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Recovery from trauma and abuse

Prayer as therapy

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After all the years I’ve spent as a Christian, all the hours I’ve spent reading and studying the Bible, and a lifetime in the church — I should have most of the answers, right? But knowing about God is not the same as knowing, really knowing Him. He remains a Mystery, too vast for my puny, human mind to comprehend. Sometimes, in His Presence, I’m reduced to the little girl who went forward years ago at a Billy Graham crusade.  

Some days, I have more questions than answers. Some days, I struggle. But my earthly father has always assured me that God can handle all our questions, even the messy ones.
 
This is raw. It’s not neat and tidy. But it’s true. And it’s where I am today.

“Thanks for not being a traditional therapist.”

That’s what I said to Donny as I hugged him goodbye at the end of one of our sessions months ago. After that, I wrote the following in my journal, slightly edited here for clarity: 

Earlier, I’d expressed pretty much the same sentiment at the beginning of my prayer — only the words I’d chosen then were more vulnerable in some ways, and more expressive of how deeply thankful I am that my therapist has always been far more concerned about pleasing God and serving Him than he has been about living up to human standards and expectations. Of course there have been times over the past five years that I have been less than thrilled with the guy, and wished he was more of the feel-good kind who wanted me to leave the office smiling after every session, one who wouldn’t ever stoop to “imposing his values” on me. Once I even jumped on him for something I now don’t remember — I thought he was wrong to “make me feel guilty” — and he let me know quietly but firmly just Whom he was serving. (In case anyone wonders, it wasn’t me.)

The irony is that this “odd” approach of serving God instead of the person he’s supposed to be serving — as in me, his all-important client, the one he is being paid to make feel better — turns out to have been the most healing thing for me. Then again, that’s hardly ironic; God has always had my best interests at heart.

So it was that we started our New Adventure in Therapy: praying through my past. I felt a little apprehensive and self-conscious at first. Part of me was afraid that I hadn’t quite communicated what I meant when I originally brought up my idea, and that Donny would suddenly put on the brakes once he realized what I really meant. Then I worried that he would want to structure or stifle it somehow…but all those fears were laid to rest after my first introductory sentence or two. (All that seems unrealistic and silly now. I thought I’d gotten over my fear that Donny will unexpectedly morph into a Completely Different Sort of Therapist, one that is Frightening and Sinister…or just one I no longer like.)

At that point, my nervousness was about the prayer itself. Other than a few desperate phrases here and there, and I mean truly desperate, I’ve only prayed out loud with him once, and that was before his last mission trip. I could tell that I was possibly using some delaying tactics, and was about to start using said tactics in a big way, so I forced myself to…gulp…just get started.

I ended up covering my life from the beginning — in utero — up until we moved when I was 5. The starting point was what I’d already planned, but I’d not given much thought to where I’d wrap things up for today.

As I’d anticipated and warned Donny, I cried pretty much the whole time. It wasn’t some big huge sob-fest — not at all an “ugly cry” — but what seemed like a fairly steady stream of tears and no small amount of sniffling. Next time I need to remember the Kleenex box conveniently located on the end table, so I won’t be reduced to using the cuffs of my sweatshirtish jacket.

There were lots of good memories in there, and they probably caused the most tears. I thanked God for so many things, and I felt as if He kept bringing really special pictures, thoughts, feelings, events, and people to my mind. I was truly blessed during those early years, and it’s no wonder that I remember myself as mostly happy, and feeling right in my own skin — even if I was an unusually fearful child.

Yes, and I’m glad I have a therapist who doesn’t pooh-pooh the idea of being impacted by maternal emotions while in the womb…or my wacky ideas about early attachment…or any of that stuff.

Towards the end, I thanked God for the personality and temperament He gave me. Some babies would have been a wreck not to be held “constantly”. I didn’t spend hours weeping or screaming in my crib, nor did I shut down. God spared me that, and He spared Mums that. After all, she didn’t choose to be ill, weak and exhausted.

So I left, feeling wonderful. Sat in the car, jotted down some notes, and started writing this. Dropped off two bags of bedroom junk and clothes for Goodwill. Drove to Laguna Lake and practically raced into the bathroom — a result of all that water and coffee. It was then that I felt a sudden wave of anxiety. Uh, oh. Not good. It was wrong to pray like that in therapy. It was bad — bad — and not therapeutic at all. That’s why I’ve never heard of any reputable therapist — or even a disreputable one — conducting “therapy” in such a manner.

For a looooong moment there, I was convinced it wasn’t just wrong; it was dangerous. I felt that familiar panic — yeah, that one, the one I haven’t missed having around at all — and I got the desperate urge to call Donny before I fell apart in a completely hysterical shambles.

But…!

Before the panic mounted up into the stratosphere, I suddenly thought, “Huh? What could possibly be wrong or dangerous in praying about my past?” I’d like to take credit for that sensible thought, but I’m convinced it was a God thing. And, just as soon as I thought it, my panic vanished — poof! — and seemed laughably ridiculous. Oh, yeah, praying is so dangerous — to whom? (I really did think that last part with correct grammar. Yet another miracle. Haha.)

It seemed such an obvious ploy of the Enemy. All too often, I had fallen for that sort of thing; in fact, there had been an almost uncanny pattern of:

  • an Especially Good Session — a significant breakthrough —
  • followed by Suddenly Being Convinced the Session was Really THE BIGGEST MISTAKE EVER —
  • followed by anxiety, panic, desperation…and sometimes tequila.

That is, unless I took a Xanax or two first, or ended up in the hospital (which happened only once…my panic attack that tried to disguise itself as a heart attack). But this time…well, I was going to say “God intervened”, but I bet He did the same all those previous times. Only this time I listened.

God is good.

It’s as if I’m just spreading everything all out in front of Him, asking Him to clean it up, free me from it, and redeem it — and seeing what He chooses to do. But what about putting it at the foot of the Cross — that’s where it really needs to go, isn’t it? What more redemptive place is there?

And now? What about these months later?

I’ve hit a wall. It took me a while to realize it, because I kept coming up with excuses to put “praying through my life” on hold while dealing with supposedly more pressing current life issues. Last week I let Donny know that’s what I was doing, although I suspect he already knew. We spent that session trying to figure out what exactly I was avoiding, and why I didn’t want to pray about 10 to 11 year old me. It’s not like something horrid happened to me at that age; in fact, those were good years, full of wonderful memories. It was during that time that I encountered a very personal God in some very real ways, and I treasure those memories beyond words.

No real answers for my avoidance. I left, feeling still stuck.

And kinda silly about the whole thing.

A week later, today I was in his office again, trying to will myself to just start praying. I mean, really, how hard could it be? It’s not as if God and I had never talked about any of this stuff before!

I couldn’t. Finally I figured out that I wasn’t so much avoiding praying through those good years as I was dreading praying through the years that followed. I decided this whole “prayer therapy” was ridiculous anyway. It was stressing me out. Here I was, after sitting mostly adult-like in therapy for months upon months, suddenly reduced to taking off my shoes so I could adopt my childish couch-huddle, hiding behind my knees, chewing on my fingers, playing with my hair, and hugging myself. Even worse, my legs started trembling. Ugh.

We tried to talk about it. Finally it dawned on me why I was so afraid: what if God “fussed” at me for some of the things I did during my teens? What if He turned out not to be as compassionate, tender, and forgiving as I hoped? What if I ended up feeling as I did then? My voice no longer sounded like an adult as I said the words that described those long ago feelings: “Dirty…small…insignificant…dirty…”

Then another, stronger fear hit me. What if God turned out to be as loving and compassionate as I am beginning to hope and believe He is? How will I survive such love without feeling completely undone? vulnerable? naked?

“I think I’d prefer a somewhat impersonal God,” I said, feeling like a doubting, rebellious heretic for even voicing such a thing. Then I cried because how could I doubt the extravagant love of God after all He has done for me? How often must He demonstrate it to me?

As Donny talked about leaps of faith and jumping off cliffs, and I told him my high-dive story and said that this felt like jumping into a foggy abyss without knowing if there was even a swimming pool there, I kept picturing myself standing on a mountain top, yelling up at the sky, “Who are You, God? Who are You?”

…and being afraid of the answer, even while demanding it.

“Why does God have to be so complicated?” I cried, only to laugh at how ridiculous that sounded. I answered myself, “Duh, because He’s God.”

This is not a mature, adult faith. It’s a mess, a broken jumble of confusion. But I’m posting it here because it’s real. Jacob wrestled with God. David asked Him tough questions, and lamented and wailed. The Bible is full of people struggling with God, people who didn’t have neat and tidy answers, people that we would feel uncomfortable having around if they showed up at our next small group meeting.

Way back when I was 11 years old, I threw two troubling questions at God, and He answered. Now I feel as if that wasn’t a lifetime ago, as if I’m still Little Me, all childish and earnest and troubled, desperate to believe and trust, desperate for answers that satisfy.

He’s the same God Who answered a crying little girl…the same God Who brought peace to a little girl who needed to cling to hope and beauty…He’s that personal, intimate God…Abba…Daddy…

It scares me. He scares me. Because I know that encountering His love never leaves me unscathed. Never. I will be undone. My heart will be broken…in the most beautiful and healing way. Who will I turn out to be, when I see myself through the loving eyes of my Creator?

I want to run…far far away from a God I cannot escape, at the same time that I want to throw myself into His everlasting arms.

So I stand on what feels like a mountain top, yelling to the Heavens, “Who am I? And You — who are You? What kind of God could possibly love me? And how will I survive Your unfathomable, wild, fierce, tender love?”

A sarcastic rant about rape prevention | Survivor Saturday

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A few of the people who know about my rape have offered after-the-fact advice, as well as questions of “why did you…?” and “why didn’t you…?” I’ve combined their “wisdom” (after all, they sounded so sure of themselves, they must know these things!) and some of the common advice floating around out there and used all this to put together some rape prevention guidelines that – according to the unsolicited advice I’ve been given – would have prevented my rape. You see, apparently I lacked the wisdom and common sense that would have “kept me from getting raped”. (Or, even worse, maybe I was asking to be raped without realizing it!) Instead of throwing caution to the wind in reckless abandon, instead of enticing men to rape me, I should have been following these ten simple, foolproof rules:

How to prevent rape

  1. Don’t let a man test or cross your boundaries – EVER. That seemingly kind, older man who expresses concerns about your tear-stained face and tries to engage you in conversation after you say you’d rather be alone? He could be a fatherly type who wants to help…or he could be a serial rapist testing your boundaries!! Tell him very firmly, “No, I do not want to talk to you. No, no, no. NO. NO. Leave me alone. Go away.” (According to some participants in online discussions about rape, one must be very clear with men because some have problems understanding anything but a firmly stated and repeated “no”. These men are supposedly baffled by and unable to comprehend polite refusals and sometimes can’t even tell if a woman is saying yes or no!)

  2. Don’t trust men. If a man is trying to gain your trust, you have no idea whether he is a nice guy or a rapist trying to set you up! It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known a man – don’t let your guard down just because he hasn’t raped you yet!

  3. Don’t feel compassion for men. When we feel compassion, we lose objectivity. Next thing you know, we want to comfort this man, lend him a sympathetic ear, and help solve his problems. But he could be lying with his sob story. Maybe he is a rapist and he is just using the tragic death of his beloved wife as a way of gaining your sympathy and trust. You can’t be too careful.

  4. Treat any and all compliments or supposedly lighthearted teasing/flirting as a potential threat. Do not allow it. Yes, you may offend some nice guys but do you really want a rapist to claim, since you enjoyed being told you were pretty, that you owe him sex? Do you want others to claim you must have led him on?

  5. Never go over to an apartment where men live, no matter how much you trust them. [Oops…trust? See #2.] It doesn’t matter if you have a friend along. You don’t know if one of the men whom you are foolishly trusting might be a rapist. According to some men in online discussions of rape, going to a man’s apartment or inviting a man to your apartment is a signal that you are agreeing to have sex. (Perhaps, if you must be there, it would be wise to keep repeating, “NO SEX!! No, I will not have sex with you!” just so there will be no confusion.)

  6. Don’t drink alcohol around men. Especially don’t drink to excess. You never know if there might be a rapist in the room. Even if there isn’t, some people seem to think that, once a woman starts drinking, she is asking for any and all sexual acts that might be performed upon her, no matter how violent and/or degrading. It no longer matters what she says or how she might resist; the fact that she was drinking negates all that. (It’s probably best to forego all beverages, lest they be spiked or drugged. Thirst is a small price to pay for safety.)

  7. Don’t let a man serve you dinner or drinks. Sure, you might miss out on some nice evenings but, if he is a rapist, all you will miss out on is being raped.

  8. Never be alone with a man. In fact, don’t be alone with men. Better yet, avoid being in any place or situation where a man could behave inappropriately. Otherwise, if the men you are with turn out to be rapists, you will get blamed for “putting yourself in that position”.

  9. Always carry your keys between the fingers of one hand and your pepper spray in the other. The instant a man tries to touch or kiss you, no matter who he is, shout “No, NO, NO!!” If he doesn’t apologize and retreat to a safe distance immediately – and especially if he dares try to touch you again – he might be a rapist and so you should gouge his eyes out with your keys and spray him with pepper spray. Too bad if he is just a clueless guy with a crush on you. One can never be too sure. Besides, some people seem to think that allowing a man to touch or kiss you is a way of giving him complete, irrevocable consent for any and all sexual activity from then on. Make your “NO” as clear as possible and leave immediately, before he can recover from the pepper spray. [Note: some people, most of them men, will disagree with #9 and instead insist, “If a guy even tries to get fresh with you, grab your concealed handgun – every woman should carry one – and shoot him.” I find this advice a bit extreme.]

  10. Don’t like men. If you like a guy, it will be really hard to gouge his eyes out.

Probably, at this point, some readers might be wondering if I’m a “man-hating super-radical feminist”…a hermit-like cat lady…or just plain wacko. Others might be up in arms – do I really think all men are potential rapists and should be treated as such?

No. No, no, no. (Is that clear enough?)

So why did I write this stuff? I have to admit that I was in a sarcastic mood, and I did go for a bit of comedic effect – but the actual “advice” was based mostly on things people have had the nerve to come right out and say. To round things out, I included a few nuggets of the sort of “prevention tips” women are bombarded with. I wrote this to vent, but also to make a point.

Over the many years since my rape, until “coming out” on this blog, I’ve told few people, outside of my community of survivors. But some (most? I’ve tried not to keep track) of the non-survivors felt a need to “Monday morning quarterback” my experience, and – if they were women – let me know why my rape would have never happened to them. They have asked/said things like this:

“Why did you even talk to that creepy man in the first place? Couldn’t you tell he was a serial rapist?” Uh, no. I couldn’t. He looked like a harmless guy who was visiting his nice son over the summer. I guess he forgot to wear his “I’m a serial rapist” name tag.

“See? That’s why I don’t trust men. You shouldn’t be so naive.” Wait a moment…I shouldn’t trust any man? I should decide half of our planet is not worthy of my trust, just because they are male? How does that work in everyday life? What about marriage?

“Didn’t you see he was just pulling on your heartstrings to set you up? That sympathy ploy is the oldest in the book, and you fell for it!” So the next time some weepy neighbor shows me a picture of his late wife, I should just say “tough break, dude” and give him the cold shoulder?

“Why did you accept his compliments? And all that joking back and forth – some men see that as flirting, so what do you expect?” OK, I’ll yell at the next guy who says anything nice about me. And I’ll be sure to be serious from now on, lest some guy overhear me make a wisecrack and think that gives him the right to rape me.

“I would never go over to a man’s apartment. It sends the wrong message. And have dinner with a man? Especially a dinner he cooked? That’s dangerous.” We were neighbors! In and out of each others’ apartments all the time!

“Why did you put yourself in that position?” If I’d known he was a rapist, obviously I would have never given him the time of day, let alone hung out with him.

“You were drinking? No wonder. That’s practically asking for it!” Call me naive back when I was 23, but I had no idea the world worked that way. I thought they were nice guys. I had no idea that they would refuse to let me leave, despite my frantic begging and pleading, all because – according to my rapists and you – I was really asking to be raped.

“Why didn’t you leave immediately when you found yourself alone with a man?” Because, stupid me, I trusted him?

“If anyone had ever tried something like that with me, I would have…” Yeah, yeah…I get it. You’re some lean mean rape-thwarting machine, and I’m not.

I’ve been inundated with so much “rape prevention” advice that it makes my head spin. No one could implement it all. If I distill it down to the ten guidelines I listed at the beginning, I’d have to move to a lesbian separatist community to pull it off consistently…and I’m not a lesbian.

Besides, I have men in my life that I love and trust, men I feel compassion for. If I’d followed the fear-mongering advice I’d been given, I don’t see how I could have gotten to know my wonderful husband.

I see no reason to treat all men as if they are rapists. Let me put this another way: I don’t think all men are potential rapists. At the same time, as has been said many times before, rapists don’t alert us to their presence. They don’t wear signs. The ones who have been raping for quite awhile without getting caught do so because no one – until it is too late – suspects they are rapists. They get better and better at selecting their targets and “setting them up”. Afterward, they learn how to shame or intimidate their victims into silence and/or how to make them unlikely to be believed. That’s how they can go on raping.

After my rape, I found out that it wasn’t some isolated, freakish occurrence: the older of my rapists had an album full of “souvenir” pictures of his victims. (Thank God there were no mobile phones or Internet back then!) I learned that he and his nephew raped at least one other young woman that summer, and I have reason to believe there were more than that. I found out that he attempted to rape two other women in our building. This guy was slick – he really knew how to gain our sympathy and trust, how to spot and exploit our vulnerabilities.

With this kind of situation, it’s easy to pick things to self-blame about and I can always find someone who would be more than happy to join in the blame game. For example: Well, maybe if you hadn’t gotten drunk!! My sobriety or lack thereof would have not erased the fact that he was a serial rapist. If I had been the staunchest of teetotalers, he would have merely adopted a different strategy than plying me with overly strong mixed drinks. I believe he targeted me from the moment he first met me, when I was all weepy over a recent death in my family, and he got me to keep on talking with him after I made it obvious that I wanted to go into my apartment and be left alone.

My “rape prevention guidelines” most likely would have worked with him. But I don’t want to live like that! People would rightfully think I was rude, paranoid and misanthropic, and I don’t want to treat people that way. Despite what male rape apologists and some ultra-conservative Christians have to say, I’m with my feminist friends on this one: most men are not rapists, and most men can and will control themselves no matter what careless and stupid mistakes I might be making, or what “mixed signals” I might inadvertently be sending. If the world was made up of “most men”, it would be a much safer place. In the meantime, I will be cautious enough to lower my risk of being raped, but I refuse to isolate myself from half of humanity or treat every man in the world as if he is a rapist.

Why I refuse to participate in slut-shaming | Survivor Saturday

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For starters, what is it? “Slut-shaming” was coined to describe the attacking, criticizing, demeaning, or “shaming” of a girl or woman for transgressing the sexual conduct rules of a particular group. I’m sure anyone who has grown up in America can think of plenty of examples.

But wait, Rebecca, what are you saying? Are we just supposed to be accepting of any and all sexual behavior? Are we supposed to throw all standards of morality and decency out the window? Are you saying that self-esteem and tolerance is more important than obeying God? Don”t you believe in the Bible any more?

Excellent questions, and I will attempt to address them while explaining the reasons for my commitment, before God, not to engage in slut-shaming:

  • The Bible does not command us to engage in slut-shaming. We are never told to respond to sin with gossip, name-calling, derision, mocking, or any other attempts to humiliate and degrade someone. Instead, the Bible says, “Brethren, even if anyone is caught in any trespass, you who are spiritual, restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness; each one looking to yourself, so that you too will not be tempted.” (Galatians 6:1 NASB) Keep that verse in mind, because it is the very antithesis of slut-shaming.
  • Jesus did not engage in anything even remotely similar to slut-shaming. He treated all women with dignity and compassion, offering redemption and reconciliation rather than condemnation. That is why one of the most extravagant acts of worship and loving devotion recorded in Scripture came from a woman described as a “sinner”. (See Luke 7:37-50.)
  • Slut-shaming imposes an anti-Biblical standard. Before you jump to conclusions and exclaim, “Aha! I knew it! Another so-called Christian who thinks it’s OK to run around having sex with anyone and everyone!” — hear me out. First, read a pertinent passage from the Bible:

The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman caught in adultery, and having set her in the center of the court, they said to Him, “Teacher, this woman has been caught in adultery, in the very act. Now in the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women; what then do You say?” They were saying this, testing Him, so that they might have grounds for accusing Him. But Jesus stooped down and with His finger wrote on the ground. But when they persisted in asking Him, He straightened up, and said to them, “He who is without sin among you, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.” Again He stooped down and wrote on the ground. When they heard it, they began to go out one by one, beginning with the older ones, and He was left alone, and the woman, where she was, in the center of the court. Straightening up, Jesus said to her, “Woman, where are they? Did no one condemn you?” She said, “No one, Lord.” And Jesus said, “I do not condemn you, either. Go. From now on sin no more.” (John 8:3-11 NASB)

Notice who is missing from this story? How could a woman be caught in adultery all by herself? We can speculate what it was that Jesus wrote on the ground, or what particular sins made the Pharisees slink away in their own shame, but what is beyond question is that Jesus refused to participate in such gross injustice. When we act as if women engage in immoral sexual behavior all by themselves, we are perpetuating injustice.

  • If I claim to follow Jesus, I should follow His example. Yes, I fail miserably. All the time. But that is no excuse to respond to anyone — even someone caught in the very act of adultery — in a way that runs contrary to my Savior’s response of, “I do not condemn you, either. Go. From now on, sin no more.”
  • Slut-shaming says nothing about the gospel, but everything about my bad attitude towards the target of my accusations. The good news of Jesus Christ is never, “You’re a slut!” I can’t pretend to be enamored and grateful to a glorious God of redemption and reconciliation while withholding that amazing grace from someone else — just so that I can lob verbal hand grenades in her direction.
  • Slut-shaming is demeaning to men. Whether we are venting about the “home-wrecking skank” who ran off with our friend’s husband or fussing about teenage girls “dressing like sluts”, we are saying a lot about our low opinions of men. Apparently the poor, weak dears are slaves to their hormones, which is why we don’t judge them equally harshly for their sexual misdeeds. Everyone knows they are visual creatures, helpless to resist the evil wiles of those slutty seductresses…sorry, I’m not buying it. I refuse to treat men as less than fully human, moral agents.
  • Slut-shaming isn’t about upholding morality; it’s about attacking the character, heart and humanity of someone created in the very image of God. Let’s get off our high horses and stop smugly claiming to “hate the sin while loving the sinner”. It’s easy to hate other people’s sins — why not try hating our own for a change? If we are really honest, though, we have to admit that slut-shaming is personal. We aren’t crusading for decency as much as we are on a vendetta against this particular person — otherwise, why would we be attacking, demeaning, and shaming her, instead of assuring her that she is not her sin?
  • Slut-shaming ignores and perpetuates the deep wounds of broken people. I know some women who take issue with me on this one. “Just because we enjoy a full expression of our sexuality outside of marriage doesn’t mean we are broken or reacting to past sexual trauma. It just means we like sex and we don’t agree with outdated ideas about it,” they will tell me. That doesn’t mean I can toss compassion out the window, ignore everything I’ve just written, and say, “Well, then I guess you really are a slut after all.”

But the thing is, we don’t always know everyone’s story, even if we think we do. And we might be running around with all sorts of misinformation, wrong ideas, judgmental notions, rape myths, and prejudices in our heads. If she really had been raped, she wouldn’t be sleeping around now…She should hate sex, after what she claims…I’ve seen how she acts; she must have been asking for it…She probably seduced that older guy, instead of the other way around…Child sexual abuse victims don’t act that way…Rape victims don’t act that way…Even if she was raped, that’s no excuse for sin…Since we don’t know people’s stories, we may need to keep our mouths shut. We never know the destructive power our words might have.

  • When we slut-shame the survivors of sexual trauma and abuse, we are repeating the messages of their abusers. We are perpetuating the lies told them by the tormentor of their souls. We become abusers as well. If you think I am overstating my case, read Nikki’s story, especially this: “The dead corpse of my soul was surrounded by a body that was good enough to take, but never good enough to keep.” As survivors, until we begin healing, that’s the sort of things we believe about ourselves. That’s the devastating reality of our lives. Sometimes our abuse began when we were so young, that it may have rendered chaste sexual behavior not only seemingly impossible, but an utterly foreign concept. When we comment on someone’s sexual behavior, will we further batter the already battered? Heap shame upon shame? Crush the bruised and broken? Pour salt on their wounds? Or will we offer hope by showing Jesus to them, to each other, to ourselves?

Those are reasons why I purpose, as a follower of Jesus, not to engage in any slut-shaming of anyone. But there is a far greater reason why I hope never to add to anyone’s shame. Jesus, my precious Savior, bore my shame on the Cross. He took all that shame on Himself — the shame I’ve suffered because of my own sins and failures, and the shame I’ve suffered at the hands of others — He took it all. Knowing that, how can I attempt to place shame on anyone else?

It’s Easter morning and I can’t sleep

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Actually it’s not morning yet. It’s still dark night.

There are all sorts of things I would like to write, things more important than mail organizers — the topic of my last post — things that are beautiful and celebratory and all about Resurrection Sunday. But my mind isn’t up to the task. So I will write the words that have been filling my mind these past few moments:

He bore our shame.

Those of us who have been sexually abused know shame. It is our constant companion until we find healing. It baffles non-survivors, sometimes to the point of impatience: What do you have to be ashamed of? they ask, not understanding why we are reluctant to let anyone know about our rape. The shame belongs to the rapist, our supporters say so easily. You are not to blame. Yet the shame clings to us. Deserved, undeserved, it doesn’t matter. It’s there. Only other survivors seem to fully understand how crushing this burden is.

He bore our shame.

Not just our sins — amazing as that is. But He also bore our shame. We don’t need to sort out whether it belonged to us or was put on us by someone else. He took it all. Even the worst of it. Even the parts we think we could never whisper out loud. He carried it so we don’t have to.

Today we celebrate the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection. The grave didn’t hold Him. He’s alive!

It’s been a few years since the reality hit me that my Savior bore the shame of my rape. I was weary of carrying it. It was crushing me, destroying me. But you know what? All the stuff that got nailed to the cross with our Savior is gone. We don’t have to see if anything fell off that we need to put back on ourselves.

Simple words. Hardly profound. But lifechanging.

He bore my shame.

And He is risen.

Best news ever.

Coming out as a survivor

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We all have stories. My favorite stories, the ones that yank at my heart and inspire me, are stories of redemption and reconciliation. Maybe that’s why I like the Bible so much. Come to think of it, I have that backwards — the reason that I like redemption stories so much is because of the Bible, and because of how I’ve experienced its truths in my own life. As I wrote a while back:

But I have to believe in the grand theme of Scripture: that the very One I rebelled against is a God of reconciliation and redemption. I believe it brings Him glory when He accomplishes those things in our lives. It is what Satan rages against in a battle he can never win. God snatches us out of the pit, washes us clean, tends our wounds, clothes us, and adopts us as sons and daughters. Those of us who are prone to wander He welcomes back home with celebration. He doesn’t just redeem us — He demonstrates His redemption power over and over again in our lives, giving us beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, a garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness… He takes the most horrible, vile and ugly things that Satan used for evil in our lives, and He unbelievably, amazingly does the impossible by somehow using those things for good. It’s what He does. It’s Who He is.

Redemption stories are powerful, but they aren’t pretty. In fact, the most powerful ones are messy, very messy. It’s something I didn’t understand the first time I set out to read the Bible from cover to cover, at the tender age of 10. With the exception of Joseph, the Old Testament “Heroes of the Faith” were a deep disappointment when I encountered their unsanitized stories. I couldn’t comprehend why some of the Psalms were in the Bible. I was aghast that a prostitute was not only an ancestor of Jesus, but was mentioned by name in His genealogy! The Bible is quite a shocking book.

That’s because redemption is shocking, and grace is scandalous. Redemption stories are meaningless unless we tell what has been redeemed and what we have been redeemed from. Otherwise, why would we need a Redeemer? And, if we have no wounds, why would we need a Healer?

I don’t think any of us can escape being wounded in some way or another. But some of us have wounds that go deeper than others…wounds that leave us shattered and broken. Some of those wounds are inflicted by others while some are self-inflicted, often in response to what others have done to us. We live in a fallen world, surrounded by evil. Some of us have experienced that evil in traumatic ways.

If this blog is to contain my redemption story, there are things I can’t leave out. Otherwise, my story will make no sense.

By the grace of God, I am a survivor.

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Many of us have survived things: disease, heartache, poverty, divorce, loss of a loved one, death of our ambitions and dreams…but none of those things inspired me to get the shirt that not too many people have ever seen me wear.

I am a sexual trauma survivor. There are different forms of sexual trauma, and varying degrees of severity. All of it, I believe, is violating, and damaging to the soul in a way that is unique from nonsexual trauma.

Although I have been planning this blog post for months, right now the words are failing me. Actually, that’s not exactly true. I am shrinking back in fear from writing a particular word, from having my name forever linked with it on the Internet for all to see. The world is not always kind to those of us who go public with such a disclosure. Actually, that last sentence ranks up there with some of the greatest understatements I’ve ever made.

So I’m second-guessing myself. Why on earth would I write about this, admit such a thing publicly? After all, eventually readers will find their way to this blog, or follow links I’ve posted to it…why shouldn’t I stick to posting nice, uplifting, safe, G-rated stuff like inspirational quotes, feel-good Bible verses, and pictures of kitties?

Because that’s not my redemption story.

For those of you who wonder why on earth I’m posting any of this, here are two important reasons:

  1. It’s my way of shouting from the rooftop one of the most powerful truths that I know, and that’s that God can redeem anything!
  2. If telling my redemption story will help or encourage even just one other survivor, that will more than make up for anyone whose knickers get all in a twist over what I’m about to write.

Enough preamble.

Significant parts of what I will write in this blog will not make sense without knowing the following about me:

At 23 years of age, I was raped by two of my neighbors. It was evil, so evil that it almost destroyed me. By the grace of God, I have not only survived, but continue to experience His healing and redemption in deeper and sweeter ways.

So this is it. I am coming out publicly as a rape survivor. It feels scary in a way…but also good. Very good. I am finally free to write the things that truly matter to me.

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Note: Don’t worry or be scared off. This will not turn into a “rape blog”, nor will every post be heavy or serious. There is far more to my life than that.Anyone who enjoyed my previous blog (Random Musings) can expect to find much here that will be familiar.