I received from my Father. I began to pull down picture from off the wall, I cleared his desk in one fell swoop; screaming at the top of my lungs. Henry just stood by and watched.

When it was over, I felt totally drained. He held me close for a long time. Later, at home, an overwhelming peace settled over me. I felt tons lighter. Since that time, I've never experienced the same intensity of anger toward my Father.

I've often heard people describe themselves as "survivors." I guess I would fall into that category. As Henry would aptly state; "In God's army, only wounded soldiers will do."

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