Abuse... Accusations... and Adonai

I’ve avoided saying anything on this. I don’t like conflict. I don’t like being in the middle. And I have friends on both sides. But I’m hurting myself with my silence. Literally. I woke up yesterday with my lips clenched between my teeth so tightly I could taste the blood. My unconscious evidently echoing my attempt to clamp my mouth shut…. So… here goes….

I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.

I was abused on two separate occasions when I was probably 6 or 7. I don’t actually remember the date or even how old I was. Many years later, when I first disclosed the abuse, we narrowed it down based on where the abuser lived at the time and the knowledge that it happened before my mom gave me “the talk.” So… I don’t remember the date or even how old I was. That’s not uncommon.

I remember some things with a high degree of detail – I remember exactly what he said to get me to do what he wanted (he’d seen something in a magazine he wanted to try). I remember my confusion at why he would want to do what he was doing. I remember being asked to perform oral sex on him and refusing (that was too “gross.” All I knew about that body part was that boys peed with it!). And yet I don’t remember how my clothes were removed (did I do it? Did he?). I don’t remember what I was wearing (was it pants or a dress? Was my top unclothed or was it just from the waist down?). I don’t remember what happened after he was done. I don’t remember getting up and getting dressed (was he still there?). I don’t remember leaving the basement (did we leave together or one at a time?). I don’t remember returning to the family upstairs or how I interacted with anyone afterward. I don’t remember… a lot. So… while I remember the events in some pretty clear detail, I don’t remember what happened before or after. That’s not uncommon. It’s how the brain works under trauma.

I didn’t tell anyone about it until I was nearly 19. Early on it was “our secret.” Later, after I realized what “we” had really done, I was afraid of someone finding out what “I” had done. That wasn’t something “good” girls did before marriage! It wasn’t until years later I fully realized it was something he had done to me… not something I was responsible for. So… I waited more than a decade before telling anyone about it. That’s not uncommon. Some for the same reason as I; some because they fear retribution; some because they fear not being believed.

I realize that if I were to try to press charges now… or even back when I first disclosed… there would be no credible corroborating evidence. There almost was… my younger sister started down the stairs to that basement while I was lying unclothed on the floor. My abuser yelled out to her to go back upstairs. She remembers it – entirely independently of my memory – and remembers feeling scared and like something “really bad” was happening in that basement. It’s a moment engrained in her memory as well as mine. But she didn’t actually witness it. And a decade later there wouldn’t have been any sort of DNA or any other corroborating evidence. So… I have no evidence. Again, that’s not uncommon.

So… I can see the fallacy and weakness in arguments some of the Kavanaugh defenders hold up. I really can. And I want to point out those things. Those arguments are damaging to those who have been abused and to how we approach those who have been abused. A delay in disclosure and what would seem like significant missing details are normal! We cannot hold those things up on their own as evidence to discredit the accuser or judge the allegations as false.

After my abuser's funeral, I finally disclosed for the first time to my future husband. And… after that… rather reluctantly to my parents. I’m not sure why I was still so reluctant. I actually wouldn’t have disclosed to them then if I’d had any choice. But... I was lucky… I was believed. Unfortunately, my participation in various support groups has shown me that belief is all too often not the case. Skepticism and disbelief are not uncommon… and are frequently even more damaging than the abuse itself.

And yet….

And yet we are a nation whose legal system has been founded on due process and the belief that a person is innocent until proven guilty. The burden of proof lies with the accuser, not the accused. And in aggravated criminal cases it must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt. The reason for this should be clear: if not for due process and the burden of proof, anyone – at any time – could be accused of something of which they are innocent. A person could face imprisonment or death by a simple accusation.

We look back on the Salem Witch Hunts as a dark time in our history. Innocent people were burned at the stake due to mob behavior, vigilante justice, and a lack of due process. False accusations with no burden of proof. If you didn’t like someone, just accuse them of being a witch and problem solved. If someone were to defend the accused, well, then, that person must be guilty too.

Today, I see people rising up and condemning without due process in all sorts of situations and my heart sinks. We see something on the news or on social media and with mob-like vengeance we shake our fingers in condemnation and call for what we believe to be justice… Without ever really allowing for due process to know what justice really is.

I wonder if our great-grandchildren will look back on this moment as an equally dark time in our nation’s history. As of this moment, there is no preponderance of evidence against Judge Kavanaugh. In fact, those very witnesses which Dr. Ford herself has named have refuted, not corroborated, her story. And yet we are ready to destroy a man we do not know. He stands lashed to that stake with the flames licking at his feet. And the mob gathers. If you don’t like someone, accuse them of sexual abuse and… yeah…. And if someone were to defend him well, then… yeah….

That’s why our legal system is based on the precept that a person is innocent until proven guilty. It’s too easy to lob an accusation at someone and destroy a life. There are those who argue that this is not a criminal case. True. But, honestly, a prosecutor wouldn’t touch it – there is no supporting evidence; no way to prosecute. Yet in a very real and crushing way, he has been declared guilty – his life forever changed. Not because there is any credible proof, but because a woman said so.

It sounds a little like Joseph. Tossed in jail because a woman said so. Actually, Potiphar’s wife even had a little more proof – she had a torn garment belonging to the accused. We sometimes question how Potiphar could believe Joseph would be guilty of such a crime – this man he completely trusted, who had lived an exemplary life in charge of his entire household. But isn’t that where we are today? Are we no better than Potiphar? Are we willing to destroy a man’s life because a woman said so? A woman without even a torn garment?

As a child who was abused, and as an adult who has many friends who have suffered abuse and then not been believed, I want to be able to always believe a child… always believe a woman… or a man… who claims abuse. But through my study and my work to heal I’ve learned a lot about how memory works. It’s not static. It evolves and changes with the story we tell ourselves. I actually have two different memories of how the stairs to that basement looked – one was straight and one was more of an “L” shape. I know memory is not infallible. There is a story in our family that has been told enough times that my husband swears he was there to see it. I know we were in a car on our way back from college and only heard about it. Memory is not infallible. And, furthermore, as a Christ-follower, I know we’re all messed up. We all lie at one time or another, for one reason or another. We live in a broken world with broken people.

And… as a believer… living in a broken world… I am given similar instruction to what the jurors in our legal system are given.

In Deuteronomy, Moses outlines to the Israelites the biblical qualifications given by Yahweh for bringing an accusation against someone:

“One witness shall not rise against a man concerning any iniquity or any sin that he commits; by the mouth of two or three witnesses the matter shall be established.” (Deut. 19:15, NKJV)

There it is… to bring an accusation we need at least two, preferably three, witnesses. Let me clarify that witnesses don’t necessarily need to be human. In our day and age a “witness” could be DNA, a fingerprint, a recording, a weapon… something that corroborates the accusation. The point is we are not to bring an accusation without any evidence. God is saying, long before the U.S. government, “Innocent until proven guilty.”

I admit… that can be a little hard to swallow when we can point to cases like mine where the accused would walk away due to lack of evidence… lack of witnesses. But the truth is, in a broken world, we either require evidence (witnesses) in order to have some sort of civility and in the process allow the possibility of injustice at times, or we require no witnesses at all and allow the possibility of injustice every... single... time. We either require evidence, or we allow a witch hunt. God sees the danger and He outlines His plan to protect the innocent in a fallen world: Two or three witnesses provide corroboration… which leads to credibility… which leads to clarity.

And it’s not just Old Testament that requires more than an unsubstantiated accusation. Jesus himself requires it. He actually quotes the Deut. 19:15 passage in his instruction:

“If your brother sins, go and show him his fault in private; if he listens to you, you have won your brother. But if he does not listen to you, take one or two more with you, so that BY THE MOUTH OF TWO OR THREE WITNESSES EVERY FACT MAY BE CONFIRMED.” (Matt. 18:15-16, NASB)

And in 1 Timothy 5:19, Paul reiterates the same principle:

“Do not receive an accusation against an elder except on the basis of two or three witnesses.”

When God says something three times we need to sit up and listen. He’s serious. He does not want us to miss this. And if we look at the rest of the passage in Deuteronomy we see just how serious He is. First, He gives instruction on what to do if someone does bring an accusation without a witness. Then He tells us what should happen if the accuser is found to be false:

“If a false witness rises against any man to testify against him of wrongdoing, then both men in the controversy shall stand before the Lord, before the priests and the judges who serve in those days. And the judges shall make careful inquiry, and indeed, if the witness is a false witness, who has testified falsely against his brother, then you shall do to him as he thought to have done to his brother; so you shall put away the evil from among you. And those who remain shall hear and fear, and hereafter they shall not again commit such evil among you. Your eye shall not pity: life shall be for life, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.” (Deut. 19:16-21, NKJV)

God takes false accusations seriously! The accuser is to be dealt the same punishment the accused would have if found guilty. Note, though, that God puts limits on it. The same, not more. Life for life; eye for eye… we can’t go life for eye. He is a just God.

Still, even with limits, the punishment may seem harsh. Why does God insist on such strict measures? Because God knows the human heart. If the accuser is allowed to bring unsubstantiated accusations and faces no consequences then false accusations will run rampant. The accused may be unfairly judged and have his reputation ruined or receive unearned punishment. And if not, well… no harm, no foul, right? Move on and try again another day. The accuser has no incentive not to try again. In fact, it’s just the opposite.

If we allow someone to be found guilty (either legally or public opinion) without corroborating evidence (witnesses) then false accusation will be rewarded and not punished. People will be motivated to use it, not deterred by any (non)consequences. It will become an everyday weapon. We’ll set a new precedent while abandoning both God’s law and the time-tested ways of justice. Every single one of us will be guilty until proven innocent.

I am not saying Dr. Ford has brought false accusation. She could be telling the whole truth. She could be telling truth as she remembers it (keeping in mind that memory is fluid and fallible). What I am saying is she has not brought forth anything to back up her accusation. And, in fact, her witnesses have refuted it and her own testimony gives us reason to question her honesty. (E.G. she claims she didn’t want to testify because she’s afraid of flying and yet we find that she flies for fun, family and business).

What I am saying is that even if she is telling the entire truth, we set a dangerous precedent if we derail Judge Kavanaugh’s life without some sort of supporting, credible evidence. If we let that happen, all that is needed to ruin someone is an accusation. No evidence. Guilty until proven innocent.

And, finally, one more thought. If the accusation she brought were undeniable, unrefuted fact (which it is not)… Does a sin 36 years ago, as awful as it is, disqualify a person who has lived an exemplary life since then from becoming a Supreme Court Justice? Please know, I am NOT saying boys will be boys and we should turn our eyes away. Boys need to be taught better and disciplined severely for that type of behavior!

But if you are quick to say something 36 years ago does disqualify him from service today – despite his apparently exemplary life since then and even now – I’d ask you to consider Moses. Before he was a lawgiver… before he sat and made decisions on the disagreements of the Israelites (he did act as judge for his people!)… before that… he was a murderer. It was witnessed. He never served time. He must have been terrified to go to Pharaoh knowing what was in his past! But 40 years (and God) had changed him. He went from lawbreaker and murderer to lawgiver and trusted judge. I’d ask you to consider David, Israel’s greatest king… also a murderer and an adulterer. I’d ask you to consider Paul the apostle, who was Saul the persecutor and murderer. God seems to forgive and use. We tend to accuse and abuse. And, finally, I’d ask you to consider Joseph, a convicted attempted rapist who became the second in command for all of Egypt. Yes, he was wrongly accused. But Pharaoh had no way of knowing that.

I want to make clear that my heart breaks for victims of sexual abuse. My heart is torn into shreds by the stories of those who weren’t and aren’t believed. I see them on my support groups with heartbreaking frequency. I’ve met several of them. Listened to many more. I know they are out there. But I couldn’t, even given that, toss aside the time-tested ways of justice and the mandates of God’s law in order to condemn a man whom the evidence has shown to be an honest, God-fearing, woman-cheering, man.

I have to ask... which is the more grievous error: to set free a guilty man, or to condemn an innocent one?

Based on Deuteronomy 19, I’d have to say God would answer the latter.


-jenn

Fishing Boats & Falling Chains

I saw something out on the lake last night I didn't expect. Felt something I didn't expect. But... well... I guess I should back up a little....

Healing is hard work. And while I recognize the people and circumstances that God has placed in my life at just the right time, truth is… most of the time I feel like I’ve done a lot of it. I’m the one who has had to look at it… see what it means… recognize the way things have impacted me… fought to step out of those protective mechanisms and become more whole. But there’s one area that’s just hard. I haven’t figured out how to do it. It’s not as simple as learning to be more open; or gaining the courage to face conflict; or trust someone else enough to share what’s going on inside me.

No… this is about actually feeling what’s going on inside me.

Emotions. Ugh. I learned to “stuff” them a long time ago. And despite the fact that I know it’s not healthy… and I know I need to feel and express them… I haven’t been able to figure out how. How do you feel something you’ve shoved so far down that you aren’t even fully cognizant of it yourself? There’s no book that tells you how to feel emotions; no 10-step method to success. I simply cannot fathom how to begin.

Earlier this year, it came up in a therapy session (again). And as I pondered it in the following days, I eventually came to this conclusion: This is something I can’t do. This is something only God can do. This… this is where I wait on Him… this is where He gets to show off. I. Just. Can’t.

It was only a few days after that revelation that my pastor preached from the pulpit on Acts 12:7:

Suddenly an angel of the Lord appeared, and a light shone in the cell. Striking Peter on the side, he woke him up and said, "Quick, get up!" Then the chains fell off his wrists.

As my pastor made the point that nothing can hold what God wants free, I knew I was hearing from God. He was giving me confirmation of what I’d come to days before: He wanted those stuffed, bound, emotions set free… and He had every intention of loosing the chains that held them. Him. Not me.

A few days later, some other things began unfolding that took my focus off my struggle with my emotions. Honestly, I kind of forgot about it in light of other things happening. And yet… those other things… unbeknownst to me… were loosing the chains without me even noticing.

It started a couple of months later with beginning to feel the good emotions – extremely joyful, contented emotions. A compliment from my husband a couple of weeks ago actually unleashed tears of joy as it touched something deep within me. Definitely not my norm! But it didn’t stop there… on the heels of that burst of emotion, I felt something else… something sad and grief-like. I told my husband, "...it's like opening my heart to the good emotions cracked open the door to others, buried deeper." I didn’t really recognize them, or where they came from… just a general feeling that there was something sad there.

And then… then last night… a grief I could recognize and name… a grief I should’ve dealt with 25 years ago… surprised me as it pushed through that door. I journaled:

Quiet day.

The first day with all the windows open. A slight breeze coming in off the lake most of the day. The sounds of water lapping the seawall… flag rustling in the wind… birdsong… neighbors putting in their dock. Sun coming in the windows….

As I worked on supper, the breeze laid. I turned on some soft praise music. And as I turned in the kitchen and saw evening falling on the lake… with quiet music filling my heart… peace… joy… out of the corner of my eye, in my mind, I saw my grandpa’s fishing boat out on the water. I felt it as much as saw it.

I don’t often get emotional thinking of my grandparents (it’s been nearly 25 years since Grandpa began swapping fish stories with Jesus’ disciples).... But tonight, tears gather. And to be honest, I’m not even sure if they are tears of joy or sadness. I feel joy in my heritage. Not just this lake, but my faith. Not just my grandparents, but the great-grandma whom I only have vague memories of, but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt prayed for us. It was who she was – a woman of faith and prayer. And so… there’s joy… at knowing my heritage… knowing they would have loved this evening… in this place… the same way I do.

And yet… at the same time… a longing…. To share this evening with them. To hear my grandpa’s laughter echo out over the water… to see his pole with a line out over the side of the boat… to feel their love surround me…. To sit and talk with my great grandma Cora about her life and faith. How did she become the woman she was? What was it that shaped her into such a strong woman of faith?

And, oh… to see Grandpa’s boat headed toward shore.

He would’ve loved this evening on the lake.

And I would have loved to share it with him.

And the tears fall.

Yeah… I’d say God’s working on those chains. :)

Slowly… gently.… Without me even realizing it.

I am realizing that my chains aren’t going to just fall off like Peter’s. They’ve been too tight for too long. Too much, too quickly… in something that’s been so cutoff for so long… would cause more harm than good, I think.  And so I know... it’s kindness that loosens them a little at a time.

It is… Jehovah Rapha.

-jenn

Even When You Don't Know You Need It (Life Lesson from my Chiropractor)

Two days ago, I woke with a hip that did not want to move correctly. It was tight and painful. It didn’t matter whether I sat or stood, I couldn’t find relief in any position. Yesterday, it was worse. I couldn’t bend forward. At all. Just the weight of my hands in front of me rinsing out an article of clothing in the sink caused enough pain to make me feel nauseated. My husband urged me to call our chiropractor. I did. But... I kid you not, less than five minutes after making the call, I put my heel up on a stair for a hamstring stretch and heard a very deep, very solid “pop.” Oh. Yup. That was it, I just knew it. But I felt a little foolish thinking about calling back just a few minutes after making the appointment to tell the office staff “never mind.” I wasn’t entirely sure, anyway – muscles tend to take a bit to settle down after something like that. So… I didn’t call.

Sure enough, this morning the hip felt pretty much normal. I considered calling and canceling my appointment. But I have this thing about commitment – especially when someone’s livelihood depends on it. I feel like it’s really rude to cancel without significant notice. What if they can’t fill my spot? So… I kept the appointment. I drove the 1.5 hours into the office (yes, I love my chiropractor that much, lol). I told him what had happened and he went to work. We chatted as he worked on my normal problem areas and I got in the car to come home.

And you know what? I felt better than I had on the drive in. I hadn’t felt bad on the drive in… if you’d asked me, I would have said I was fine and didn’t really need the appointment. I wasn’t in any pain, no noticeable tension… it was a good drive up. But on the way back, I could feel a difference. I felt looser and more “free.” And not just that hip, but my entire body – neck; back; shoulders; even a foot, lol. On the drive up, I honestly hadn’t noticed feeling tight or stiff at all. But after the visit, I noticed the absence of the tension I didn’t even know I was holding. I noticed the more relaxed feeling in my body.

And it hit me… how that picture of freedom I didn’t know I needed… healing I didn’t know I needed… reflects my life as a whole. I saw how my chiropractor’s touch on my body reflects the touch of God on my life... brokenness healed by a touch I didn’t even know I needed.

I was 18 when I first disclosed that I’d been sexually abused. I’d been 6 or 7 when it happened, and I assured those I disclosed to that I was fine – it had been a long time ago and I’d dealt with it… hardly ever thought about it. The only reason I thought about it then was in large part due to my abuser’s recent suicide. I actually felt compassion and grief realizing he had hurts I knew nothing about. My anger had dissipated years ago. My grief now was for him, not me. I was fine. I even counseled a few people in later years who were dealing with their own experiences with abuse – assuring them that it was possible to live a normal life after abuse. I was good, after all.

And then… over 20 years after I disclosed… in my mid-forties… I sat across from a Christian psychologist and told him I didn’t know why I had trouble sharing emotion and hurt with my husband – I knew he would never hurt me. And our counselor looked at me and asked who had hurt me. I couldn’t come up with anything other than childhood bullies. But as he began flipping though my chart, I suddenly knew what he was looking for. My abuser’s name quietly slipped through my lips. I argued, though: That was years ago; I didn’t harbor any hurt or anger – I’d forgiven and moved on.

What I began to see, though, – starting that day and continuing over the next few years – was the damage I hadn’t even been aware I carried. It’s been hard work. It’s still hard work at times. But there have also been times I’ve felt the difference. I’ve stepped out in a freedom that felt new and different. Lighter. God was (and is) slowly healing things I didn’t even know were broken.

I won't lie... sometimes that healing involves pain. It means touching areas I'd just as soon leave alone. But afterwards there’s a new freedom in places where I didn’t even realize anything was "stuck."

Like the visit to my chiropractor, sometimes I’ve felt the new freedom more than I’d noticed the existing tension. It’s funny how you can be broken and not even realize it. I think we all have those places. We're used to it. It feels normal to us. Only when healing comes do we notice the difference.

And… as I sit here feeling the beginning of tension in my hip again… I know, too, that there’s still work to be done. It’s a process. And one I need to participate in. It’s time to stretch… in more ways than I probably want to consider. But that’s how freedom comes… even when you don’t know how much you need it.

-jenn

Into the Mess

Image by ChariT's Inspirational Creations

In some ways, I was a bit hesitant about publishing "Sound Reflections: Echoes of my Boots." I felt it was a good piece to share – it spoke of hope and it was true at the moment. But I also knew that other moments might be different – in fact WOULD be different. That's the funny thing about healing – it doesn't take a linear path. It's a jagged line with peaks and valleys. The general direction is usually up, but sometimes those valleys can plunge dramatically – perhaps even further down than the last dip. Sometimes the valley may even seem to be more of a gorge with a raging river running through it.

"Echoes of my Boots" was from one of the peaks. I knew there would be more valleys, so part of me hesitated to publish a post that might imply everything is now all good. It's not. Healing is a process. Sometimes it gets downright messy and unpredictable. Sometimes it seems to go backward before it goes forward. Sometimes you manage to take a few steps only to be knocked back again. Often you find yourself tumbling toward the valley floor only moments after standing on the peak. If you are in that place, healing from ANY hurt, please know that's normal. Things often get worse before they get better.

When I clean out a junk closet I usually drag everything out to sort through it all. The mess I create in the process actually looks worse than it did before I started. That's probably part of the reason so many of us put off doing it. As long as the door is closed, everything is okay. At least, it seems okay. We do a pretty good job of acting like it is – even convincing ourselves that it is – until someone opens the door a crack and gets a peek at our mess... or until that one last thing you want to stuff behind the door causes the entire mess to come crashing down around you.

My psychologist cracked open that door for me a couple of years ago. I'd been convinced there wasn't even anything in that closet. When he suggested there was, I denied it: Everything's okay, nothing to see here. I was wrong. He saw what I couldn't see. The mess in that closet – the broken trust of that six year old little girl¹– rules my reactions. It affects how I view the world, myself, and how I react to others – with reactions that aren't always justified.

We've been working on that. But to change something, first you have to be aware of it. To be aware, you have to look at it – really look at it. You have to take it out of the closet, out of the box. Once it's out you have to deal with it. You have to face those emotions and reactions. That's where it gets messy.

In "The Wounded Heart," Dan Allender wrote:

"The answer involves a strategy that seems to intensify the problem: peer deeply into the wounded heart. The first great enemy to lasting change is the propensity to turn our eyes away from the wound and pretend things are fine. The work of restoration cannot begin until a problem is fully faced.²

The truth is that we don't want to clean out that closet. We don't want to look. But we have to look if we want to change. We have to peer deeply. And if we find the courage (or the desperation) to do that, it seems to actually intensify the problem! Ugh! Emotions and reactions come to the surface with surprising strength. Messy. Painful. It gets worse before it gets better.

Recently, my psychologist asked how I was doing. After a few moments' hesitation and reflection, I answered:

"I feel worse... but I think it's because I'm doing better."

He smiled and nodded, affirming: "I couldn't have hoped for a better, more profound answer." Then, of course, he asked me to explain.

I felt worse because peering into the wound had stirred up emotions and reactions that had been suppressed. They were no longer stuffed behind the door, but were beginning to spill out. That week I'd seen in myself an unjustified reaction toward my husband and I'd cried in his arms because of it. That was the feeling worse. But it was also doing better. I'd actually allowed myself to feel – and that was progress. It's difficult for me to allow myself to feel and express emotions. I've pushed down and invalidated my own feelings for so long that most of the time I can't tell you what I'm feeling because I don't even know myself. It's amazing how much time I've spent on my psychologist's couch in stumped silence because I had no answer for his questions of what/how I was feeling! It's something we've been working on for over two years... with a frustrating lack of progress. But that week I'd seen my brokenness. I'd seen how it hurt my relationship with my husband. And... I was heartbroken over it. Heartbroken and angry that all I had to offer my husband was my brokenness. I was at that spot where the mess (part of it anyway) was out of the closet. I felt worse. But I was doing better.

I've been going through that closet now for a couple of years. Things have been wedged in there so tightly it's taken a lot of tugging to pull it out. Sometimes I feel like I'm getting a handle on it – times like I wrote about in "Echoes of my Boots" or "Changed by Story." Sometimes I get blindsided by something I didn't see coming – like when a simple devotional recently had me sobbing (and totally freaking out) in my husband's arms. But I'm learning that the mess can just be that for now – a mess. It's okay. God took 40 years to teach Moses humility, patience, and trust as a sheep herder in the desert (after he killed the Egyptian and in preparation for the Exodus). God used 17 years of slavery and imprisonment to prepare Joseph to act as second in command of Egypt. So it's okay if it takes some time. It's okay to sort through it a few things at a time, going through it on my own time, in my own way. It's even okay that sometimes it seems like the mess is bigger, not smaller. That just may be what Joseph was feeling as he sat in that jail! I do wish I didn't have to remind myself of that so frequently, though....

The important thing is to open the door; to go into the mess. If we are willing to go into it, God will bring us through it. The Apostle Paul promises us that "He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." ³ So, yes, it's okay not to be "there" (wherever "there" is). It's okay to be a work in progress. It's okay to be a mess. As Ally in the movie "Mom's Night Out" says:

So keep looking; keep going in – because He will bring you through. He will complete what He's started!

-jenn

P.S. I thought the hand-stamped dogtag necklace in the top photo was pretty cool. It's available for purchase at ChariT's Inspirational Creations.

P.P.S  And, yes, now I want to see "Mom's Night Out" again. Great movie!

---

^1. See "Into the Silence" ↩
^2. From "The Wounded Heart" by Dan Allender (I also recommend "The Wounded Heart Workbook" to go with the book) ↩
^3. Philippians 1:6 ↩

Sound Reflections: Echoes of my Boots

It was a beautiful spring morning. I closed the car door and walked across the gravel parking lot, crossing the street and stepping onto the sidewalk outside the church. I smiled inside at the sound of my boot heels on the walk beneath me. I'd noticed it before – a small sense of satisfaction at the sound of the new boots clicking with each step. As someone who is in sneakers far more than anything even remotely resembling a dress shoe, and is far more comfortable in those sneakers, I had assumed the satisfaction was part of the healing from my sexual abuse... finally starting to take joy in being female... feeling good about myself... enjoying a sound which reflected that change... a sound which was... uniquely female. 

As I crossed the walk that morning, though, my mind suddenly flashed back to a conversation in my psychologist's office just a few days before. I'd confessed to him several weeks ago that when I become highly upset, I have a deep desire to throw things. I had been realizing there was evidently more anger buried inside than I'd wanted to admit, even to myself. In my last session I'd told him that as I'd thought more about it, though, I'd realized the desire really wasn't just to throw something. I wanted the satisfaction of throwing it against a wall and hearing it shatter into a million places. I'd come to realize that while there might be some physical release from hurling an object through the air, it would feel empty without the sound of it shattering as it hit the wall. It was the sound my soul was screaming for. The sound... shattering the silence.

I've lived most of my life in silence... without a voice. As I'd thought about that desire to throw something and hear it shatter against the wall, I'd realized that even when I couldn't find my voice... even when I'd wanted to hide what had happened... somewhere deep inside there was still a little girl who needed her pain and anger to be heard. The shattering glass would give sound to the silence... sound to the shattered soul. It would be heard.  It would give voice to the pain that I was unable to give voice to.

All of that flashed through my mind as my boot heels sounded on the walk that morning. As it did, I realized that yes, there was a new "female" sound to my footsteps... a sound I took satisfaction in. It was more than that, though. It was also... just the sound itself. Firm. Solid. The sound of the boot heels echoing into the silence of the morning... breaking the silence... announcing my presence. It was a sound that said "I am here. Hear me."

And in that moment I realized... I had been doing so much more than trading in my sweatshirt for a sweater; my sneakers for new boots. I was trading in my silence... SHATTERING the silence. As I reached for the door I smiled.  My boots sounded on the walk below me, echoing the cry of my soul: I am here. I matter. Now hear me roar... into the silence. 

-- jenn

Into the Silence....

When I was six or seven...

I adored him.

He shared his secret with me.

Brought me into his confidence.

I wouldn't betray that.  No way would I betray that.

I adored him.

And so I kept... SILENT.

Later... he was in trouble.  Someone had told.

It wasn't me.  I frantically told him it wasn't me.

He knew.  He knew I'd kept his secret.

I didn't betray his trust.  I wouldn't betray his trust.

I adored him...

and now I'd proven my loyalty... my ability...

to keep... SILENT.

So he asked more.  And I gave more.

At least I thought I gave more.  Actually, he just took more.

He took... my innocence.

He abused my trust. He abused my loyalty.  He abused... me.

But I didn't know.

I thought I was special.

I didn't know... that I was just used.

I thought he liked me... thought I was special.

We shared this secret, he and I.

I adored him.

And so I kept... SILENT.

...

When I was eight...

I knew.

I sat beside my mom, a book in her lap, as she explained:

Ovaries. Eggs. Fallopian tubes. Uterus.

Sperm.

A beautiful gift of love

within a marriage.

And just like that I knew.

And I knew that he knew.

And I knew that he knew that I didn't know....

And I knew anger.

He knew.  He should have protected me. He didn't.
He knew. Yet he led me into it.
He knew... that I didn't know.  And he used it against me.
He didn't care.  He didn't think I was special...

just a little kid... too dumb to know any better.
Used.  
Silently raging inside.

And I did feel dumb.  I did feel foolish.

For crushing on him... for believing he cared.

For not knowing.

And so I kept... SILENT.

And I knew shame.

It wasn't really mine, but I carried it anyway.

Children of divorce and children of abuse.

Somehow we take the blame.

"It was my fault.  I let him."

My fault.

"I wanted his attention...
wanted him to like me."

My shame.

 And so at the tender age of eight

I knew.

I knew the wrong.

I knew the anger.

I knew the shame.

And I knew that no one else could ever know.

I knew.

And so I kept... SILENT.

But little girls can't keep silent.  Not entirely, anyway.

I acted out.

Things I shouldn't know.  But I did know.

And the older I became, the more I understood.

And the deeper the shame.

Not just for his actions.  But for mine.

And I knew... no one could ever know...

what I knew.

And so I kept... SILENT.

...

When I was eighteen...

I told.

Circumstances forced my hand.

And I told.

I told what he'd done.

And I told them I knew... it wasn't my fault.

It was something he had done... to me.

I told.

But not everything.

I didn't tell the shame I felt from my little girl crush.

I didn't tell the shame I felt from letting him touch me.

I didn't tell the shame I felt from wanting his attention

even after it happened the first time...

wanting his attention...

 to know I was still special

the next time.

I didn't tell the shame I felt... from the things I'd done.

I didn't tell the shame I felt... from things that still controlled me.

I didn't tell.

I still believed no one could ever know the whole.

I told.

And yet I kept... SILENT.

...

When I was forty-five...

I realized.

For the first time I put a name to it.

I'd known what had happened

but somehow

inexplicably

I hadn't put the name to it.

But then

I saw his actions... named in a book.

A book for survivors.

Sucker-punched... I saw the words

in black and white... on the page in front of me

and I realized

exactly what had been done.

A form of sex.  Abuse.  Sexual... abuse!

And for the first time

I realized I'd been harmed.

For the first time... in all those years...

I began to see the damage.

Lack of trust.  Lack of confidence.  Not good enough.
Shame.

Counseled:  "It's not your fault."

My head knew. I realized. But my heart still felt shame.

Foolish for crushing... believing... trusting....

Shame for acting out.

I could say I was abused.

I could even begin to admit I was damaged.

No shame in that.  It was something done to me.

But the details?  My part?  My actions afterwards?

No... no one would get to see that.

My counselor knew.  My husband now knew.

No one else could ever know.

I realized.

And yet I kept... SILENT.

....

When I was forty-seven...

I saw.

For the first time I saw how I treated that little girl within me...

telling her she'd make a fool of herself if I let her out.

I saw it wasn't other people who saw her as foolish.

It was... me.

I saw...

how satan had hijacked the woman God created me to be.

And I began to see myself

the way my husband sees me...

the way God created me.

A beautiful creation.

All of me.

I am loved.

I am enjoyed.

And for the first time

I could enjoy that

revel in it

delight in it.

And then...

I saw...

a story.

  

Another survivor.

She broke her silence.  Shared her story.

And hundreds of others followed

bringing their stories into the light.

I saw the beauty.  I saw the hope.

I saw the healing.

I saw just how much...

stories matter.

I saw...

Silence is not protection.

Silence is prison.

Silence is isolation.

Silence allows evil to go unchecked.

I saw...

Freedom and healing

are found in breaking the silence.

I saw...

There is beauty in sharing the story.

Beauty in discovering we are not alone.

Beauty in opening the door for others to step through.

Beauty in shining a light on the path

for others to follow

to share their stories

to break the silence

to find their stories... matter.

They are not... alone.

I saw.

I SAW!!!

And I can no longer

keep... SILENT.

I must... SPEAK.

Share my story.

Open a door.

Shine a light in the darkness.

I must... SPEAK...

INTO THE SILENCE

....

-jenn

Note:  The story I referenced above is an amazing read filled with hope and healing.  You can find it online at at http://inotherswords.com/2015/01/18/1473

Changed... by Story

I've tried to consider what to write about The Story Workshop I attended in Seattle: four days that I just can't really put into words. There was good teaching by Dan Allender in our large group setting. A psychologist and a theologian, he has the ability to really make you think. I loved sitting under his teaching (as I love reading his books). But where the work was really done was in our small groups... and confidentiality for those women keeps me from saying much about what happened there.

It's amazing that we walked into that first group not knowing each other at all and walked out probably knowing each other better than our best friends at home. The intimacy we shared was significant. We shared our stories... sometimes stories that had never been shared as they were there and sometimes stories that had never been shared at all. We helped each other discover our stories; see them more clearly. After journeying together the way we did, it seemed really strange to just walk away from each other at the end of those four days with just a hug and a blessing – most likely never to see or hear from one another ever again. Just a blessing? So much more. The blessings those women spoke over me have changed me. I hope mine have changed them as well.

I can't say that I walked away with an earth-shattering revelation or direction. And yet... I did walk away changed. I did discover some things about myself and my story that I hadn't seen before. And I think I walked away with a new sense of confidence. I still don't know quite what to do with that, but it's there.

So... what happened? Not what I expected. The problems I'd discovered on my own in the weeks before the workshop (e.g. perfectionism as my idol) never really came up. Instead, what came up was my own attitude towards that 6 year old girl who was abused. I had written my story from the perspective of an 8 year old and described what I felt when I discovered what had really been done to me: "Humiliation overwhelmed me as I realized I wasn't special to him, he didn't love me... I was just a dumb kid who didn't know any better... and he knew it." Through that and other statements that had described feeling foolish and stupid, my facilitator pointed out the hatred I had for that little girl. I argued the point, saying I was just describing how that little girl had felt, not what I now believed. Yet... over the next couple of group sessions, and an individual session, I began to realize that by "protecting" her and continuing to do everything in my power to make sure I was never caught unaware again, I was in fact still speaking disparagement to that little girl. Facing that was huge. I now realized I had to reach out to that little girl inside me and stop telling her she was stupid and foolish.

I was still grappling with that a couple of hours later when I walked into the next small group session... where I came face to face with another unexpected truth. Our facilitator had given me a compliment of sorts and as soon as I'd muttered my thanks, I realized I'd entirely forgotten what had just happened (what was I even being complimented on?). When I admitted it, our facilitator pointed out that I'd just left them... where did I go? I hadn't even seen it, but she did. And when she confronted me on it, I knew the truth of it... and the truth hit me with a searing pain. I didn't know where I had gone, but I knew why... I ran from being enjoyed.... and as we explored why I had that reaction, I suddenly knew... "because when I find out it's not true, it hurts too much."

I did a lot of thinking and writing that night....

I think I walked into the next small group session with a little more confidence. It must have been noticeable, because our facilitator finally turned to me towards the end of the session and said, "Okay... I'm curious...?" I ducked the question for a moment asking, "About what?" but when she just grinned and asked again, I pulled out one of the journal entries I'd written the day before and read it to the group: 

I'm shaking inside. As I question why every muscle is tensed, it occurs to me... I have fought hard: fought to maintain control; fought to deny the weakness of my own feelings; fought to portray an image of strength and self-sufficiency... to mask the quaking little girl inside me. 

I thought I was protecting her; shielding her from the world around her. She was too little; too innocent. She needed that protection. And all the while... all the while I was the one whispering to her, "You'll make a fool of yourself if I let you out." My protection condemned her to a life of silence. My protection took her voice... confirmed... confirmed what? I don't know. That she wasn't able to do it herself?

I called her names without even hearing it: Stupid... Dumb... Foolish.... I fought to make sure she would never face the humiliation of not knowing ever again; would never be made the fool of again. And by fighting... I pronounced her guilty of the very thing I wanted to protect her from.

So hear me now, little Jenn... you were the victim of an abuser. You were gloriously innocent. You looked up to his face with the glowing admiration and the unwavering trust of a small child. He abused that trust. It was his sin, his mistake, his responsibility. You weren't foolish. You were trusting. No one had ever given you reason not to trust before. You didn't know because you couldn't know. You gave him the gift of your trust. There is beauty in that. The evil of abuse marked that beauty, but it is beauty.

The problem is, little Jenn, that you've had a hard time with trusting ever since then. You don't trust others... and you don't trust yourself. I haven't trusted you.

So... dear, little Jenn... lift up your sweet, innocent face and look into my tear-filled eyes. Take my hand as we learn to trust... together. Truth is... I'm still scared of looking foolish... but somehow... I think maybe... just maybe... you... can teach me... how to play.

When I finished reading and looked up, tears were streaming down our facilitator's face.

After some discussion and affirmation, someone asked what I needed. I fumbled for a moment, not knowing. Then I realized... I told them I had to risk looking foolish. I needed to share something growing within me... I hesitantly stumbled over the words as I admitted that even before the workshop I'd been considering pursuing the lay counseling certificate... just to take something back to my home church. I was asked why that felt foolish... and I had to answer that I didn't like admitting desires... I'd prefer not to admit them even to myself... and that I didn't feel like I was good enough... that I struggled with having something to say... who was I to think I could help someone else? That's when nearly every member of the group looked me in the eye and spoke to me of the power of my words... of the way the Spirit had used me there in that room. I have a hard time writing that, actually... it feels like patting myself on the back and I hate that. But what was happening in that room was important... was working to tell that little girl inside that she wasn't stupid or foolish... that her voice could make a difference.

One woman looked at me and told me, "Every time I think of my breakthrough, I will see your face." I honestly didn't have a clue what she was talking about... what I'd said... but I couldn't doubt the look in her eyes. Her words to me were a powerful salve. I already knew another woman had shared something she had never shared before simply because I had shared my story. Now someone was telling me that something I had said to her had changed her as well. I walked out of the room a slightly different person than the one who had entered. Slightly more confident... contemplating what it all meant... willing to contemplate what it all meant....

The next day we had our large group celebration service. I sat until almost the very end, trying to deny the still, small voice inside that told me to get up and speak. This wasn't our small group, but the entire large group! I finally gave in, stood up, and spoke into the mic... not sure anyone could even hear my voice over the pounding of my heart. I spoke a few moments and then read the journal entry. I was still shaking when I sat down. One of my small group members leaned over to me and whispered, "You just changed lives." I didn't really believe her, but at least I'd been obedient. A little while later, though, at the conclusion of the celebration, another woman walked up to me from across the room, pressed a card into my hand, and asked me to email her what I'd read – saying it was something she'd needed to hear. I can't really say much beyond that except to say that the emails we've shared back and forth since then have confirmed what my small group member had told me: my obedience, my words... changed at least one life that afternoon.

So... now what? I'm not sure. I've still got my own issues and my own broken spots. And yet... there is such a strong desire to change lives... to just sit with someone in their story... to give them the freedom and the space to tell their stories. But what does that look like in reality? I really don't know. I'm at a loss... and more than a little scared of it... of even admitting it, actually. At a crossroads, too, I think... but more open. Changed... by story.

-jenn

For More information on The Story Workshop, see http://theallendercenter.org/workshops/story-workshop/

Whispers on the Water

I sit on a creek bank – an unexpected find. We signed the lease on this week's rental without having any idea that a small creek flowed alongside it. And so now I sit on its banks with a pen in my hand and a journal in my lap... listening to the gentle gurgling as it passes over the small rocks below me. Calming. Relaxing. Peaceful.

My mind flows to God's provision. He knows me so well... cares for me so well. To arrange for our rental unit to be the one right by the creek? A small little detail like that? I would have been fine without the creek. To discover it, though... especially after just recently beginning to see the pattern of water in my life? It was like getting a love letter from God.  He whispered His care in the sounds of the creek...  "See, Jenn?  I love you!"

I know not everyone has the same reaction to water. Even my own husband could take or leave lake living.  But I love how it's somehow constant and changing all at the same time: a living, breathing body of life. It grounds me; centers me; calms me; heals me; restores me... but it doesn't do that for everyone.  Some even fear it.  I... I find comfort in it.
 
I'm only beginning to see that about myself. I'm also just beginning to see God's wonderful provision of it in my life.  Even when I didn't know myself well enough to see it, God has woven its comforting presence through my life. Sometimes I have sought it out - like choosing vacation accommodations on the shoreline for our trip to Washington. But sometimes, like today, God has woven it in without my seeking – just knowing me well enough to know what I needed... even when I didn't know myself....
 
Today, it brought reflection.  A sense of how deep and wide and marvelous is the love of God.  A sense of how intimately He knows me... how completely He understands me.... 
 
Over four decades ago, my parents gave me my name.  They didn't know (and I didn't know until recently) that one meaning of my middle name, Lynn, is a small lake. I believe God whispered that name to my parents. They may have liked the name Jennifer, but I believe God wanted me, some four decades later, to understand how intimately He knew me... how completely He understood that part of me and would provide for it. Lynn. Lake. He spoke quietly; moved mightily; using the intimate knowledge of how I was made to provide the exact refuge I needed.
 
My parents moved to the lake when I was 2½ years old. I ran and played along its shores with my best friend. I fished its depths with my grandpa. It was the scene of an idyllic childhood – one I've enjoyed watching my children getting to experience for the last few years. It was also my comfort and my refuge when the rest of the world wasn't so idyllic. No matter how bad the day was at school; no matter the teasing, taunting, or humiliation... I was always at home on the lake. I belonged.
 
When I was in 3rd or 4th grade and the cruelty of the world encroached even on the lake, its water closed over me: hiding; shielding; wrapping me in a cloak of comfort and belonging I desperately needed.  I'd been kicked off the raft we shared with our neighbors. There was no explanation given. I had no idea what I'd done to deserve the rejection. To make matters worse, it happened in front of my visiting family. I was humiliated and confused. I remember feeling the water closing in over me as I slunk off the raft and sank beneath the surface... shielding and hiding me as I swam away in the underwater silence. As I struggled to control my emotions, it washed my tears into its own waters before anyone could see them. It held me... comforted me.  It's an image that still grips me today. When I become upset, I still long to sink below the water and let it surround and comfort me... closing out the world around me.
 
It's only recently that I've recognized the provision of a creek in my childhood, though. It wasn't as constant as the lake. It was woven into my life for only a few short seasons. My sister and I played along its banks a handful of times. My abuser lived near that creek.  By exploring its banks while my parents visited, I was not only calmed by the water, but spared the discomfort of being inside with him (note: my parents didn't know about the abuse until many years later). God knew me – intimately – and wove the creek into my life when I didn't even recognize the refuge He had provided... or even that I needed it.
 
As I walked along the banks of another creek a few months ago, though, God brought that forgotten childhood creek to mind and then spoke to me using the words from Psalm 46:

God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear....

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
The holy dwelling places of the Most High.
God is in the midst of her, she will not be moved;
God will help her when morning dawns.*

I believe God was telling me He placed that creek there for me – my refuge.  God doesn't dwell inside the city of Jerusalem anymore. He now resides in us... in me.  So... "There is a river whose streams make glad Jenn.... God is in the midst of her, she will not be moved; God will help her when the morning dawns." *
 
Using Psalm 46, He whispered to me of His provision of that childhood creek – showing me He'd been providing for me; understanding me; giving me refuge all along.  The whisper moved me deeply.  The thought that God would place a family along a creek to provide a refuge for me... to provide a place where I could be glad... where I could play in childhood innocence?  Wow. 
 
And so today, along the banks of another unexpected creek... an unexpected gift... I reflect on God's provision throughout my life.  The intimacy of it washes over me like the water over the rocks below me. I sit in awe and give thanks for the water... and for the God who knows me so well; provides for me so well; loves me so well. 
 
And as I sit listening to the creek... water... Living Water...  washes over me...  "See, Jenn?  I love you!"  Wow.  Just wow. :)

        -Jenn
 
*Dawn is when enemy attacks usually occurred in the Old Testament, so "God will help her when morning dawns" could be read, "God will help her when the battle begins."