Called 2 Love The Uhlmann Story E-Book

Steve Uhlmann

• Herausgeber: BroadStreet Publishing Group, LLC
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 255

Beschreibung

Meet Steve & Barbara Uhlmann. Steve's life was defined by plastic. An engineer at heart, he started an injection molding company that grew to more than 9,000 employees, with manufacturing plants around the world and a private jet to complete the package. Though Steve and Barbara thought they had it all, the demands of a successful business took their toll. When they retired in 2005, they were ready to enjoy their golden years with an exemplary marriage. Then disaster struck. In the aftermath of a severe panic attack, Barbara was diagnosed with cancer. For nearly two years, she was incapacitated. The strain of caring for her, in spite of appearances, exposed how shallow the Uhlmann relationship was. Their crisis drove them to levels of intimacy they could never have predicted. In Called 2 Love: The Uhlmann Story, Steve and Barbara share the journey of self-discovery that helped turn their marriage into a joy-filled adventure of connection.

Leseprobe

Endorsements

Between their social image and pick-and-choose Christian beliefs, Steve and Barbara Uhlmann had actually managed to fool a lot of people—primarily themselves. They had propped up a grand illusion that they were living out a pretty decent love story when all along it wasn’t even close. When ghosts from their past finally exposed how shallow their love actually was, it could have marked the end of it all. Instead, it marked a new and wonderful beginning. It took a lot of raw honesty and bare-knuckled forgiveness to get there, but they found a love that few couples ever find. Fortunately, their story shows all of us how we can find it too.

—Tim Kimmel, author of Grace Based Parenting

In a culture where relationships are falling apart, Called 2 Love:The Uhlmann Story reminds us that it is never too late to build an amazing marriage.

—John Trent, PhD, The Gary Chapman Chair of Marriage and Family Ministry and Therapy at Moody Theological Seminary

Every hour I invested in this book brought great delight! Steve’s and Barbara’s insights into marriage and intimacy make me want to stand up and cheer and tell everyone I know about this priceless “work of heart”! No doubt it will have the same impact on all who are open to learning what it means to recognize and minister to your spouse’s deepest needs.

—Shannon Ethridge, MA, life/relationship coach, speaker, and author of twenty-two books, including the best-selling Every Woman’s Battle series

Called 2 Love: The Uhlmann Story is compelling, powerful, and needed. Steve and Barbara have done an incredible job of walking through real-life application of God’s plan to heal and restore his people back into his image.

—Timothy R. Jennings, MD, author of Could It Be This Simple?, The God-Shaped Heart, and The God-Shaped Brain

Called 2 Love: The Uhlmann Story is a heartfelt revelation told in a genuine attempt to help others make healthy change that brings about healing and true intimacy.

—Drs. Les and Leslie Parrott, authors of Saving Your Marriage Before It Starts

This book provides a beautiful narrative of how transformational love can change the heart and make all the difference in a marriage.

—Darryl DelHousaye, DMin, Chancellor of Phoenix Seminary

BroadStreet Publishing® Group, LLC

Savage, Minnesota, USA

BroadStreetPublishing.com

Called 2 Love: The Uhlmann Story

A Journey of Self-Discovery and Joy-Filled Connection

Copyright © 2020 Steve and Barbara Uhlmann

978-1-4245-5921-3 (softcover)

978-1-4245-5922-0 (e-book)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Unless indicated otherwise, all Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188, USA. All rights reserved. Some quotations from the NLT come from the 1996 edition, and these have been noted with an asterisk (NLT*) and are used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers. Scripture quotations marked NKJV are taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV® Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.® Used by permission. All rights reserved worldwide. Scripture quotations marked ESV are taken from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. Copyright © 2000; 2001 by Crossway Bibles, a division of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved. Scripture quotations marked NASB are taken from the New American Standard Bible, © Copyright 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

All italics in Scripture quotations are those of the authors and added for emphasis.

Stock or custom editions of BroadStreet Publishing titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, ministry, fundraising, or sales promotional use. For information, please email [email protected].

Cover and interior by Garborg Design at GarborgDesign.com.

Printed in the United States of America

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Contents

1Crisis on Aisle 9

2In Search of the Real Barbara

3What Real Emotions Feel Like

4The Big Breakthrough

5Uncovering Additional Hidden Hurts

6Steve’s Misconceptions of Love

7Fear and the Lack of Trust

8Because He Loves Me, I Can Love Me

9Love Her Like Who?

10The Meaning of the Ring

11What’s Love Got to Do with It?

12Feeling Safe Enough to Be Real with Steve

13We Became a “Trouple”

14Be A.W.A.R.E. of the Process

15Connecting the Dots That Put Love in Action

Appendix: About the Great Commandment Network

Endnotes

With Deep Appreciation

About the Authors

1

Crisis on Aisle 9

“Steve … I’m in real trouble.” My voice was as shaky as my hands as I tried to speak coherently into my cell phone between wrenching gasps for breath. “This is Barbara … I’m at Fry’s Marketplace … Come get me … Quickly!”

My hands trembled so violently I could barely stuff my cellphone back into my purse. I was only a short distance from home, and I knew my husband would waste no time getting to me.

I had no idea what was happening. I didn’t see it coming. I had no warning, no preliminary signs, no discomfort. Just minutes earlier, as I pushed my shopping cart casually through the Fry’s Marketplace aisles, there was no way I could have known that, before I left that store, my life would change forever.

Nothing seemed wrong. Nothing was amiss. Why would it be? It was a beautiful summer day in Arizona. My husband and I had just returned from a delightful vacation, and I was on a routine trip to the store to pick up a few things to replenish our pantry. With no warning of impending disaster, I turned the corner from aisle 8 and entered aisle 9 to pick up a few frozen meats.

That’s when it hit me.

I began to tremble violently. Sweat suddenly poured from my body like water from a compressed sponge, dripping from my head and drenching my summer clothes in seconds. A moment later my knees began to buckle. My breathing became labored, and I gasped for air as if I had just run a mile at full speed. I felt exhausted. My muscles seemed to turn to rubber, and I had to lean heavily on the cart to keep from collapsing. Wheezing audibly and shuffling because I could hardly lift my feet, I moaned, “Oh, Lord, what is happening to me? Please help me make it to the front of the store where someone will help me.”

I managed to reach the checkout area, where shoppers didn’t even seem to notice my distressed condition. No one offered help. I guess they didn’t know what to do. I clung to the cart for dear life and dragged myself to a cushioned couch at the in-store Starbucks, where I collapsed, panting for breath. Still, no one came to my aid. One thought played over and over in my mind: Call Steve! Call Steve! I’ve got to call Steve!

I dug out my cellphone and aimed my shaking finger at Steve’s number, hitting it after the third jab. The phone rang again and again. Oh, please pick up, Steve. Please! Three more rings and then his welcome voice said, “Hello.” I managed to convey my distress, and he said, “I’ll be right there.”

Though it seemed like an hour, it was only minutes before I saw him burst through the door and look anxiously in all directions. When he spotted me—collapsed, shaking, and soaked as if doused by a bucket of water—his eyes widened in shock. He rushed over and lifted me to my feet, and I leaned heavily on his arm as he led me staggering to the car.

It was a five-minute drive to the nearest hospital, but Steve made it in two. He pulled up to the emergency room entrance, and immediately I was whisked away to face a battery of tests, leaving Steve in the waiting room with worry as his only companion.

What was happening to me? All kinds of grim scenarios paraded through my jumbled mind. Could I be having a heart attack? A stroke? Did I have an aneurysm? I had no idea. With nothing to do but allow myself to be probed, monitored, pushed through pulsating machines, and scanned by X-rays, I imagined the worst. I felt powerless—a feeling that increased with each passing moment.

After three hours of tests, questions, and examinations, the doctor finally came to Steve and me with the results. I braced myself for the worst.

“We think you have suffered a panic attack.”

I stared at him for a long moment, unable to process the diagnosis.

Steve, who was at my side, jumped in. “What’s a panic attack?” He seemed relieved that it wasn’t a heart attack, but still puzzled.

“A panic attack,” the doctor said, “is a sudden episode of intense fear that triggers severe physical reactions even though there is no real danger.”

That explanation didn’t help. I couldn’t remember feeling any fear.

Steve looked at me and asked, “What would cause you to have a panic attack?”

“I have no idea,” I replied. I could not wrap my mind around a traumatic event so physically real being triggered by some nonexistent danger. What did I have to be afraid of? How could the placid, benign frozen-food section of a grocery store bring on such devastating symptoms?

None of this made sense to me or Steve. If anything, I should have been more relaxed and happier than ever. We had just returned from the best vacation we had ever experienced. Steve had sold our highly successful business a few years earlier, which allowed him to retire early. We now had the time and funds to fulfill our dreams and live happily ever after. We were supposed to be having the time of our lives.

We had spent three weeks on Maui, one of our favorite places in the world. Then after a brief stop at home, we flew overseas for another three weeks, including a two-week Holy Land tour. Those six weeks of seeing new things, visiting extensively with old friends, and spending time with each other had been rejuvenating and invigorating, both individually and for us as a couple.

Now, just twenty-four hours after returning home, I was in the ER with a doctor telling me I was reacting violently to some intense, violent fear of something that didn’t physically exist. Neither Steve nor I could understand it. We asked for more details.

When the doctor put the diagnosis in clinical terms, it confused me even more. He said I had adrenal stress disorder, chronic fatigue syndrome, and PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder).

“PTSD?” Steve repeated, incredulous. “Isn’t that what affects soldiers returning home from horrific war experiences? How could my wife have PTSD? She’s never been in the military, much less in a war.”

“No, of course she hasn’t,” he replied. “But PTSD is not necessarily related specifically to battle trauma. It affects more people than just soldiers. Anyone who has faced traumatic events in the past can have it, and the symptoms can remain hidden for years, then burst out at unexpected times.”

“Well, whatever caused my attack,” I said, “it happened, and it’s over now. So I guess I’m in the clear.”

“No, that’s not the way it works,” the doctor responded. “Your stress trigger needs to be identified and dealt with. If you ignore it, attacks like you had today will almost certainly continue.”

I still couldn’t understand why I would have PTSD. What kind of traumatic stress could I be reacting to? Where was all this coming from, and what could I do about it? Steve took me home. I was in too much of a fog to even think clearly, but Steve did enough worrying for both of us. While I began several months of rest, the engineer in Steve took over. He was driven to understand what had happened to me, so as soon as I was settled, he was on the Internet to learn all he could about this confusing diagnosis, while I began months of rest.

After searching numerous websites, Steve learned that the adrenal glands are the stress managers of the body. Their basic function is to control how we respond to stress. For example, if I were confronted with an external threat, such as being chased by a bear, a chain reaction would be set in motion. My entire nervous system would go into high alert. I would breathe faster. My heart rate would increase. Adrenaline would kick in. Blood vessels in my torso would restrict and push blood toward my arms and legs to give me the extra boost I needed to outrun the bear.

According to The National Institute of Mental Health of Bethesda, Maryland, “It is natural to feel afraid during and after a traumatic situation. Fear triggers many split-second changes in the body to help defend against danger or to avoid it. This ‘fight-or-flight’ response is a physical reaction meant to protect a person from harm.”1 This heightened alert state lasts as long as the danger is present. Once we are safe again, the body is supposed to revert to its normal state.

What can happen, however, is this: If we experience trauma of some kind and fail to address it adequately, especially in childhood, the brain will store the memory, often burying it deep in the subconscious mind. But because the traumatic event has not been resolved, certain situations will trigger the brain to act as though the threat is still present. The actual threat has passed, but our subconscious mind still perceives the danger as a threat even though it has been emotionally buried.

Steve learned that the problem with burying unresolved traumas of the past is that they don’t stay buried. Sooner or later they resurrect themselves in unhealthy ways. I may have suppressed or buried some past hurts and fears, but I buried them alive. The frightening or hurtful experience may be buried, but because it has not been resolved, it continually pushes to get out. The brain doesn’t want to face the emotional pain again, so it submerges the memory deep within the subconscious mind to prevent it from coming to the surface and forcing the conscious mind to relive the pain caused by the experience.

A battle to repress the traumatic memory rages deep within, and a person may not even be aware of it. But over time, the buried pain builds up so much emotional pressure that it can no longer be contained. Like an overheated engine bursting a water hose, the unhealed hurt spews out in the form of various symptoms. Those symptoms can include bad dreams, frightening thoughts, feeling tense or on edge, sleeping difficulties, angry outbursts, negative thoughts about oneself, avoiding contact with people, and secluding oneself.2

A trauma that hasn’t been dealt with can also trigger an extreme physical reaction, as it did to me in aisle 9 at Fry’s. The body somehow detects that something is wrong even though the danger cannot be consciously identified. The result can be a toxic buildup that overloads and eventually compromises the immune system. That leaves the body susceptible to all kinds of physical problems. That, apparently, was the case with me.

It is not uncommon for severe symptoms of buried hurts to be delayed for months or even years after the traumatic event occurs. That means buried, unhealed hurts will remain a problem until they are deliberately dug out and brought to the surface for healing.

What was my buried trauma? That was what I could not figure out. I led what many would consider the ideal life. I had a loving, hard-working husband and two lovely daughters. We had no financial problems. I watched my diet and exercised daily. I was involved in many church activities and ministries—a walking example of the perfect church lady. So what was this hidden problem that suddenly thrust its ugly, unwelcome face into my life?

While I was growing up, I don’t remember anyone ever telling me that suppressing hurts or feelings was a bad thing. In fact, I was encouraged to suppress them. Yet now it seemed I was being put on notice that somewhere along the way I had buried a severe hurt and if it was not unearthed and healed, it would act like a scabbed-over infection and cause real problems. My body had sounded a warning through the adrenal stress disorder and chronic fatigue syndrome. These outward physical signs were a way of getting my attention to tell me I needed to deal with the inward me. Indeed, they did get my attention, and Steve’s as well.

As I thought about it, I realized that I may have had warnings that this freight train had been barreling down the track toward me for some time. When Steve and I took our Holy Land tour just prior to my attack, my mind had begun to take on a negative, uneasy sensation as the tour guide led us through a museum filled with ancient Scripture manuscripts. Beautiful as the manuscripts were, I thought they looked fragile, worn, and tired, long exposed to the ravages of use and time. They were in grave need of protection and tender loving care. That’s why they were under glass in a climate-controlled museum. At that moment, I felt like those manuscripts. I was tired, my feet hurt, and I needed to sit for a while. The tour could go on without me for now.

Steve had just left the group a couple of minutes earlier. He had seen a place where he could buy a Diet Coke, and he set out to satisfy his thirst, intending to catch up with us later.

I headed in the direction he had gone, hoping to find a place to sit. I was not concerned about anything except my aching feet—until I got to the place where I was sure Steve would be and found that he wasn’t there. Suddenly I felt a twisting sensation in my stomach. I looked around every corner, down every corridor, but I saw no sign of him.

I knew he couldn’t have gone far. Logically, I understood I was in no danger. I thought, as soon as Steve realizes I’m not with the group, he’ll immediately come find me. Yet my logic began to be supplanted by an emerging dread, fueled by weariness and aching feet. I began to feel alone and helpless. I started to cry. This is typical of Steve, I thought, just to disappear without warning, without regard to my feelings, following whatever shiny object catches his attention. I began to feel panicky. I was alone in a foreign country, and he was nowhere to be seen.

I need not have worried, of course. Steve did miss me and set out to search for me. He found me quickly, before the seeds of my anxiety sprouted into a full-blown attack.

Had I been honest with myself and explored my feelings a bit further, I would have realized that I often had moments of this kind of budding anxiety in my everyday life. I would feel stabs of fear when there was no visible threat, and I had been developing sleep problems.

Looking back at these events, I can see that the PTSD did not just appear out of nowhere. It had given warning signs of its approach like the distant rumble of thunder presages a full-blown storm. But I could not figure out what the source of my problem might be, so Steve and I remained perplexed by the whole experience, mainly because we had not connected the dots. We couldn’t imagine that I had buried any kind of pain or trauma that could affect me so dramatically.

In the following days, things seemed to return to normal, and our fears began to dissipate. “You know, Steve,” I said one day, “I think whatever it was in my past that caused the panic attack must have been released in the attack itself. That hidden incident just needed to boil over and explode. It did that at Fry’s Marketplace, and that’s that. It’s all over, and we need not worry about it anymore.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” Steve agreed. “Things are now back to normal, and we can get on with our travels. The more we worry about it, the worse it will become.”

Or so we thought. But my body didn’t get the message.

A few days later, I was upstairs in our two-story home. I wasn’t doing anything strenuous or thinking anything stressful. Nothing was on my mind that should have triggered another attack. But suddenly I found myself on the floor, flat on my back. I couldn’t move. At that moment even lifting my head was impossible. My body felt like it weighed four hundred pounds.

I tried to roll over so I could at least crawl to a phone and call for help, but the best I could do was curl up in a fetal position. I couldn’t even raise my hand. It seemed as though my body had gone on strike, refusing to follow orders from my brain.

In the grocery store, I had been unable to control the shaking, but at least I could move my feet well enough to shuffle along. This time I couldn’t even do that. My body was in complete rebellion, as though to say, “You don’t like shaking? Well then, we won’t move at all. We’ll just lie here. See how you like that!” I knew Steve was on his way home, so I quit struggling and lay there crying as I waited for him.

It seemed that I had lain there for hours, though it was really only about fifteen minutes before I heard Steve walk into the house. When he got halfway up the stairs he could hear me crying, and his pace quickened as he hurried to my side.

“Barbara, what in the world has happened?” he cried as he helped me sit up.

“I—I don’t really know. I think I fell … or … or … collapsed. At least, I was standing and feeling okay, then I was on the floor. Felt heavy … Couldn’t get up … Couldn’t move at all. I was so scared.” I started crying again.

Steve brought me a sandwich and something to drink as he tried to soothe me. “Okay, okay, it’s all right now. Everything’s going to be fine. Apparently, you have issues we’ve got to deal with. We’ll figure this out and get to the bottom of it. Just relax for now.”

I could tell by Steve’s tone that he was frustrated. He had plans for us—travel, ministries, projects—and my persistent problem seemed likely to throw a wrench into the gears. He wanted to fix things—to fix me, that is—so we could get on with our plans.

When I finished my sandwich, I said, “I’m sorry, Steve. I don’t want my problem to cause us to miss out on—”

“It need not cause us to miss out on anything,” he interrupted. “I’ll just get someone who’s qualified to help you get beyond whatever this thing is that’s messing up your life.”

“I just don’t get it,” I said. “If I don’t know what childhood traumas are affecting me now as an adult, what am I supposed to do? How can I deal with them?”

“It doesn’t make sense to me either,” Steve agreed.

Despite our doubts and confusion, medical professionals insisted that some buried trauma in my past was causing my present health crisis. And if my past was affecting my present, then it wasn’t really in the past—it had broken out of the past and invaded the present. It was somehow with me right now, intruding into my life and causing me great distress.

I had no idea what it was, but I knew I must begin my search for the offending culprit.

2

In Search of the Real Barbara

That second panic attack left me with several ongoing issues, including back pain, low blood sugar, low blood pressure, chronic fatigue, and foggy thinking. But to me, the worst problem was my inability to sleep.

After that second attack, Steve insisted that I not be left alone, even for an hour or two. We recruited the help of a young woman I know who is a trained caregiver. When this caregiver was off duty, Steve made sure I had someone on hand to help me physically whenever it was needed. He usually hired women from an agency.

Whatever the problem was, it clearly wasn’t rooted in my present life, or at least it didn’t seem to be. The problem couldn’t be in my marriage. Steve and I got along wonderfully. I loved him and he loved me. The problem couldn’t be financial worries. Steve’s sale of his business had left us well positioned financially. The problem couldn’t be any unmet physical needs. I had everything I needed physically. We lived in a lovely home, had plenty to eat, had good health (up to now), and all such needs were met. The problem couldn’t be in my spiritual life. I knew Jesus personally and had followed him faithfully since my conversion at age fourteen. By all appearances I was living a wonderful life.

To help me get to the bottom of things, Steve called a family friend, Linda Milner, a highly successful certified life coach. It was the best thing we ever did throughout the entire ordeal. She came to our house almost daily to walk me through a recovery process, becoming my guide to help me deal with whatever was causing my problem.

To know Linda is to love her. Imagine a petite bundle of wiry-blonde energy, with wide eyes that are kind yet piercing. She bubbles with wit and humor, and is blessed with an infectious laugh at anything funny that inevitably draws you to join the merriment. While tender and caring when it’s called for, she is also tough, no-nonsense, and unbending as an oak tree when necessary.

Before I tell you how Linda began working with me, it will give you some insight into what follows if I back up and explain some of my earlier contacts with her. She knew from the beginning that I was as emotionally “frozen”—to use her word—as I could be. One of our first interactions came in Steve’s office where we talked about our past. I had very limited memory of my childhood, especially of my dad, and Linda met with me alone a couple of times to explore that, without much success. I remembered that he and my mom divorced, that he was a really nice guy, and that we went to see him every summer. That was about it.

But that was not the end of Linda’s probing. Sometime later, a friend invited me to attend one of Linda’s professional retreats and one of the goals of the retreat was to help women get in touch with their past and draw out any buried, unhealed emotions that might be disrupting their present lives.

Near the end of the retreat, we did a visualization exercise. We all sat in a circle with music playing in the background, low enough that we could hear Linda but loud enough that we couldn’t hear each other. She handed each of us a pillow to use, in case we needed to cry into it or to muffle something we said that we didn’t want anyone else to know. Presumably we could also punch it if we felt the need.

“I’m going to describe some pictures,” Linda began, “and I want you to visualize them. They will bring up memories from your past that you may have forgotten.”

The goal was to evoke emotions linked to the pictures. The visualized images, the music in the background, and the memories worked together to activate all the senses simultaneously. Linda wanted us to get painful memories out in the open.

We closed our eyes and she started describing a scene as we tried to visualize ourselves walking through an area, looking at the things she designated. She described vignettes that seemed almost random, though they weren’t. She described old dusty pictures or a pile of junk sitting to one side of our path. As she spoke, our minds filled in the details, and the dusty pictures became old family photos. The junk piles transformed into images of old toys and childhood treasures and they conjured memories of events and the people associated with them.

At least that’s how it seemed to work for everyone else in the room. Unintelligible murmuring by voices hidden in the pillows surrounded me as Linda encouraged us to give voice to what we were feeling, to say what we had always wanted to say and never could. Linda walked around the circle, whispering in our ears, “Tell them how they hurt you. Tell them how angry you are. Tell them how you feel. Tell them!” In a short time the voices gave way to crying.

Except for me. I wasn’t feeling anything. I dutifully buried my face in the pillow and went through the motions, mustering up the best display of emotion I could. Anything to get this exercise over with. I hadn’t really wanted to come on the retreat in the first place.

The recorded music finally came to an end, but instead of moving on, Linda started it over again. And when it ran out a second time, she started it for a third round. She told me later that she knew I was faking it. And she wasn’t about to let me get away with it. Years of working with all kinds of people had made her very perceptive. The other women had broken through to deep emotions, but she would not be satisfied until I joined them. She could tell that I wasn’t hiding my feelings; I just didn’t have access to them.

Then something remarkable started to happen. Long forgotten memories started to creep in and as they did, I started to … feel. I broke and suddenly real tears poured out. It was painful, yet it felt wonderful at the same time. The euphoria of that experience went with me for a time after that retreat, but as often happens I gradually fell back into the same old habit patterns and closed up again.