"Welcome to the poor broken slob club" said
my friend Karen, the sadness in her eyes belying what would have normally made us both
laugh. "Now you will find out if your words really work." Through my tears I
managed a weak laugh. I knew what she meant. God had used me often to counsel and comfort
young women as they grappled with their painful past; with hurts so deep and betrayals so
enormous that healing seemed impossible. Karen had been one of those young women years
before as she worked through the grief of her abortion and the betrayal of her baby's
father. She often jokingly referred to herself and women like her as "poor broken
slobs." Somehow I had been spared the "privilege" of being included in this
elite club. I had loving parents and a "normal" upbringing. I married a
wonderful man and had five great kids. While I had experienced the normal bumps and
bruises of life, I had never really experienced anything terrible enough that I was
totally undone - until then.
When Karen spoke these words, we were in route to Flagstaff to take
my precious three year old daughter to the doctor. Not just any doctor but one who could
knowledgeably examine a child who had been raped and molested. A few days before I had
discovered that this had happened to Tiffany by a 12 year old neighbor boy, Peter. He was
home-schooled and was therefore free to be a companion to Tiffany during the morning while
we worked in our home based business. There were always adults around but somehow he had
managed to molest her over a one week period. God knows how long it would have continued
if I hadn't casually asked her as I sometimes did, if anyone had ever "touched her
privates." When she responded in an embarrassed mumble that "Peter did,"
our nightmare began. The police were called and after talking with her, they confirmed my
worst fears. He had violated her in every way imaginable.
For the first time in my life I was faced with something that was so
big, so horrible, so unthinkable that I couldn't take it in. My emotions were tumbling
over each other faster than I could identify them. I felt guilt, anger, betrayal, sadness,
loss, failure, helplessness, a desire to die, a desire to kill, and overriding them all
was hatred. I felt the seed of hatred plant itself firmly in my heart and begin to
flourish.
As I dragged through the days and weeks I became more and more aware
of my ability to hate. I had never had a target so real or a cause so worthy to give me
complete license to hate. It was frightening to realize that I was capable of something
this destructive and consuming. I saw myself in my mind's eye as being suspended over a
deep, black, bottomless abyss of hatred. I knew that if I gave way to the hatred that was
taking root in my heart it would be like jumping into that bottomless abyss. And yet, as I
thought about what this boy had done to my precious daughter I could not keep myself from
falling. And so I prayed a desperate prayer, "God, PLEASE keep me from hating."
As I dangled over the abyss wanting to jump, God faithfully held me in His hands and did
not allow me to fall.
I knew that Christians were not supposed to feel the way I was
feeling. But even entertaining the more noble emotions of forgiveness, peace and joy, was
out of the question. I had to deal with what I felt, not what I should be feeling. I had
counseled enough "poor broken slobs" to know that, though my experience was
different from theirs, the path to healing, forgiveness and peace was the same. I also
knew that I was totally incapable of bringing any of it about. I could not change my
heart. And yet, paradoxically, it was ultimately my choice. Karen's statement, "Now
you'll find out if your words really work" referred to the path to victory that I had
shared with so many others - the path of surrender.
