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“He heals the
brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.”
Psalm 147:3 (NIV)
From the
time I was eight until I was twelve, my grandfather sexually abused me.
For a
long time, I was angry with my mother for leaving me with him. As I got older
and knew more about abuse, I learned that abusers don’t just pop out of
nowhere. They’ve usually been abused themselves.
When my
grandfather died, I thought, “Well, at last I don’t have to shiver trying to
hold it together whenever he’s around. It’s finally over, and I don’t have to
deal with it anymore,” but it wasn’t over, and I still had to deal with it.
For
years, I took responsibility for my own abuse. Although I had no idea what I’d
done to warrant such vileness, I believed the deadly lie: “I must have done
something.”
Through
years of therapy, the Lord brought me to a place of initial acceptance and
forgiveness. When I finally forgave my grandfather, I went to his grave site to
tell him. When I said that I was sorry for the abuse he must have gone through
to become an abuser, I was sincere. I wondered if my Nan, buried beside him,
knew that her husband, a revered citizen and upright role model, was an abuser.
When I expressed my sadness for their brokenness that had led to mine, I
thought my healing was complete.
But it
wasn’t.
Years
later, my mother gave all us kids pictures featuring our grandfather with his
most-prized horse. He’d been an avid raiser of horses much of his adult life.
Even then, as a mother with grown children, I didn’t know what to do with the
picture. I certainly didn’t want it hanging on any wall in my home to serve as
a daily reminder. Since Mom didn’t visit all that often, I decided to shove the
picture under the bed in my spare bedroom and to try to forget all about it.
I began
to have some really strange feelings. I didn’t feel at home in my own home
anymore. When a friend recommended that I invite a spiritual discerner, woman
known for healing spiritual unrest, to my house, I took his advice.
As the
woman started going through the rooms of my house, she sensed something was
wrong. When we reached the spare bedroom, her breathing quickened, and she fell
to the floor in obvious distress.
Quickly, we helped her out of the room, and her breathing returned to
being normal.
“I don’t
know what was in there, but it really hit me hard,” she said. All of a sudden,
I remembered my grandfather’s picture under the bed. I took it outside and
smashed it into tiny pieces. The strange feelings evaporated. I felt a big
release and an incredible peace.
For the
first time for as long as I could remember, neither I nor my house was at odds.
Even
though it took years, I felt that God had finally finished the last chapter and
closed the book on my abuse. Today, he is continuing to write a new bold story
in my life, a story “which goes on forever in which every chapter is better
than the one before (C.S. Lewis).” A
Grateful Believer
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