Category: rape

October 5, 2015 abuse, abuse on college campuses, beauty from ashes, brokenness, Christ, Christian, church, date rape, finding healing from sexual abuse, forgiveness, grace, rape, redeemed, redemption, relationships, sexual abuse

On Being Broken (And Brave)

A few months ago I started, She Matters: The Mended Heart Project, a project to bring awareness to stories of overcoming sexual abuse through grace and redemption and an attempt to give survivors a voice. My amazing friends got really brave and poured out their hearts and their stories. And me? Well, I hid. I applauded their bravery and avoided sharing my story at all costs. But now it’s time. It’s time to be brave. So here it is friends…
 To check out more on this project, see the original post here.

I was three years old the first time I learned not to trust men.
Three the first time I learned that my body was not mine alone.
Three years old the first time someone I loved and trusted deeply betrayed that trust.
Three the first time I learned that my “no” was insignificant.

Three years old. A sassy, spunky, three year old who loved baby dolls, dress up, and Bible stories.
I wish I could say that was the last time.
It wasn’t.
It stopped when I was seven and I thought I might finally breathe again.
But it wasn’t over.
My teenage years reminded me of that hard truth in other ways. Men are not to be trusted.
The message resounded in so many ways at the hands of men I should have been able to trust.
Then, I went to college.
I thought surely being surrounded by Christians would change the pattern.
I fought to trust again. I fought to rewrite the narrative over my life.

I was 20 when a stranger slipped something into my soda at a party.
The lies that Satan had whispered over my life forever now felt like they were being shouted.
“You are the common denominator here. It has to be your fault”
I spent hours, months, years, wondering. Was I too much, or not enough? What had I said/done, or not said/done?

I dealt with my pain in a lot of ways. We all do really. Sometimes the pain is so big it just has to find a way out. We find subtle ways to run away, to hide. Or we choose to be numb.

Here’s the thing about life and pain– You don’t always get to write the plot line, but you can always choose a new ending.

I could write for days on the ways I sought to numb the pain. Maybe one day I will, but tonight you need to know this.

I was 20 years old when my story changed.
God began writing a new narrative on my life. I spent the next year learning a new truth:
There is ONE Man who can be trusted. In every season, with everything.

You see, when I finally gave my heart, in all its shattered pieces, completely to Him, He gave me the grace to open it again. He gave me fresh eyes. He rebuilt my view of men.

It happened in coffee shops, in living rooms, on long car rides, and on trips around the world. He showed me another side. He rebutted Satan’s lies with truth.

It happened as I watched Godly men love their wives well.

It happened as I stood on the other side of the world and watched a man wash prisoner’s feet and cry over babies with AIDS.

It happened in a coffee shop when a friend’s husband looked me in the eyes, listened hard through my tears, and said to me the most healing words– “You do know that being a bratty teenager never excuses the inappropriate behavior of an adult, right? Don’t you ever apologize for that.”

It happened when I saw the righteous anger of a man over injustice.

One by one, moments taught me to trust again, to believe again.
God used the men right in front of me to remind me of His character.
He took the ashes of my life and painted beauty.
Here’s what I know—I would not trade one moment of sorrow for the beauty that has risen out of it.
A lot of tears, scripture, and counseling later and I’ve regained the joy of that spunky 3 year old.



A friend shared this quote with me a few years ago—
“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.” –Kahlil Gibran
The depths of my sorrow have become the heights of my joy.

I’ve learned to run hard into the pain because we have to feel it as deeply as we desire to feel joy on the other side.

But my God is good and He is faithful. He not only redeems every hurt for my good (Romans 8:28), but He teaches me to dance again. 

“You have turned my morning into dancing” Psalm 30:11

I think we’re all a little broken. But, perhaps we are all a little brave too. 
July 8, 2015 abuse, abuse on college campuses, beauty from ashes, brokenness, date rape, fear, finding healing from sexual abuse, healing, heart, loved, messy grace, rape, redeemed, redemption, rescued, sexual abuse, women

She Matters: Kate’s Story

**This post is a part of She Matters: The Mended Heart Project, a project to bring awareness to stories of overcoming sexual abuse through grace and redemption and an attempt to give survivors a voice. To check out more on this project, see the original post here.


Let me introduce you to Kate. I don’t know Kate all that well personally, however, a quick glance at her online platforms and you will see that she is literally changing the world through her service for the kingdom. She is clearly kind, compassionate, and insightful. I know that after reading her story you will also find that she is resilient and brave. I say it with every post, but I truly am so grateful for each of these women. Regardless of how well or how little I know them when the process begins, we nearly always end up with a sweet connection. Many conversations with them end like the one Kate and I had tonight that resolved with a simple “I wish I could hug you.”  Some days, this entire project feels much like a hug. Check out how she uses her voice at her personal blog here. Women boldly using their voices is always something I can get behind…

My childhood was lovely. I have so many fond memories. I grew up in a loving and vibrant Christian home. I have three funny, sweet sisters and a wonderful set of parents. My mom supports me with abandon, and my dad is the picture of humility and grace. I can count on one hand the number of times I have seen or heard him raise his voice. I never imagined that men would be the common denominator for my childhood and adolescent trauma.

It was sometime in my pre-teen years. I believe I was in fourth or fifth grade. I was shopping with a friend and her mom in a popular department store. Her mom agreed to let us split up; she would shop on her own while my friend and I browsed the juniors department. A strange man, in his early 60’s I estimated, came up to me and began talking to me. Something felt bizarre right off that bat. I glanced down because something completely alien to me was catching my eye. This man was fully exposing himself to my young eyes. He proceeded to tell me that I was “just his granddaughter’s size,” and “it would be so helpful for him to find her size if I would go into the dressing room with him and try some things on.” Blaring alarms were going off in my young head. Get out NOW, they said. Nothing good will come of this, they screamed. I walked off to look for my friend, with this man right on my heels with an armful of pre-teen clothing. I finally found her and said loud enough for him to hear “let’s go find your Mom.” He abruptly turned around and left. It was later discovered on the security cameras that he quickly threw the clothes on a hanger and took off.

I met up with my Mom a few hours later and told her the details of what happened, not fully grasping the severity of it all. I’ll never forget the way the color left her face, the way she tried to remain calm in front of her daughter right in the middle of Old Navy. That evening I found myself sitting at a table across from a detective, going over the events of the afternoon and explaining what happened in the best way my innocent and naive words could. There was even discussion of an artist drawing up a caricature based off of my description, since there was yet another report of this happening to a young girl in the mall soon after me. That never occurred, but the image of that man’s face is forever ingrained in my memory.

No child should experience something so immoral. I shudder at the thought of it happening to my future daughter. I wish I could say that was my one and only experience with sexual abuse.

It was soon after my 21st birthday that I experienced another taste of evil. I was out with friends on a Saturday night, having a few drinks as any normal college student would. It wasn’t an hour or so into the evening that I felt way beyond disoriented. And down to my very core, I knew it wasn’t because I had overdone it with alcohol. I started the walk home with a few friends. I use the term “friends” loosely – they were more like acquaintances. At that point, I had no idea what happened to my actual friends. I think us women all have an intuition that sets off a warning flare in certain danger. Mine was going off like fireworks on the fourth of July. Sometime along the walk home, I was separated and left completely alone. I vaguely remember wandering through the dark, crying for a familiar face. I fell to the ground, and it was lights out after that. I woke up to a male paramedic kneeling next to me with a concerned look on his face, asking why on Earth I was all alone in the middle of the night. I was rushed to the Emergency Room where I was treated for some deep wounds scattered across my body. I was sent home in a taxi soon after. My dorm resident helped me up to my room, as walking was proving to be difficult. She told me to call her if I needed anything. I decided to take a look in my bathroom mirror. I lost all feeling in my body, and fell to my knees at the sight of my reflection.

I rushed to my dorm resident’s room and asked to use her phone. I called my parents, screaming to them through the phone from three hours away that I think I was raped. While things were still fuzzy at that point in time, the horror of that phone call and the desperation and grief in my parents’ voices will stay with me. They urged me to call the police. It was dawn by then, so I watched the sun come up on a new day in February while I waited for an officer in the dorm office. I’ll never forget the look on the officer’s face as I explained the hazy events of the night before. He must have been a father. There is no other explanation for the sorrow painted across his face, the deep lines forming around his eyes as I sobbed through it all. He escorted me to the hospital in his police car. Upon arrival, I was whisked into a private room where he explained to me that the police need photographs of all my injuries for the investigation. He was kind and gentle, taking great care to preserve what dignity was left behind from the night before. He was a gracious man, surely sent to me by my Heavenly Father specifically for those first, early hours. I don’t even remember his name.

I was admitted to the hospital, and quickly poked and prodded and medicated by a variety of nurses. My parents arrived soon after, with my older sister in tow. I can still see the look on their faces as they tried not to fall apart in front of me when they first laid eyes on that hospital bed. I had to endure an invasive examination specifically intended for sexual assault patients. It was humiliating, mortifying even. She was kind, but I still felt like I was in the middle of someone else’s life. Not mine. She described that based off of the exam it appeared I was not raped, but a rape kit still needed to be completed because of the location of some of my injuries. She suspected sexual assault. It was recommended that I ingest the “morning-after pill”, just in case. I was checked for symptoms of an STD or HIV. They would scan test results for any indication of drugs or substances slipped into my beverages from the night before. These were all things I never imagined I would have to be tested for at 21 years old. 

It’s true what they say about victims often being overcome with feelings of shame and guilt, as if it was somehow their fault. And while those lies couldn’t be further from the truth, they still linger. Those acquaintances that were present that night? They went out of their way to verify and confirm that the events were, in fact, my fault after they had to endure what they described as “humiliating” questions from a detective. They didn’t know the first thing about humiliation, I wanted to scream in their faces. Thankfully, they have long since been cut out of my life.

A female detective called me a few days later and explained that her findings confirmed I was a victim of a sexual assault. My injuries suggested I was violently struck, and perhaps dragged across the gravel as the unknown perpetrator tried to have his way with my unconscious body in the dark shadows that night. I was abandoned only because of a phone call to the police with an angel on the other line reporting that they heard a young woman crying “leave me alone” in a lot behind their home for troubled children. Thank God for that phone call. I shudder at how different this story might be if that person never picked up the phone.

I don’t think I will ever know who committed such vile crimes against me. That is part of a handful of startling statistics among rape and sexual assault cases: there is only about a 25% arrest rate. Thankfully I have made peace with that, because Ecclesiastes 12:14 tells us that, “God will bring every deed into judgment, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil.”

That was five short, yet long, years ago. My life has revolutionized since then. God has grown tremendous strength, resilience, and redemption out of a truly evil situation. He birthed new passions in my heart for helping others that have endured a taste of evil on this side of heaven. In the aftermath of the attack, I didn’t allow myself to cry for months. I didn’t want to ever feel weak and vulnerable again. Now, I weep with those who weep, and mourn with those who mourn. When I meet someone that has faced adversity or endured a painful or traumatic experience, my heart aches with theirs even if our scars don’t look the same. Christ has impressed within me a deeper level of understanding than I ever had before. Earlier in my adolescent years, I quivered at the opportunity to stand before others and speak. Now my voice longs to speak of the beauty of His grace and mercy, and the potential for true healing that only He can bring.

God did not “allow” those two people to commit such crimes against me. He mourned from Heaven as they made deplorable choices. He intervened on my behalf by placing a stirring in someone to make a simple phone call. He sent angels in human flesh to walk alongside me in the earliest hours, and in the painful days that followed. He set in my path a wise, warmhearted woman to counsel me through doubt, fear, shame, guilt, and insecurity. He restored me. He has made me new. He has redeemed what Satan intended for evil into a beautiful story of transformation. If I could turn back time and take it all away, I don’t think I would be the person I am today. My prayer is that you will allow Him to do the same for you, no matter what your own experience may be. He forms strength out of weakness, and courage out of despair. He can and will use the pain in our lives to change us, shape us, and teach us. We are the clay in our beloved Father’s hands. In my life, my God has molded beauty from ashes.
June 27, 2015 abuse, beauty, beauty from ashes, brokenness, Christ, Christian, church, fear, forgiveness, God, grace, healing, heart, loved, messy grace, rape, redeemed, redemption, sexual abuse, trust

She Matters: Anonymous Guest

This post is a part of She Matters: The Mended Heart Project, a project to bring awareness to stories of overcoming sexual abuse through grace and redemption and an attempt to give survivors a voice. To check out more on this project, see the original post here.




Today’s She Matters story is particularly special. Unlike the other posts, today’s writer is an anonymous contributor for a variety of reasons. While you may not know her, I do. Let me tell you, she is everything this project is about. She is brave beyond belief. She is fighting for herself and other women in her life in courageous, meaningful ways and I am proud to know her. While her name will remain anonymous, I will be sharing the comments with her so please encourage her and let her know what her words and vulnerability mean to you. Let’s cheer on her bravery! 


I swallowed hard in a futile attempt to dislodge the golf ball sized lump that had formed in my throat almost instantaneously upon hearing the voice on the other end of the phone. With some effort, I managed to squeeze the word “okay” out before sinking to the bed to catch my breath. Why, after all of these years, was he calling me now? It’s not like he ever completely left my thoughts, the flashbacks ensured that, but the years of no contact had lessened them. That was undone with a simple hello that day. I battled hard to stuff everything that was beginning to surface back down as I struggled to listen to what he was saying. Someone was making allegations that he had been inappropriate…wanted to be clear on our relationship…could be questioned… My thoughts swirled as the memories of the past collided with the conversation of the present in a violent, yet unseen tornado in my mind. I caught bits and pieces of what he said before hanging up the phone and being swept away by the storm. Closing my eyes as I fought back tears, I drifted away to the time almost ten years prior when I worked for him.

The job had started innocently enough and, at the time, seemed like a blessing in disguise. I wanted a car of my own and it would provide some income. The hours were flexible, which allowed me to continue my involvement in extracurricular activities, and the field was one I was considering as a possible college major. Besides that, I had always been a bit of a computer geek and the work I would be doing would allow me the opportunity to further develop my skills in that area. He wasn’t always there at the office when I worked, but when he was we would chat. He was pretty easy to get along with and seemed down to earth. A short time later, I began experiencing some pain in my leg. He offered to look at it since his area of work was along those lines. Nothing remotely inappropriate had happened or been suggested at that point, so I didn’t think twice about agreeing. What happened next caught me completely off guard and would change me and my life for years to come.

I became concerned when I felt his hand moving up the inside of my right thigh. He responded to my demand to stop by explaining that there were pressure points or something he had to check. Any desire to believe him went out the window when I felt him slip his fingers first inside of my underwear and then inside of me. My second plea for him to stop went unheard and shortly after I felt his mouth following the path his fingers had left. I was 17. I went home that night feeling so sick and so confused about what had happened. I threw up that night, but told everyone it was the flu. I couldn’t talk about it. I wouldn’t have known where to start at the time even if I thought I could have. The next day I went to work planning to quit quietly. He was there waiting and told me he knew I was quitting, along with a lot of reasons I couldn’t/shouldn’t. The manipulations began there and the excuses that existed during the first exploit soon faded away. What happened the evening before became a regular occurrence.

One day, shortly after my 18 birthday, it went further than that when he pinned me to the living room couch and raped me. It was virtually no holds barred from there as the touching, intercourse, forced oral sex, and other things continued for nearly two years. No meant nothing so, after a while, I quit saying it. I still didn’t tell anyone. What would people think? He was twice my age after all. Surely they would blame me. The lies, manipulations, and confusion ensured my silence. Then, just as it had begun, it was over. I didn’t hear from him for years prior to that phone call and never heard from him after it. I have no idea what became of him or the allegations that were being made at that time. I do know that I wasn’t the only one.  

Personally, I tried and for a while was very successful at stuffing it all down.  It wasn’t until after a near breakdown, almost killing myself, and some counseling that I finally, admitted to anyone anything that had happened during that time. Nearly twenty years of keeping a secret I never should have had in the first place almost killed me and did take a toll in a lot of ways. If it hadn’t been for Jesus, a skilled counselor who specialized in trauma, supportive friends, caring family, and a few “Only God” moments, I wouldn’t be here now to be writing this and, possibly for the first time since that day as a teenager, actually enjoying my life instead of simply trying to get through it. There are still some struggles and may always be, but the lies that defined me for so long have finally lost their grip and power. I know who I am and, more importantly, I know Whose I am.

Current statistics show that at least 1 in 6 women will be a victim of sexual assault. If you are currently experiencing any type of sexual abuse, please don’t believe the lies that you are alone, unwanted or unloved. It isn’t your fault. You do matter. If you’ve experienced an assault or abuse in the past, please know that you don’t have to spend your life hiding it, trying to cope on your own, or ashamed. It wasn’t your fault. You are worth it.

There is hope. There is help.


The writer asked that I include a link to Matthew West’s song, Mended, as it so appropriately relates to the project and her story. 

“When you see broken beyond repair
I see healing beyond belief
When you see too far gone
I see one step away from home
When you see nothing but damaged goods
I see something good in the making
I’m not finished yet

When you see wounded, I see mended”
June 17, 2015 abuse, Christ, Christian, church, dating, faith, fear, forgiveness, God, grace, loved, rape, redeemed, redemption, relationships, rescued, sex, sexual abuse, trust, women

She Matters: J’Layne’s Story

This post is a part of She Matters: The Mended Heart Project, a project to bring awareness to stories of overcoming sexual abuse through grace and redemption and an attempt to give survivors a voice. To check out more on this project, see the original post here. 

I am so privileged to introduce J’Layne to you. Her story speaks volumes to the widespread impact of rape and abuse and to the redemptive power of the church. As I have briefly gotten to know J’Layne via the internet over the last few months, I can assure you that she is funny, wise, and passionate. She has overcome in incredible ways. I am so grateful for her willingness to share her story and I pray you’ll be encouraged by it. If you’d like to read more of J’Layne’s work, check out her blog, J’Layne Changed. Feel free to send her some encouragement in the comments. Let’s cheer on her bravery! 

Meet J’Layne:

This is the story of the sexual abuse I suffered ten years ago. I still can’t believe that this kind of thing happened to me- the girl who grew up so sheltered, waited so long to date, to have her first kiss, whose worst fear was disappointing her parents.

He was a friend of my friends. He was in their Christian worship band. He liked me from the very start of joining our friend group. He was tall, muscular, broad, and handsome. Very funny and witty. In fact, he knew all the right words to say. He took me around his family; his kind and loving mom and his spunky and extroverted fifteen year old sister. His dad was in and out, because he worked overseas. Being with him and around his family was so easy, so comfortable. It felt so right. After six months of dating, I knew he was going to be my husband, someday soon- just as soon as my student teaching was over, and I was a college graduate.

One evening, after a family celebration dinner- his dad was home for a while from his assignment- his parents went to bed. We were in their living room watching a movie. He began kissing me, which I naturally didn’t mind him doing at all. Things progressed pretty quickly, and I began to feel uncomfortable. I told him to stop, but he just held me down, and continued to do as he pleased with my body. It was so confusing because I knew where boundaries were being crossed, and they were not what I believed were healthy before marriage. Yet, these physiological impulses being forced on me felt very pleasurable. The disconnect between my mind, spirit, and body was so loud, clamoring from every shadow of my being. I began to cry. I asked him repeatedly to stop, but he continued to use brute strength to keep me pinned where he wanted me. In the next breath, he was kissing me on the mouth again- it nauseated me. He just laid on top of me while I cried and cried, gasping for breath and struggling to break free.

Through my tears, I asked him, “Why did you stop when I told you no? I wasn’t ready for that.” He simply replied, “You know, you’re cleaner down there than any other girl I know.” It was as if my reality had torn wide open into a sinkhole the size of the Grand Canyon. Who was this man, sitting on this couch with me? The one who professed to be a believer, a worshipper of Christ, a virgin? He then casually said, “Don’t bother telling anyone, my parents still think I’m waiting for marriage.”

The fallout from that single evening had a monumental effect on me. Not only did I most certainly tell my mom, I broke up with him as soon as I could muster up the courage to do so. His mother called me and accused me of cheating on him- that I must have found someone better if I was breaking up with him. It was horrifying. I could not bring myself to tell his mother about his sins against me- it wasn’t my place- but it really hurt to know that she believed I was capable of the thing she was accusing me of.

I became instantly distrustful of everyone outside my immediate family, withdrew from friend groups and just wanted to be alone all the time. The guilt and shame I felt were overwhelming and heartbreaking. I just knew I could never be loved or called lovely ever again- especially because of the way my body betrayed my emotions that night. How could I have physically felt pleasure when emotionally I was terrified and disgusted?

I lost all of my friends.

I spent the next year with just my mom and dad, and sometimes my brother. I didn’t want to be around anyone, didn’t want to talk to anyone. I just wanted to be isolated and safe. After a year, I began going to a biblical counselor.

A few months later, a girl from church invited me to “Sunday Lunch” at her friend’s apartment. I was terrified to go, but at the strong urging of my counselor, I pushed through and went anyway. And guess what? People were kind, friendly, relaxed, shared their stories with me, and let me sit and eat quietly and talk to hardly anyone. Every week, I went to that Sunday Lunch group. For over 2 years, I went, until it got so big that we had to start hanging out in smaller groups, because no one’s house was big enough to fit all of us! The Lord used his body to heal mine. Community with the commonality of Christ is what rescued me from fear of man and the desire to isolate and defend. Being with like minded individuals, and sharing our lives with one another, and ways the Lord revealed his character to us, the attributes of who he is- that made all the difference.

Ten years later, as I reflect back on this community, I have to say that we’ve had some times. I’ve gone on mission trips with these people, stood up for them in their weddings, been there for the births of their babies- all because of the commonality we have of being redeemed by the shed blood of Jesus.

And here’s the thing: nothing we experience as a result of sin or this broken world is God’s fault. He can’t be anything but loving. He doesn’t lie, and His word says that he is love. He is incapable of doing anything unloving to His children. He used the heartache of the sin which was perpetrated upon me to restore me. To take me beyond my original understanding of who he is, and what the Gospel actually is. The good news of Jesus is that we have been redeemed, not by any actions we have done to earn such a redemption, but given freely by the blood of Jesus as a gift to stand in Christ’s righteousness before God. I don’t have to clean myself up or get rid of hurts before I stand before Him. Christ has got all of that mess covered. That is the good news that sets all of mankind free.

June 12, 2015 abuse, beauty from ashes, brokenness, Christ, Christian, church, faith, femininity, forgiveness, God, grace, healing, messy grace, rape, redemption, relationships, rescued, sexual abuse, trust

She Matters: Deanna’s Story

This post is a part of She Matters: The Mended Heart Project, a project to bring awareness to stories of overcoming sexual abuse through grace and redemption and an attempt to give survivors a voice. To check out more on this project, see the original post here. 


I am so very excited to share with you the story of my sweet friend, Deanna, today. Deanna is a testament to the amazing redemptive work of Christ and is both brave and vulnerable in her writing. I am so grateful for her willingness to share her story and I pray you’ll be encouraged by it. Send some love her way in the comments. Let’s cheer on her bravery! 

Meet Deanna:

I don’t remember exactly when I became aware that is was happening, I just remember that it happened.  I remember that I started sleeping in the same room with my little brother, who was 4 years younger than me because I thought if I was in there, he wouldn’t come in.  But he did.  No matter where I slept, he came in.  Mostly in the middle of the night, or when my mom was not home or first thing in the morning when everyone else slept.  My mom suffered with deep depression and was in and out of mental hospitals a lot when I was growing up, so there were times when I was left alone with him.  It stopped when I turned 13.  I have no idea why.  It just stopped.

My parents divorced when I was 15 and when they did; I got up enough nerve to tell my mother what had happened.  In the trauma of telling her this, she told me that it was okay, he was not my real father anyway.  What?  Wait, what?  Not my real father?   Had enough not happened, now this?  I completely lost my identity at that point.  She went on to tell me that she had gotten pregnant when she was 17 by a boy that would not marry her.  She was also seeing my father at the time and he agreed to marry her right away, knowing she was pregnant with me.  Except for the abuse, he treated me just like a daughter.  Such an odd statement.

I spent the next 25 years of my life coming unraveled.  Bad decision after bad decision.  No one to teach me the right way.  Even though I became a Christian at age 9, my entire perception of who God was, was based on who my parents were….abusive, addicts, mental disorders, just to name a few.  I can totally relate to Paul in the bible when he says that Jesus came to save sinners and I am chief among them.   I can’t even begin to say the twists and turns my life took growing up in an abusive home, sexual, physical and emotional.  However, at some point, I did reach an age of accountability.  And all the terrible things I did rested squarely on my shoulders.  I know now that I did the best I could do with what I had to work with.  I know better now and I do better now. 

I struggled over the new 25 years but eventually I realized I could not do life on my own terms.  I was messing things up.  I was hurting people I loved.  I was leaving a terrible legacy for my children and I was walking through life wounded and broken hearted, contributing nothing.

I am so grateful for a God and for godly people who never gave up on me and who loved me every step of the way.

Even though my father abused me, I stayed in contact with him.  He was my father.  He was the grandfather to my children.  It was all very dysfunctional but I had a deep desire to honor God by honoring my parents. 

When I was 41 years old, I was sitting in my father’s living room.  I had taken my youngest child there for him to see my father.  While we were sitting in the living room, completely out of the blue, he said to me that he wanted to apologize for “everything” he had ever done to hurt me.  He said he knew that he had done some terrible things and that he just could barely live with himself.  He asked me to forgive him and I forgave him on the spot.

He died four years later from complications of Agent Orange, from a tour in Viet Nam.   He died alone, an alcoholic and suffering greatly.  The pastor that counseled him in the hospital told me that he was satisfied that my father had accepted Christ as his savior before he died.  He said he would ask the pastor to read the bible to him and pray with him.

I did not have a lot of contact with him after that day in his living room.  Forgiveness is one thing.  Forgetting, well, it was never going to happen.  I forgave him for me and for him because I knew he was suffering and no matter how mad at God I have always been for letting me be abused, I always, always had a heart to honor him.

I knew that I had messed up so badly in life and I knew that I could not ask for forgiveness from God if I was not willing to give it to my father.

My father was a product of his environment.  His father abused him.  He was an alcoholic too.  His mother abandoned him when he was a young boy. 

Life hands us misery sometimes.  Sometimes, we don’t always get the happy family, with the white picket fence, and godly legacies.  Sometimes, we get abuse and neglect and addiction and pain so deep, you think you will never reach the bottom of it but I have discovered that no matter what road we are placed on, God is always at the end, waiting for us with open arms, with healing power for our broken hearts and eternal life for our broken spirits.

Reconciliation, restoration, justice, mercy, compassion, grace, and love…..these are aspects of the gospel.  These are the things that Jesus so freely gives us when we call on his names.  He saves us in every facet of who we are.  He came that we might have life and that we would have it to the full….even in the face of childhood trauma….that we would have it to the full.   All glory be to God.
June 4, 2015 abuse, beauty from ashes, brokenness, Christ, Christian, church, faith, femininity, forgiveness, God, grace, healing, messy grace, rape, redemption, relationships, rescued, sexual abuse, trust

She Matters: The Mended Heart Project

You know that overly productive burst of energy you get when you are avoiding something? That “I can do anything-I’m superwoman-I will do ALL of the things in the next two hours” feeling? Well, all of the things except that one thing I’m avoiding. Yeah, that one.  That’s how my day has gone. Y’all… I stood on a folding chair (let’s stop here and acknowledge that I realize the stupidity of this. It wasn’t wise, but it was easy. I know internet… I’m not saying I’m proud of it, but it happened) and pulled wallpaper off the wall for two hours. Because even that seemed easy compared to this, compared to the unraveling that is sure to follow. 
I am currently sitting surrounded by complete mess and destruction. Since I’m in the process of renovating my bedroom, this is, quite literally, true.

However, this could just as easily be a description of the rest of my life. That’s how the last few months have felt in many ways, a beautiful undoing on some days and a destructive mess on others.

It was several months back that I first read a post entitled “He Wrote it Down” in which a fellow blogger bravely detailed the impact of the police officer who believed her story of abuse and wrote it down.

It was the next week that I sent a one-line note to my own believing advocate that simply said Thanks for writing it down. That felt like enough for the time being. 

Then came Lena Dunham’s book, detailing the abuse of her sister. 

Then came the difficult call where I had to report abuse. 

Then came the sexual abuse story of the Duggars.

Then came the church, the world, everyone, having this complicated, messy discussion about abuse. 

A discussion that offered both a healing balm and fiery darts all within one scroll of a mouse. 

A discussion that nearly made me leave the internet. But then, I remembered who I am. I’m not one to leave when things get messy. Instead I say let’s fix this, let’s do better. 

I had so many heated things to say, so many words to spew from a place of hurt. 

But then I remembered that hurt people hurt people and I refuse to add more coals to that fire.

I could not, however, ignore the fact that every time we emphasize God’s grace at the expense of His justice, we tell another victim that his or her story, his or her pain and healing, matters infinitely less than an abuser’s reputation, 

And this is not the way of our God. 

This cannot be reconciled with a God who calls us to “Act justly and love mercy” (Micah 6:8).
This is not an accurate representation of a God who “is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth, who fulfills the desires of those who fear him; who hears their cry and saves them, who watches over all who love him, but destroys the wicked.” (Psalm 145:18-20).

He balances grace and justice in a way only a perfect and loving God can. 

Our God instead comes to “rescue me because He delighted in me” (Psalm 18:19)

I truly believe the enemy badly wants a hand in this fight.

And so I prayed that we would learn to balance grace and justice in a way only those painfully aware of their own redemption are able. I prayed for Jesus to come quickly, and I dreamed, I wondered.

And I had the following conversation with God. 

“Hey, how cool would it be if this discussion didn’t disappear when the drama of the news and media did? How cool would it be if the church got this one right? Like, we need someone to be a platform, to give victims a voice. Because I really, truly, believe deep in my soul that the fiery darts come from a place of naivety and ignorance, which though not excusable, are not the same thing as malice. We can fix ignorance and naivety, right God? I mean, how can we expect society to hear from the victim’s view when no one is telling their stories?”
The conversation ended with me naively believing that God would be using my agenda and my timetable to come up with a solution. As if He actually needed the advice and plans of this 21 year old.  As if the God of the universe hadn’t already been burdened by love and placed perfectly equipped people in a position to help.

And I went about my life. 

For all of about 24 hours. 

Then, it was coming from everywhere. 

Jon Acuff was saying stuff like-

“Bravery goes viral, but one person always has to go first. When you go first with your story, your dream, and your hustle, you give everyone in the room a really powerful gift. You give them the gift of going second. It’s hard to go first. You don’t know the rules yet, you don’t know how it will be accepted, there’s no precedent. It’s easier to go second, which is why the world needs you to be brave first.”

-Jon Acuff

And then, I was on Jen Hatmaker’s book launch team (go pre-order For the Love right now, you won’t regret it) and reading words like:

“When people courageously voice a true, hard thing, they’ve already stolen some of its dark power before we offer one word to fix it.”

And all of a sudden, it was before me… plain as day. 

Hannah. Go first. Voice the true hard things. Give the gift of your story, your support.

It seems that’s the way of faith, While I’m over here saying “You know, if someone would just do something about that,” God is grinning and patiently waiting for me to figure out that perhaps there’s a reason I feel strongly about that– whatever that is. Perhaps, I am the someone. 
So, that’s where it began, how it started. 
If you made it this far, you are an angel. 

This is where I introduce you to the exciting part. 

Last week I decided to follow through. 

I was all “God I’m pretty sure you’re wrong about this (let me remind you how easy and charming I am ;). Clearly I am just the poster child for obedience, and submission and all things lovely), but just for the heck of it I’ll ask. But no one is going to jump up and want to be this scary vulnerable over the internet God, I mean I’m just saying.”

So I did it, I asked.

It went something like this:

God has been calling me out of silence over the last week to share my story on my blog. In addition, however, I feel led to offer an opportunity for your voices and your stories to be heard as well. I’d love to do a contributor series on my blog to share your stories of redemption and finding healing, of courageous strength and to open a conversation about abuse. You would have the option to contribute anonymously or with your first or first and last name, whatever your preference. Please let me know if you have a story you’d be interested in sharing!

And then it happened. Women came out of the woodwork saying things like “I’m terrified to say yes, but I think I need to” and “let’s get this ball rolling” and “can my sister/mother/friend share too?”

It was exhilarating…and terrifying all at the same time. Funny how God knows what he’s talking about, right?

And so it begins, She Matters: The Mended Heart Project. 



Last week, I wanted to punch someone. I wanted to scream at Facebook “please filter your words. Would you ever actually say those things to a survivor?”

This week, I just want to collect their stories and share them all with you. 

Because we are strongest where we are broken. In the pain of brokenness, we find the sweetness of healing, strength and redemption. I pray that’s what this project makes you see. It truly is a sweetly broken life. 

Over the next several weeks, or months, or heck, years if it takes that long, I’ll be featuring a story or two on the blog each week.  

I cannot wait. I hope you’ll read each one, and cheer them on. 
I hope that together we will put an end to the fiery darts of ignorance or naivety. 

Finally, according to statistics, 1 out of every 4 women and 1 out of every 7 men, will be reading this and thinking “me too.”

May the stories bring hope and healing, for you, for all of us. 

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” – Maya Angelou
**Let me clearly state from the beginning that I understand that sexual violence is not a crime solely against women, that just happens to be the angle of this project. The intent is in no way to minimize the stories of male victims. 


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