In Memoriam

I have struggled immensely to find the words to describe the strange and twisted grief I felt when my dad died last November. I have attempted many times to put my thoughts about my father into words. Unraveling my memories of him—the person he was, the man he pretended to be, the dad I knew—is like trying to navigate some kind of ancient Celtic knot. This weekend, my family will have a memorial service to commemorate his life and to remember their loss. It is months later, and I am still wandering through the tangled knot of feelings I have about my father’s passing, observing my grief, considering what I can possibly say to honor this man.

On Saturday I will attend a service for my dad, among family members who will undoubtedly remember him differently than I. I didn't know the little boy who worried about his mom's feelings, afraid to leave her alone all day when he went to Kindergarten.  I don't have memories of the thoughtful young man who asked the nurse to cover his broken arm so his family wouldn't worry. I don't remember the little brother who kept his older siblings busy with his antics, although I occasionally saw him at his most vibrant, being the life of the party at family gatherings. On Saturday, I will go to a memorial to support my family as they commemorate their pleasant memories of a boy, a teenager, a young man I didn't know. I will also go to put to rest my memories of the man who was my father. I will mark the ache I have felt in my father’s absence; I will continue wading through oceans of grief. 

In describing those left behind when a loved one passes, obituaries often use the words “is survived by” to describe living relatives of the deceased. When it comes to reflecting on the man who was my father, what I will choose to memorialize is that I survived.

I survived the lies that led so many in, lies told so convincingly you simply had to believe they were true.  I think he was certain in his mind that the wild and crazy stories he told really happened. When I was a child, I believed that we were descendants of royalty, that my dad had once been a professional racecar driver and that he saved an entire ship from blowing up by stopping a nuclear missile with his bare hands. I can picture him sitting there, long legs in worn denim stretched out in front of him, head back and laughing as he recounted past glory days. It is easy to see why there was always someone over at our house, laughing and smoking and hearing him talk. Unfortunately, his lies weren’t always so harmless. He could be venomous, telling me my faults and hateful untruths about my existence. He could be manipulative, constructing a story that led to you doing what he wanted, even when you knew that he was wrong.

The storyteller has been laid to rest, and he is survived by a daughter who seeks to tell the truth.

I survived the neglect of a man who didn’t seem to know how to put his children’s needs before his own. My dad was inattentive, unaware of how to meet his own needs, let alone those of anyone else. When it suited him, he paid attention to others. As a four year old, I peeled the cellophane wrapper from a couple of slices of processed cheese, dug a few cocoa puffs from the bottom of a cereal box, and placed all of them on my brother’s high chair tray to feed him. My dad was home, but asleep, while my younger brother fussed and fretted in his high chair. During seasons when my father was unmarried and living alone, my brother and I were frequently responsible to meet our own physical needs. We learned to take care of ourselves and each other, finding food to eat, washing our own clothes or wearing what seemed reasonably clean. Beyond physical neglect, my father was also emotionally unavailable. He demanded perfection, but his requirements were capricious, and he rarely offered any kind of affirmation or praise.

The absent father has departed from this life, and he is survived by a daughter who believes her worth.

I survived the cycle of violence that my father perpetuated against the women in my family. The first time I remember seeing my dad’s cruelty I was very young. My mother had recently said she was leaving him, and grasping to regain his manipulative control, he tied a rope around her neck. I opened the door to their room and saw that horrific brutality. I can still recall the way my mother’s face looked up at me, tears streaming down her cheeks, her face red and swollen. She looked down at the square of light on the carpet, I closed the door, and we never spoke of it again. His violent behavior returned one night years later at a friend’s house. I watched my dad wildly swinging a hammer in his right hand, waving it at his best friend, threatening to hit him, maybe to kill him.  To make this even more frightening, he was holding my baby sister in his left arm.  Soon after that, he threatened to kill our entire family and himself with a shotgun, standing and blocking the front door of our house when my stepmom decided she was through. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when his violence turned toward me. I was fourteen, and beginning to question his iron control, on the night when he bound my hands behind my back, pinned me to the floor, and struck me in the face.

The fighter has breathed his last, and is survived by a daughter who found safety and peace.

I survived, and I recognize that I suffered the loss of my dad a little at a time through the years. All these memories are but a glimpse into the reality that I never had a loving relationship with my dad. Where there should have been love, there was instead fear. For all of my childhood, I feared my dad.  As a teenager and young adult, I abhorred him.  Toward the end of his life, I pitied him.  And still, in all those seasons, I longed for him.  I longed for a father. I longed for a true and genuine apology that said I deserved more; I deserved better. There is a part of me that always hoped for a different resolution to our story. The lack of resolution caused me grief, brought me sorrow, and was my loss.

As I unravel this complex knot of emotions and memories, I see that the grief I now face is that my father is dead, and he never acknowledged the tremendous pain he caused. The ache in my chest and the lump in my throat are because now that he is really and truly gone, I have to be the one to tell the little girl that the apology she longs for isn’t coming.

I see you, little one.  You are strong.  You are brave.  You survived.

Somewhere inside me is the little girl who survived the lies, the berating and the demeaning. I carry within myself the child who endured being neglected and feeling unloved. I am the young woman who escaped being accused and bound and hit. I am still the little girl that wishes her daddy would stop yelling.  She wishes that he would lay down his gun, his hammer, his screaming and come into her room.  Hold her and tell her it’s going to be ok.  Say that he’s sorry, that he loves her and her brother and sister and they are all safe.

My father died, and he is survived by a daughter who has hope that the story isn’t truly over yet. I believe that his death is not the end. Now that my dad has been released from the bonds of this life, I hope that he has been freed from mental illness, from the disease that affected his mind and body and heart. I have hope that one day in eternity I will see my dad in his glorified body and his wholly right mind. I may recognize the thoughtful spirit of the boy who loved his mother, the brother who entertained his siblings, the man who cared for others. I will not be afraid, because we will be in the presence of Love, and perfect love casts out all fear. On that day, my dad will say that he is sorry.  And somehow, because of the great mystery of life and death and sacrifice and forgiveness and Love, I will believe his apology.  I will know with a deep understanding I cannot fathom that his apology is the truth, my forgiveness is the truth and our Love is the truth.

Kenneth Wayne Moore—my father the storyteller, the unfettered, the fighter—has passed from this life into eternity. He is survived by me—his daughter the truth-teller, the refuge seeker, the hopeful.

Yearbook Signing

The school year is wrapping up, and my kids are bringing home stashes of artwork and used-up pencils, celebrating their accomplishments, and preparing to spend a few days having fun with friends before school’s out for the summer. One annual task that is right around the corner is yearbook signing. My kids are young, so yearbooks seem a little extraneous, but I have to admit it’s pretty sweet to watch this tradition evolve. In Kindergarten, kids are just able to sign their names and by fifth grade, they are adding fun embellishments like hearts and stars to their signatures. Next up, middle school, where everyone writes, “Have a great summer!” and “Stay cool! C-ya next year!”

This got me thinking about my own yearbooks, and my high school self. I pulled my yearbooks out today because I remember the comments often surprising me. Of course most people say nice things, like “You’re a good friend,” and “It was fun having chemistry with you,” and always, “Have a great summer!” But when they became more specific, the personal comments in my high school yearbooks tend to have a similar theme, mostly about my perpetual optimism and joy.

“You are always smiling!”

“Thanks for being so happy and cheerful all the time.”

“I will miss seeing your smile and positive personality!”

In middle and high school, I was something of an incurable optimist. Search for the silver lining, point out the bright spot, think happy thoughts—these were my specialties. People who know me in my day-to-day life now would find this to be laughable. A bit of a skeptic, tired and complaining, and usually obviously stressed to the max as I run from kids to work to other obligations—this is the land I now reside in. Frankly, I miss the optimist within myself, and I’ve been wondering where she’s been.

It’s not as though the circumstances of my high school years were ideal, and I was simply enjoying the blissful ignorance of youth. You could argue that adult life is harder, and has more responsibilities and worries. But the truth is that when I was younger, not only was my home life much more difficult than my daily life now, the circumstances of my personal and family existence were pretty much public knowledge.

I remember the night my dad came charging into the high school auditorium. I was standing behind a giant wood and canvas construction made to look like a house that had been the backdrop for a play ending that night. I had called my dad to tell him that I would be home late, because we needed to strike the set that evening. I had asked for permission to attend the cast party afterward, and he had said no. I hung up the phone, telling him I would get a ride home after I finished helping to tear down and clean up. It would be late, but getting a ride home was normal for me. It was no surprise that my dad hadn’t attended a single showing of my first ever performance.

So there I was, standing on the stage of my high school production, holding onto a heavy backdrop while another person was breaking it down. I began to hear whispers from the other cast members. I heard yelling and a scuffle in the room just off the stage, and someone saying, “I think it’s her dad.” I looked up to see a friend standing at the end of the backdrop, and the look on his face was one of compassion.

“What is going on?” I asked.

“Your dad is here,” he answered simply, and held out his arms to me.

I felt a wave of red-hot shame and embarrassment wash over my body. I ran into that hug, my head hanging down in disbelief, my ears ringing, and tears welling in my eyes. I could hear the drama teacher shouting, telling my dad he needed to leave.

“I think he punched Mr. B.” my friend whispered into the top of my head. “You’d better go,” he said.

I left quickly and quietly with my dad that night, without saying a word to anyone, and then had to return to that same school the following Monday. I was only a freshman. I remember the continued embarrassment of hearing the drama teacher retell the story in the hallway several times over the next few weeks. Visiting alumni, other teachers, administration, all got to hear about how Mr. B. feared for his safety when a student’s dad came charging in following an exhausting run of performances. When your dad storms into the high school in your freshman year and punches the drama teacher in the face, it’s pretty obvious to everyone you know that you’re not living with the most stand-up guy.

No one mentioned that incident in my yearbook. No one talked about how I was shy, or quiet, or closed off. Instead, friends mentioned specifically that they appreciated that I continued to smile even though it seemed like my life was hard. I know that I am blessed to have had many reasons for joy during that season. I always felt loved and supported by extended family, friends and teachers throughout that very confusing and abusive time. I participated in a variety of activities, because being at school was certainly better than being at home. My faith grew during that season, and I found strength in believing in a God who loved me.

When I consider it now, I also believe the fact that others were completely aware of my reality influenced my optimistic perspective. My friends knew the facts of my upbringing and home life, yet they were still my friends. Having support in the face of such tremendous difficulty gave me the space and freedom to be myself without fear of rejection. My friends understood that circumstances were hard, but they didn’t judge me based on those circumstances. They regarded me separately from my dad’s actions, and they gave me tremendous grace. I can’t even explain to you the incredibly positive influence that my peers had in that short season of my life. When things were difficult, they sent letters and cards and notes of encouragement. When things went well, they had barbecues in my honor. They were high schoolers. Just kids themselves, really. But they supported me in ways that have anchored me ever since.

Maybe it was because I was surrounded by so many caring people that I found the strength and determination to regard myself as separate from my circumstances. I became defiantly opposed to being like my dad; I wholeheartedly refused to believe that I was as bad and shameful as he often labeled me. I made it my mission to become the opposite of what my life appeared to be. Daily life was hard, but I was hopeful. Shame abounded, but I found strength. The story did not look like it was going to end well, but I became the surest optimist.

In more recent years, I lost that sense that things would turn out well. I started to think in terms of my failures, rather than my successes. Maybe it was becoming a mom, and feeling terrified that I was doing it all wrong. Perhaps it was seeing others around me fall into old patterns and cycles repeating themselves, as they often do. The messages in my head told me that I couldn’t be better than where I came from, that I was incurably messed up, and that no matter how hard I tried, things would not end the way I wanted them to. I felt as though I no longer had control over the person others would see in me and that I couldn’t influence or change the inevitably negative comments they would leave about me in my yearbook.

Since I have been openly sharing personal stories of my past and experiences on my blog, I have felt a lightening taking place in my life. Learning to walk without shame over my past, or even my present and the ways my past has influenced me, is unbelievably freeing. Deciding that I am unwilling to hide what I am dealing with, or make excuses, forces me to address the real roots of my exasperation, my stress, my cynical heart. It is only by facing those issues head on that I can break free from them. Acknowledging the truth, being unable to hide, is terrifying for sure. But for the most part, if I am being honest, finding tremendous support from so many who either identify with or find new ways to empathize through my stories has been an incredibly uplifting experience for me personally. It is helping me find my way back to that high school student who was known, and not ashamed. I am once again feeling pretty optimistic these days about how my story ends. After all, I play a major role in determining that outcome.

I was thinking that it might be nice to do some yearbook signing again. Consider this a note from me to you, telling you to stay cool. Thanks for reading my story. You matter to me, and you have helped me feel known and unashamed, and are aiding me in shifting my view back toward optimism. I really do hope you have an amazing summer and you keep in touch. But I want to take it even further. I want to be the supportive friend who isn't hiding her truth, and makes room for others to share honestly when they are struggling. I want to acknowledge your struggles, and be able to point out that you are not your circumstances.  I want to write for you a note telling you all the good I see in you that you might not see in yourself. I want you to believe that you can change your future, today, and be the kind of person that you want to be, no matter what you're battling or where you come from. That's what I'm writing in your yearbook today, friend. LYLAS.

The Thief Will Not Win

After posting so many difficult stories recently, I find myself asking why on earth I am doing this. I don’t really think people want to spend their precious time reading about trauma, and I would guess that those who know me might feel a little bit uncomfortable with the amount of personal information I am disclosing. I know that I am on a journey, and getting part of my story out there in this way is one small part of my process. So much of what I have shared so far has been facts, information about the realities of my own past and history. But sharing the facts is not the whole of the story I am trying to tell.

What I really want to share is that while there is a level of brokenness that impacts my life continually, there is a tremendous level of grace that impacts it more completely. In the book of John, Jesus tells a story. It is a beautiful parable about how a shepherd cares for his sheep. The shepherd is portrayed as kind and gracious, looking after his sheep tenderly and calling them to himself.  The sheep know their shepherd, and follow the sound of his voice. The shepherd is calling his sheep away from those that would harm them. John 10:10 says “The thief’s purpose is to steal and kill and destroy. My purpose is to give them a rich and satisfying life.”

Here is what I know to be true. I know that there is a thief at work in this world.  I can see the work of the thief stealing, killing and destroying in my life, and in the lives of those I love. So much has been stolen—my innocence, my trust in those who should have cared for me, my childhood. So much has died—my relationships with my biological parents and extended family members, my children’s relationships with grandparents. So much has been destroyed—the life of my abuser, my brother’s life, the lives of other victims.

This week I was overwhelmed with the feeling that this is not how it is supposed to be. This feeling produces tremendous grief. I want things to be different; I long for it. At times, the realization of the present level of destruction threatens to crush me. I cannot explain all that I feel other than to say that it is incredibly painful.

Yet in the midst of all this destruction, this intense pain, I can hear a shepherd calling as well. I can see his work all around me. While he did not prevent the thief from coming in, he was there with me and he called me away from that place of darkness. By some miracle, I heard the voice of a shepherd who loves and cares for me, and I can honestly say that I believe he was calling me all throughout those challenging days. By believing in that truth and following his voice, I have found myself led into a completely different life than the one I knew when I was a child.

I cannot explain why I have been given the opportunities I have throughout my life, when I see others whose suffering is greater than my own. I can only keep listening for the voice that guided me away from destruction. That voice continually encourages me to stop allowing my own bitterness to steal my joy, my lack of forgiveness to kill my future, and my hatred to destroy my chance to feel and express love. When I listen to that message, I find peace.

So I return to the original question: Why am I sharing these difficult stories? Why not leave the past in the past, and enjoy peace in all that I have today? I am telling these stories because it is evident the thief came with a purpose in my life, and he made it his mission to steal my future from me, to kill my faith, and to destroy my hope of something greater. I am telling these stories so that the thief will not win. For me, that means that the story of my past will become a story of redemption. It means that what the enemy meant to use to harm me, God will be able to use for good. It means that I cling to the belief that I have been brought through much so that another sheep might hear the echo of a Good Shepherd calling them away from destruction, into a rich and satisfying life of their own.

This blog is only one part of the work that God is doing in me, but it is something that I feel strongly that I have to do. I know that in this process I will make mistakes. Sometimes, perhaps I will share too much. Other times, it’s possible I will disclose too little. For all of those mistakes I will make, I ask forgiveness from those who read. Truthfully, I am doing all of this as an act of obedience to my shepherd, and that is reason enough.

I believe God has a purpose and a plan for these events, these stories, these heartaches I have experienced. The opportunity to speak up and use my voice to reflect back on my story reminds me of his grace covering me, his light shining through the darkness, his love bringing forgiveness and healing to the broken places. In order to find that place of healing and peace, both the darkness and the light need to be shared openly.

The Good Shepherd promises me that the thief will not win. That promise is enough for me.

You Are My Sunshine: A Lullaby for Mothers

It is almost Mother’s Day. This year, I will celebrate that I have been a mom for over a decade. I will honor the various women in my life who have supported and helped me along the way to becoming a mother. I am fortunate to have my amazing grandmother in my life, as well as aunts who supported me throughout my childhood in place of a mom, a wealth of friends who have cared for me and shown me the art of mothering through the years, a stepmom who was on the scene at just the right time, and an incredible mother-in-love who raised one helluva man that I am blessed to call my husband. I recognize that it is an abundant blessing to have so many women in my life that care for me, yet I still feel an absence in that area of my life. I do not have much of a relationship with my own biological mother. Although I rarely speak to her, I think about my mother often.

I have complicated memories of my mother. Many of my memories are confusing, and I have far more questions than answers about her choices throughout my childhood. Many of the memories are painful, frightening or sad. Some of them still cause me to feel angry, or hurt, or disappointed. The memory that causes me the greatest ache, however, is that of my mother singing to me a lullaby. It comes to me in flashes. I can picture myself as a toddler, standing on the side of the crib calling out, and then see her enter the room, lay me down, and bend over the rails while she sings. I can feel myself cradled on her lap, slowly rocking back and forth while she is smoothing my hair to calm me. I think of her sitting on the side of my bed when I had the flu, and the words flood my mind again.

“You are my sunshine,” she sang, “my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you, please don’t take my sunshine away.”

It is a song that many mothers sing to their children. I have sung it often to my own. And yet every time I utter the words I hesitate.  My eyes grow wet with unshed tears and my chest aches with pressure as I softly make my way through the chorus, thinking of my mother, thinking of my children.

 I think about my mother rocking me to sleep, looking in on me as her baby at night.  I think how the lyrics to that song were an echo of the life in front of us.  "Please don't take my sunshine away," my mother begged over my sleepy head.  It is the cry of so many of us as mothers when we rock our little ones.  "Don't grow up too fast," we plead.  "Don't leave me too soon," we cry out, when we look up and realize that they have grown inches taller and years wiser.  "Please be mine always," we ask, hoping that even when they do grow up and go away, they will still be our babies.

The chorus of You Are My Sunshine feels like it is part proclamation of love, part codependent threat.  You are my sunshine, so please don't ever leave me, because if you go I will have nothing.   And yet that chorus seems to reflect one aspect of a mother’s love and heartache pretty well. You are my everything, little one. Watching you grow makes the bleakest day seem lovely. You light up my life. I don’t think you can ever really know how much I love you with this powerful love, the love of a mother for her child. And yet, my heart breaks because I know that my greatest responsibility in life is to raise you so that you can go out on your own one day. But not yet, please. Please don’t take my sunshine away just yet.

Perhaps I feel this pull more acutely than some, because I do not have an adult relationship with my mom. I cannot ask her if she felt the same intensity I did on the day we brought our oldest home from the hospital. I was sitting on the side of the bed in our apartment, sunlight streaming through the window, my beaming husband standing over us, proud as could be. I looked up at him with tears pouring down my face. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you in pain?”

Holding my sweet, chubby bundle in my arms, through gasping sobs, I told him what was bothering me. “He’s just going to grow up (sniffle, sob) and meet some girl (gasp), and leave me (boo-hoo-hoo)!” With the patience of a saint, my husband kissed my forehead. “Honey,” he said calmly, “let’s just figure out how to feed this little guy and get through the night. Maybe let’s not worry about the next 18 years just yet.”

But as the years fly by, I feel this tension of motherhood deepen. This love that is so overwhelming is accompanied by a heartache that knows that it cannot hold on to a ray of sunshine forever. That little bundle has places to go, people to meet, and a life of his own to live. And I constantly fear that if I mess this up, my little man may not come back to me after he is grown. Embedded in this ache that accompanies watching my children grow is the deeper ache over my own mother who missed so much of my childhood. Most people never sing the verses of You Are My Sunshine, perhaps because they are heavily coated with sorrow.  My mother always sang the first verse to me.

“The other night dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken, and so I hung my head and I cried.”

I don’t think my mother could have possibly known how this verse would soon echo in her own life. I can only imagine that those words did become truth when her children were taken from her.  The gray skies of navigating abuse and poverty and brokenness managed to blot out any ray of light for years. I don't believe my mother wanted me to be hurt, but I don't believe that her desire for things to be better acquits her of responsibility.  How do I balance her possible love for me, her daughter, with the terrible and traumatic events that transpired, and her apparent powerlessness to change the course?  There is evidence that my mother asked me repeatedly if I was being hurt; it seems I never felt safe enough to tell her the truth.

My mother only sang the chorus and the first verse to me, that I can recall. But the verses of You Are My Sunshine continue in this way. Once, I dreamed I held you in my arms, but it was only a mirage.  You have left me to love another, and you have shattered all my dreams.  I wonder, is this song about love, or is it about grief?  I love you, the song proclaims, you are everything to me. Don't leave me, the verse threatens, you will regret it.  I love you, come back to me, blame me, I will forgive you.  I cannot decide if this song is a story of love, or a story of loss. Perhaps, as is so often the case, the answer isn't either/or.  Instead, it is both/and.

Motherhood is like that. It is love, and it is grief. It is this intense loss of self, where each day I must find a way to give more and more and more of me over for my children. I must learn how to put their needs before my own, and yet I must also take care of myself just enough that I have the strength to love them well. I must prepare myself for the day when I will allow my children to step outside my love, and consider the grief I may experience. At its core, You Are My Sunshine perfectly conveys the all consuming love that being a mother becomes, along with recognizing the ways in which mothers may endure tremendous loss.

The questions I ask myself about motherhood do not have easy answers. When I think of my mother, it seems easier at times to move forward if I believe that she allowed the abuse in my life to occur because she didn't care, she valued only herself and her own interests.  The harder truth to endure is the belief that most likely she loved me deeply, and the hurt I experienced pained her too.  Our shared sorrow results in our shared brokenness and inability to find our way to reconciliation.  The gray skies take over, the storm is too great, and the sunshine of our connection has all been taken away.

I believe that You Are My Sunshine should be the lullaby for mothers, rather than a song we sing for children. It is the song of mothers whose little ones brighten every day, even though at the same time those women are battling the stormy gray clouds of all that life sets before them. It is also the cry of mothers who lost their babies far too soon, who may wake at night dreaming of their children somehow taken from them. You Are My Sunshine is the chorus of mothers whose babies are grown and walking around without them, mothers who are simultaneously proud and lonely. The song fully reflects the intense love and the overwhelming grief that some stages of motherhood may place into a heart. You Are My Sunshine is my lullaby; it is the song that allows me to feel the weight of mothering and the hope of love that will endure. You Are My Sunshine is the lullaby my own mother sang over me, when she didn’t even realize the depth of its truth.

This Mother’s Day, I choose to remember that my mother sang to me.  I choose to believe that in those moments, the words she sang were true.  I choose to believe that my mother loved me, even if she didn't know how to exercise that love to protect me.  In that belief is more sorrow than comfort, knowing that the choices made years ago have altered our relationship forever.  Still, this Mother’s Day I also choose to keep singing You Are My Sunshine to my children, because it always is both/and. Life will always be both/and, my story will always be both/and, motherhood will always be both/and.  Love and pain, hurt and healing, sunshine and gray skies all tangled up together.

You can listen to a beautiful and true version of You Are My Sunshine performed by The Civil Wars here.

The Bravest Boy I've Ever Known

Recently, I shared about one night of shelter that my brother and I experienced, and how I held him and calmed him when he was crying and upset. While on that one particularly bright night, my brother had a weak moment and needed me, the truth is that my little brother was incredibly brave. Throughout his earliest years, he somehow found the strength to be honest. When police officers asked him about abuse that occurred, he was able to answer them truthfully, in great detail and specificity. He spoke the truth in the language of a child, and he did so without evidence of shame. Meanwhile I, the supposedly bright and precocious older sister, was unable to speak the truth. I cried in silence, and then I spent years minimizing what happened to me, living with the shame that it was somehow my fault and that telling the story only made it worse.

I remember one day in particular, grown ups showed up unexpectedly at our front door. I'm not sure who was responsible for us that day, but I know we were home alone. My brother had a sense that the grown ups could help us, that we should open the door and let them in and talk to them. I was silently shaking my head no, and crying in fear. As my little brother stood on his tip toes with his hand straining to reach the door knob, I begged and pleaded with him not to open the door. I was terrified of what might happen if we were found there alone, fearful of the questions we would surely be asked. My brother was willing to face the questions, willing to take the risk. Eventually, the grown ups stopped knocking on the door, and drove away.  We stayed together in the room for a while, shaken and uncertain. The light outside faded, and we cried together, both of us desperately wanting something better, neither of us knowing how to find help without the other. In time, my brother would take the opportunity to tell helpful grown ups what was happening to us. I will never be able to repay him for his courage. 

As we grew, my brother and I stayed close to one another. Our relationship continued to be this intense sort of give and take for several years. I continually acted like a mother hen, and shushed and rocked and calmed and cried with my brother. I told him everything would be ok. I encouraged him not to rock the boat, as that was my preferred method of survival. My brother, on the other hand, was not content to allow circumstances to continue as they were. He struggled to get along within our dysfunctional family dynamic at times, showing the outside world challenging behaviors and honestly answering questions about one parent or the other when asked. The ways we coped with the abuse we suffered were different, but we continued to cope together. He was my Bubba; I was his Sissy.

He was so small, and so brave.

 That little brother of mine grew into a charming young man. He was always trying to help someone in trouble. Often, he would put himself into a compromising situation in an effort to help anyone he perceived to be in need. He was loyal to his family, even to those who hurt him. He waited tables after high school, and was good at it. He never knew a stranger. He was like his dad, able to talk about anything. As time went on, his conversations occasionally took on an unbelievable tone. Like his dad, he started piling extras on top of truth, started to know about things he didn’t really know about, started to cover his reality with a story that sounded just a little bit better.

Somewhere along the line, my brother’s voice changed. There were a few times growing up when he told the truth but no one believed him or took action to protect him. I think that may be where his relationship with the truth started shifting. And when that happened, when the truth went unheard and the lies became more entertaining stories, I wonder if that was the beginning of what allowed him to step so far away from a healthy reality. Soon, he was drifting, keeping most of the very real parts of his life and story hidden in darkness. He remained outgoing and extroverted, he continued to meet and make friends everywhere he went, but he pulled further and further away from those who knew him best. He created the stories around himself that he felt others wanted to hear, and he hid the truest places. I guess he began to behave in adulthood as I had encouraged in childhood: keep quiet and let them believe all is well, because telling the true stories may cause too much pain.

It makes me unbelievably sad to consider that the person whom I regard as one of the most brave truth tellers I have ever known learned far too well how to hide his real self. That young boy, who could answer honestly and without shame, he got lost. The more darkness invaded, the harder it was to fend it off. I understand the feeling of balancing on the edge of a knife, feeling as though you could fall off the world altogether, and holding on by the thinnest wire to the belief that someone cares, someone loves me, I am worthy and enough. We traded places along the way, my Bubba and I. I grew more honest and open about the circumstances of my life and how they affected me, while my brother learned to hide and keep the darkness quiet. We both recognized the reality of what could happen if we stepped out too far in our various balancing acts. I am so crushed that my Bubba lost his hold on that thin wire at some point, he fell off the sharp edge and couldn’t find a place to pull himself back, and the results have been devastating.

The result of turning to hiding the truths and creating this strange alternate version of himself has lead to even more heartache than ever before. This week I learned that my brother now resides in a maximum security prison in the middle of nowhere. This knowledge wrecks me, and a heavy darkness threatens to pull me off my own edge as well. I knew that this day was coming. I saw him in jail, I watched the trial, and I heard them read the conviction. I read the story in the newspaper, saw the words “convicted sex offender” and “pedophile” tied to the one person who knows best the details of the earliest years of my own life. But seeing his name listed as confined in maximum security brings a deeper sense of the reality of what he will face in the next 20 years of his life.

Over the next 20 years, Lord willing, I will watch my children grow. They will go to middle school and endure emotional angst. They will attend high school, learn to drive, take someone to a dance, and hopefully find their niche. They may later go to college or get married. I pray they will find a course in life that fulfills them and brings them happiness. The opportunity to be a part of their lives, to watch these very normal events unfold, this seems to me an inordinate amount of undeserved mercy poured on my life. During that same 20 years, my brother, the one who spoke for me and was my voice when I could not speak, he will be part of a very different reality. He will, perhaps, fend off rapists. He will fight for his life to not be taken. He will undoubtedly consider taking his own life. He may, I hope, find some sort of routine in sameness. He will be confronted with his choices. He will be offered the opportunity for rehabilitation therapy. All the while, he will be only a shadow of himself, of all that he could have become. He will carry within him the ghost of the bravest little boy I have ever known, my Bubba.

I cannot begin to express the depth of emotion and heartache that carrying this knowledge of my brother’s daily existence makes me feel. I know that I feel angry. I am angry at my abusers, his abusers. I am angry at those who didn’t step in sooner to stop the abuse from continuing. I am angry with those who left us alone, abandoning us at various times and leaving us at risk of greater suffering. And I am so angry at my little brother. I am angry over his choices to pull away from the support and the community that knew him, that wanted to help and to calm and to comfort him, that were always trying to extend the wire he needed to keep from falling.

I know that I feel intense grief. I find myself asking a question I asked often throughout my childhood—how could a loving God allow such atrocity to happen? Where was God when my brother was abused and where was He when my brother was abusing others? This question devastates me. I find a sliver of comfort in the belief that God’s grief over all this devastation is perhaps greater than my own.

I know that I feel sorrow, and regret, and the weight of a thousand words I could not find before and struggle intensely to find now. I don’t know if I can ever forgive myself for my past silence. When we were very small, my brother was my voice. His honesty rescued me. His willingness to speak spared me from greater suffering. And now my brother no longer gets to have a voice; his choices have robbed him and he has stolen the truth from himself. But I will remember when he was brave, and find a way to echo his former honesty, and pray and hope that it finds its way to someone who needs a voice.

I wish I could go back in time and illuminate the places of darkness in my brother’s heart. I wish I could have helped him give a voice to the thoughts he had that confused and condemned him, that held him back from sharing his truth with someone who could have helped him along the way, before things progressed this far. I cannot change the ways that darkness affected my brother’s life, and now affects the lives of those he has abused, but I can change the ways it will affect mine. I will keep pushing back the darkness. I will keep sharing this difficult story. The shame and grief of the truth of this life makes me want to stop telling people about it. But I cannot. For the sake of the darkness in my heart, in my brother’s heart, in the hearts of those he hurt, I have to keep telling the story. I have to continue to work to find the words. I have to find the courage to raise my voice. I have to keep turning on the light.

One Night of Shelter

I remember that the house felt warm. It was December, so probably bitterly cold in Missouri. My parents had been separated for nine months, and we didn’t really have anything like a home during that time. When we were with my mother, we had been staying in her friend’s basement.  It was always dark in the basement.  You had to squint in order to see when you came down the stairs. We had also stayed for a short time in the empty house my grandparents had on the market, and it was always cold inside that house. When we were with my dad, circumstances weren’t any better. For a while we lived in a motel room, and I remember shivering while bathing in a plastic basin. When we were with him in a small house, we were often sitting with our feet on the oven door in order to be near a source of heat.

But that night in December, when we stayed with an emergency placement foster family, I remember that the house felt warm. It was brightly lit and cozy. Lamps glowed all over the room and overhead lights flooded the space with blindingly golden light. Maybe that was one reason why my little brother kept crying. Maybe he wasn’t used to the brightness and warmth we felt there. I remember the woman asking me if I knew anything that would help him feel better. He was screaming and crying so hard, his little face all scrunched up, bright red and streaked with tears.

 I asked if they had any books. Josh liked it when I read to him. They handed me a Little Golden Book, The Monster at the End of this Book, Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover. To this day, it is one of my favorite children’s books. That’s how it is—memory is what ties a book like that to your heart.

So there we sat, in the bright, warm living room on a big, cozy armchair. I was a skinny little girl, barely-five-years-old, with long stringy dishwater blond hair.  He was still a baby to me, just three-years-old and crying for someone and someplace he knew. The grownups helped me as I struggled to somehow pull his body, flailing in a desperate tantrum, onto my lap and I began to read. Josh quieted down, his arms and legs relaxing, his weight settling into me, sniffling and shaking a little as his sobbing ceased.  He began to listen to my voice as I went through the pages, trying to do a Muppet voice for Grover. When we got to the parts where Grover would frantically shout, “No! Stop turning pages!” he would even giggle a little bit.

I’m not sure how many times I read that book that night. I know I didn’t want to stop turning the pages. Everything about that moment felt safe. I cannot see the faces of the adults in that home, or remember anything about their appearance.  I remember them only as shadows, illuminated by the brightness all around us.  I remember the kindness in their voices, the softness of their hands as they guided and directed us, offering all of the comforts of their home.  I remember their concern and desire to calm my brother, rather than ignoring his fears.

I wonder if that family ever thinks of me the way I think of them. Am I a shadow on their memory as well?  Most likely, I was one of many children who received a night of shelter in their home.  I was only another poor child whose circumstances led to the need for an emergency place to stay, a haven and a retreat from the world around them. That day, someone had reported an incident of sexual abuse. I had been taken to the hospital and poked, prodded, questioned and examined. I wore a paper gown and sat on a cold, vinyl hospital examining table, shivering and nodding my head when I was asked shameful, personal questions.  But that night, I was sheltered in a home so well-lit it was able to keep out the darkness.  I was given a retreat from a world with poverty and low-lighting and cold that was hiding darker secrets of touching and shaming and violence.

I don’t know if that family ever thinks of me, but I will always remember them.  I am so grateful for their willingness to open their home to two dirty, terrified children, reeling from the effects of divorce, poverty, sexual abuse and fear. That one night gave me a glimpse into what was possible. Those shadowy figures of compassion and sacrifice gave me hope that I could be in a home like that again. That night was a shield and defense of my belief that life could be different, that it was possible for family and home to be a sanctuary and a place of peace, rather than a continually tense place of fear.

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month. While I wish my abuse could have been prevented, I believe that the moments of shelter I experienced throughout my childhood are what have allowed me to break free from the cycle of abuse in my own life. Connections with community, people who cared enough to get involved, family who persistently let me know they would be available to me when I needed them, faith communities who showed me the heart of a loving God—these things provided the backbone for me to be able to change my future.

I understand that the problem of child abuse can feel so overwhelming, and the solutions must be multifaceted. There are broad, nationwide issues of poverty, mental healthcare, family support structure, reporting and placement that must be addressed. Yet a simple act that anyone can take is to become more involved with the children and families in their community. Knowing your neighbors, becoming involved in your child’s school, participating in local groups that provide family support—these are simple steps that anyone can take to help provide a network of shelter for children at risk. Because of multiple occasions where individuals, families or groups cared enough to be involved throughout my life, I remain in a place of shelter now.

Don’t see child abuse as the kind of issue that is personal, family-related, or none of your business. Protecting children should be all of our business. We can all be a place of shelter for another child by taking an interest in their life and showing that we care. Find a way to be a place of shelter for a child.  I know that they will be forever impacted by the feeling that someone cared enough to notice them.

For more information on National Child Abuse Prevention month and ways you can get involved, please visit www.childwelfare.gov.