A Survivor’s Mission the Making 

Read time: 16-25 minutes
Safe read: No graphic details are shared.

The story goes, I didn’t cry when I was born . . not in the conventional sense. I find this hard to believe, but my parents insist I merely whimpered and appeared determined to identify my whereabouts. This—I believe.

Perhaps I was born at ease with my Maker. Sacred Scripture assures that we are known by God in our mother’s womb. I can’t help but wonder if memory of the Divine lingers a few moments after one’s birth. Who’s to say, but I’m partial to the idea of coming into the world with a tiny awareness of God’s great love—the roots, perhaps, of all human longing. My formative years would be distorted by evil as God remained Sovereign over the redemptive shape of my suffering.  

Psalm 139: 13-14 You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb. I praise you, because I am wonderfully made; wonderful are your works! My very self you know . . . Your eyes saw me unformed; in your book all are written down; my days were shaped, before one came to be.

My parent’s marriage didn’t last long. By the age of six, the pillow I wrapped around my ears failed to muffle the sounds of irreconcilable differences, and they announced their resolve to divorce. I sought refuge behind the thick velvety curtains in our family room window. It was frightening to feel myself shrinking within my already tiny stature. What would become of my tears? Of me?

Psalm 126: 5 Those who sow in tears will reap with cries of joy.

My mother met and married another man soon after. He terrified me. Not in a way that makes a small child outwardly shake, but rather, inwardly. And so for eight long years it went unnoticed as he drained the color from a little girl’s world.

Matthew 18: 6—7 Whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a great millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea. Woe to the world because of things that cause sin! Such things must come, but woe to the one whom through they come!

My only reprieve was the fall semester of seventh grade when I moved to Iowa to live with my father and stepmother. They lived in a big white farmhouse with corn and bean fields as far as the eye could see. Breathtaking beauty was all around me. Life on the farm, however, was a mixture of wonderful and awful things. They were heavy drinkers and fought violently.

When I learned a small country church offered weekly youth gatherings, faithful attendance became a sure means to avoid home-life. I don’t recall experiencing any “spiritual awakenings “ within those four walls, but I liked the company. I was a creative child and preferred to be outdoors where I imagined the clouds were God’s beard. I rode horses, made hay-forts in the barn, and befriended every fragile living thing. To this day, I come to the aid of struggling butterflies and dehydrated worms on my walks with my yellow Lab, Hannah Banana. I stop to smell the roses. She stops to smell.

As the months passed in Iowa, my dad and stepmother’s behavior became increasingly erratic. When the townspeople began to whisper, I opted to return to Texas. On the surface my decision made no sense, but I’d only mastered the detachment of secret pain. In our small town it was impossible to keep the public humiliation hidden in the confines of my heart. What one cannot deny, one must feel. I wanted no part of it. I would complete the seventh grade in Coppell, TX.

There were two types of families in Coppell at the time, those who had a lot of money and those who had little. I lived in a mobile home and no one seemed to appreciate that it was a double-wide. After weeks of enduring the unique rejection self-entitled children have down to an art, a classmate invited me to church. I accepted, secretly hoping for a place to belong. It was a 1st Assembly of God church. And though they didn’t believe women should wear make-up or jeans, I leveraged their legalism for a sense of purity. Within a handful of Sundays I was ready to commune with Jesus in the great indoors.  

“Confess your sins and ask Christ for salvation,” they instructed. I desired salvation, but I was afraid to confess my sins. I never asked for those things to happen to me. It wasn’t my fault . . . or was it? Silenced by shame, I confided in no one and secretly feared I deserved the abuse. With all sincerity I prayed what Protestant Christians call “the sinner’s prayer” and continued to attend weekly services.

Summer camp was around the bend. Soon, hope would spring eternal in childhood innocence burnt to the ground. It was the best week of my young life. In addition to Bible study under the trees, we were taught to be still and discern the presence of the Holy Spirit. It was in this daily discipline that I first sensed God setting me apart for something good—something purposeful. I didn’t know how or when or why. I only knew my heart said yes. The car ride home went like this: “Mom, I’m going to be in ministry someday!”

“Oh, that’s nice honey.”

A few weeks later, I was baptized. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, I was fully submerged and raised. I remember hoping to feel pure. But the feeling faded, and I resumed taking 2-3 baths a day; desperate to soothe the perpetual sting of unwanted touch. Why didn’t I feel clean? (For this, too, I internalized shame.) How could God ever use someone like me?

I’ve since learned as a Catholic that the sacrament of baptism is not a feeling. It’s a fact. And the fact is, I arose “free from original sin; feet planted in the gateway to life in the Spirit.” The life sequences of my story—heartbreaking as they were—would one-day bear witness to this fundamental truth and pave a unique path to discipleship rooted in love for the broken and betrayed—Catholics and Non-Catholics, alike.

2 Samuel 14: 14 Like water spilled on the ground which cannot be recovered, so we must die. But God does not take like away. Instead, he devises ways so that a banished person may no longer be estranged from him.

After baptism, I was no longer estranged. You might say I arose as a deeply compelled seeker of Christ with high-level practices in personal hygiene. (Imagine Jesus gifting me with a rubber ducky, and it’s all good.)

As the abuse continued, I became increasingly aware of the presence of Christ in the still of the night. Throughout the day, I leaned heavily on Sacred Scripture. I carried my Bible with me everywhere I went. My classmates found unique ways to hassle me about my faith. One boy in particular taped pictures of goat’s heads and upside down crosses to my locker. It would be in-discrete to mention his name. (Brian. His name is Brian.) God bless you, Brian.

Overtime, organized religion took a confusing toll on me. No one in church gave the impression that they had problems. And the rules for being a good Christian overwhelmed me at times. I feared I was bad because I didn’t look good like them. That is, until someone the church deemed good did something bad. That fall, our youth pastor stole the funds for our trip to Colorado and skipped town. I was crushed. He was quickly replaced, and no one offered comfort to a group of betrayed and bewildered children. Church staff behaved as if nothing had happened and encouraged us to welcome the new and improved pastor and his wife.

They were a sweet couple. Misfits were welcome in their home, and over time I grew to love and trust them . . . until. I’d gone with a friend to pick up a pizza in the pouring rain, while turning a corner, I lost control of my mother’s car and slid into the ditch across from my pastor’s house.  I walked over and knocked, confident he would help. He answered the door; glad to see me until he noticed I was with a boy. From that he judged our accident was caused by inappropriate behavior and refused to offer aid.

A tiny fire rose up in my belly— only this time it wasn’t the Holy Ghost. Profanity poured from my mouth faster than the rain fell from the sky. My youth pastor took cover on his porch and watched with arms crossed as we enlisted the help of friends. Too young to separate my pastor’s actions from the nature of God, I deemed myself unloved and rejected. Good-bye church. Good riddance Christianity. I’ll go back to being godless. At least I’ll know what to expect. More than twenty years would pass before I would speak the name Jesus. Looking back, I believe God saw a small child with a little red wagon, threatening to run away forever. He sweetly thinks to himself, she’ll be back in an hour.

2 Peter 3: 8 But do not ignore this one fact, beloved, that with the Lord one day is like a thousand years and a thousand years like one day.

Adolescence was not an easy gig. As I studied how the outgoing girls behaved around boys, I more resembled a snake with a slow rattle. Trauma was the central theme of my life. God Almighty, when would it end? I missed Jesus, but remained silent and took up chain-smoking. Mid-way through my freshman year in high school, the capacity to live with the pain superseded my ability to cope, and I attempted a final goodbye.

Psalm 118: 17 I shall not die, but live and declare the deeds of the Lord.

Jesus embraced me with a visit from my science teacher, Mr. Peters. He was a gentle man whose concern for me revealed that not all men are harmful. For this I will always be grateful. After my hospital release, my stepfather’s drinking increased and his relationship with my mother unraveled. Physically I was free, but like any prisoner who lives behind bars too long, I was institutionalized. I lacked the knowledge to live outside of abusive relationships. Decades later, after two failed marriages to harmful men, I learned in therapy that prolonged child abuse forges a destructive template for adult relationships. Finally, someone said something that made sense. This too, was a gift from God.

I wish I could tell you that I healed overnight; that I overcame the effects of abuse in a “single-prayer-filled bound.” But I stood at the precipice of a really “messy middle.” Long story short, by 1999 I was an unemployed single mother with a six-month-old baby, two small boys, and no family members who lived nearby. And my bundle of joy did not sleep—even my nine-year-old drank coffee in the mornings. The good news is that was the year I met Rosanne. Rosanne was a Catholic with the wisdom to refrain from pressing me on the subject of Christianity. I remember well, our first conversation.

“Rosanne, I’m too exhausted to know what I believe.”

“No problem. I’ll believe for both of us. I know how it feels to be up all night with a baby without any help. I was once a single mother. Well-meaning friends were full of advice, but what I really needed was a shower and eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

 I smiled for the first time in weeks. Rosanne was a godly woman, and because she had my attention, it would only be a matter of time before God, Himself, would have it again.

She gave me her phone number and encouraged me to call anytime. I was grateful for our time together, but I had no intention of calling. Hope was renewed that afternoon in her company. Not because she had all the answers, but because she cared. A month later, my new life was in place. I paced the floor with my tiny insomniac in the night, and worked during the day. Caught in a desperate haze of pain and confusion, I called a friend when I realized I’d fallen into despair. She arranged for childcare and drove me to the nearest mental health institution, where I was diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I was so sleep deprived it was a miracle I hadn’t hurt myself, or anyone else.

I came home a week later. How would I raise a baby and two boys, alone? I needed someone to talk to. I found the piece of paper with Rosanne’s number and dialed. She answered, and I reminded her who I was as if anyone could forget the scene in my household from one month to the next.

“How can I help?” she asked.

“You can’t. No one can. I hate God. I hate him for all that I suffered as a child. I hate him for how my life is now. And I hate him for how it affects my children.”

Without skipping a beat, she said, “That’s great!”

“How can something as awful as everything I just said be great?”

“Awe . . . gut level honesty.”

I stood before many obstacles that day, but that dark confession lead to the back road of my redemption. The day I believed to be farthest from God was the day I took my first step towards returning to Him.

“Make a list of everything you need from God, and call me back,” Rosanne
said.

(I still have my list to this day.) I need God to:

1.      Keep his promises

2.      Never lie to me

3.      Never leave me

4.      Never hurt me

5.      Love me unconditionally

6.      Value me

7.      Be available to me

8.      Be kind to me

9.      Free me from harmful relationships

10.  Heal me

11.  Protect me

12.  Fulfill my heart’s desire for a loving husband and a healthy family.

I called her and read my adult list that mostly reflected the needs of a child. Rosanne instructed me to pray to the character of God reflected on my list. I was confused. I had two images of God in my mind’s eye. The one whom might love me and the one whom I hated that I suspected hated me right back. “Pray to the God you described on your list.”And then she offered me another pearl of wisdom: Are you willing to believe that God will bring you further than your current circumstances? I said yes. What did I have to lose?

I put the baby down for the nap he hadn’t taken since birth, crawled into bed, and after a long stretch of awkward silence, a strange confidence welled within me. I prayed . . . God, I believe I will heal; that my family will heal; that the baby will sleep, and I will sleep.

Something warm entered my feet and flowed to the top of my head. My ears filled with what sounded like rushing wind or thunder. I fell into a deep sleep. The baby and I woke at the same time—three hours later. I believe a supernatural measure of faith was awakened in my soul that day, rendering me incapable of giving up.

I remembered God’s great love. And He would not abandon me in the desert stretches ahead.

Luke 22: 31—32 “Simon, Simon! Indeed, Satan has demanded to sift all of you like wheat, but I have prayed that your won faith may not fail; and once you have turned back, you must strengthen your brothers.”

It’s a long story. Aren’t they always? Here’s the short of it. During my second stretch of single motherhood, I started a small business and signed a contract to build a house—a home. My husband, a re-covering addict, (though not as recovered as I believed) rejoined us in December of 2002.

All seemed right with the world when the childhood memories came crashing in. After a great deal of pleading: Please God, please don’t ask me face the past. You’ve got the wrong girl. I made a commitment to attend group therapy for survivors. I wanted to die every day that year. Six months into therapy, alone in my bedroom, I uttered the name above all names after two decades of silence: Jesus.

From that day forward, I knew I would live—and tell about it.

Jeremiah 15: 19b If you come back, in my presence you shall stand; If you extract the beauty from the vile, you shall be my spokesman.

My marriage was not easy. Throughout the years I stayed and prayed through every hailstorm imaginable that accompanies multiple addictions. In 2013, I discovered he was inappropriately involved with my best friend, a pastor’s wife, who lived just four houses down. This time my husband did not ask for forgiveness. This time he didn’t want to be married anymore. I set up camp in the guest room with a shattered heart and cried out to Jesus—whom I knew would gather every fragment. Once again, Divine Providence revealed the shape my redemption.

Mark 5:34 [Jesus] said to her, “Daughter, your faith has saved you. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.”

My husband left the summer of 2013. I watched him drive away. After all those years together, he didn’t look back. Suffice to say, I had a lot of healing ahead of me. But I believed in my heart and in my bones—Christ is with me every step and stumble of the way. Today, I create resources that offer aid to victims of abuse, injustice, and grievous betrayal.This is my purpose. This is my passion. When I step, and when I stumble, God remains faithful.

2 Corinthians 1: 3-4 Blessed be the God and Father or our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and God of all encouragement, who encourages us in our every affliction, so that we may be able to encourage those who are in any affliction with the encouragement we ourselves are encouraged by God. For as Christ’s sufferings overflow to us, so through Christ does our encouragement also overflow.

What a journey’s it’s been. Looking back, there is no denying the presence of Love. Today, I smile at the days to come. To think, all the years I struggled to forgive, it turns out, God wasn’t holding out on me. He was holding a place for others like me.

Mark 5: 41 Jesus took the child by the hand, and said to her, “Tilitha koum,” which means, “Little girl, I say to you, arise!”

On December 18, 2017, I entered into full communion with the Catholic Church. At last, I am at home in my faith. Me—a wonderful and awful mixture of things; kneeling, stepping, stumbling, praying, serving, suffering, running, falling, repenting, rising, praising, trying again and again—Me. What an honor to share in the journey towards heaven with contrition for my own sins, yet apart from shame. Catholic or otherwise; united in Christ, we must stand together against abuse.

Rosanne taught me that discipleship begins with an encounter with Jesus. And that anyone who’s encountered Sacrificial Love in his or her story has an edifying story to tell. A story far more impactful than any of us can imagine when it’s rooted in the very love we enter into this world longing for.   

Genesis 50: 20 Even though you meant harm to me, God meant if for good, to this present end, the survival of many people.