The Worst Thing That Happened to You {it happened on a sunday} Day 25

Camp Ligonier 2006

Eleven years ago, a friend invited/tricked me into meeting with a group of 6th grade girls to be a sort of mentor-group leader at our church.  If any of my girls are reading this, I hope you won't feel hurt or betrayed to learn that I was not looking to volunteer with our youth group; instead, you all charmed me and made me want to stick around for a few years to see what we could learn from each other.  It was the first time anyone had given me the title of "leader", and I believed it to be an erroneous word to describe me at the time.

But we kept showing up for each other, on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights, and those girls were so excited about life and loved to be silly and were willing to have hard conversations and encourage each other.  I remember someone saying at the time that the worst thing to happen to a person is usually the very thing that God uses to bring people together, that in our hurt and weakness, we allow others to see behind our perfect masks and we find common ground and real connection.  I thought that God must be using my own awkward middle school memories to create a tenderness in my heart for these girls.  I could still remember how hard it all was, trying to figure out what a good friend was, and if you had any, unsure if it mattered more to dress like everyone else or be yourself.  (Who am I kidding...it was middle school, obviously conformity was the goal of us all.)

I got pregnant and gave birth the year the girls were in 7th grade, and continued to be their leader as much as I could with a baby hanging off my boobs, but once they passed on to high school, our time together ended.  I had another baby that next year and didn't take on a new group of girls, overwhelmed as I was with the two little boys at home.  Thanks to social media, however, I've been able to stay in touch with them as they've grown from high school students to young women.  Today, they are college graduates, mothers, writers, world travelers, artists, missionaries, teachers.  They are beautiful and silly and big-hearted and adventurous and creative.

Which is why it hurt so much to learn that some of them are also survivors of sexual assault.

Oh, my girls.  I wish we were still meeting in the church attic or riding around in my SUV.  I wish I could hold your hands and pass you tissues as you find your way through this next part.  When the counselors and therapists tell you it's not your fault, but you can't seem to silence that question in your mind that wonders if maybe it actually is.  When you replay the events, trying to put them in some sort of order, trying to make sense of it all, yet there are still missing pieces.  When you know that this has changed you, but you aren't sure if you should call yourself a virgin or a slut.  When the days or weeks or years go by, and still you have said nothing, told no one.

I would tell you that you are not alone.  That the worst thing to happen to you is also the worst thing to happen to me.

I was young when it happened, so young I didn't know what to call it.  So young I thought I could pretend it away, act as though I was unchanged.  So young that I spent most of my life afraid of men, terrified that one of them would hurt me again.

I spent two decades feeling like a victim, unable to move past it and unable to completely forget it.  But that all changed one Sunday morning when I heard the voice of God.  The earth didn't tremble, there was no burning bush.  Instead, as I prayed in church, a soft voice told me to lay down my burden.  "Your heart is too precious to carry this any longer.  It's time to give it to me."  I resisted for a moment.  No, I thought, this thing is too terrible, I couldn't possibly put it on anyone else.  The voice persisted, and finally I relinquished.  The aching tightness in the center of my chest evaporated, an ache that I had seemed to always have.  I sat back in the pew and wondered, What just happened?

I heard the voice again the next day as I showered.  Yes, you can have a conversation with God in the shower or the sanctuary.  He told me it was time to tell, to speak the truth out loud.  I told him no, absolutely not.  I could breathe deeply for the first time I could remember, I had surrendered my secret.  I didn't need to do anymore.  "It's time to tell."  He wasn't giving up.  So I asked, Who should I tell?  Do I have to talk about it fifty different times to fifty different people and relive it over and over?  So he suggested I write it out.  Still scary, but I agreed.  I posted it on my blog on a Monday afternoon and hit Publish and within minutes my friends' responses came pouring in.  It was an avalanche of love and support and encouragement, and it made me feel brave.

So girls, I would give you the same advice.  You cannot keep carrying the burden of what he did to you, what he took from you.  Your hearts are too precious.  You were meant to live bold and wonderful lives, to be free from shame and fear.  And you have to use your voices.  You have to speak his name and tell someone what he did.  Even if it never goes to trial.  Even if he never gets arrested.  Even if you never see him again.  Your voice will reclaim your dignity.  Your voice will shine light into the darkness.  Your voice will start saying "I'm a survivor, not a victim."  Your voice will bring together the people who will surround you with love.

Do it for freedom.  Do it for healing.  Do it today.