My eyes widened. My stomach dropped. My mouth opened, but only one word came out:
“What?!”
My dad, having just picked me up after my first semester at college, raised one eyebrow and glanced at me nervously, “Wait, you didn’t know?”
No, I had never known that. I had figured out years before that Grandpa had been verbally and emotionally abusive to Mom as a child. Yet now, the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place.
Sexual abuse.
“I’m so sorry,” Dad’s voice broke through my whirling thoughts. “I thought she had told you.”
Grandpa had sexually abused Mom throughout her teenage years. During her first break from college, she stood up to her father when he came for her. She told him “no” and revealed to Grandma what he had been doing to her and her younger sisters for about a decade.
I wish I knew how he responded, but I could never uncover a clear answer to that question. The family chose not to prosecute. What I do know is my mom’s courage that day finally stopped his abuse.
My mom is the bravest person I know.
Suddenly, I understood why my parents never allowed me to go anywhere alone with Grandpa. Suddenly, I understood why Mom had a constant aura of anxiety around most men.
Suddenly, I understood why she so often felt isolated and alone.
Decades later, I saw the deep wounds still not fully healed.
Then, I looked at the source of that pain: Grandpa. The man who told me Bible stories as a kid. The man who persuaded me to sing in the church choir. The man I had heard preach from the pulpit.
This wicked man wasn’t just my grandpa. He had been a pastor.
“How could this have happened?” I asked Dad later. He offered what he could: Grandpa’s atheistic childhood full of sibling sexual abuse, followed by PTSD from Vietnam. I soon gave up trying to understand Grandpa’s thoughts and motivations.
Instead, I turned my attention to trying to untangle God’s.
My anger burned hot. That fire eventually became a smoldering bitterness, though winds of hatred often ignited those live coals into blazes.
I screamed at God. I clenched my hands into fists and pounded them against His chest. I accused Him of everything from sexism to injustice to simply not caring. I cried out over and over again, “Why would you allow this to happen?! Why would you allow this man to lead in your church?! Why God?”
Years later, when I finally had nothing left to keep the fire burning, I found myself kneeling in a cold pile of my own ashes. Empty. I began asking the same questions again, but with unclenched fists. I kneeled to the ground and opened my hands to receive whatever answer God gave. Then, I heard this verse.
“The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead, he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.” (2 Peter 3:9, NIV). I began to understand the real issue I had taken with God: I was impatient. I wanted God to smite evil immediately. I couldn’t understand how Mom forgave Grandpa or how she still loved him. This verse spoke to my bitter heart; God has some measure of patience for sin now because He desires to welcome more people into His perfect world.
God didn’t smite my Grandpa for his sin right away for the same reason He didn’t smite me for mine. Even as God is just and righteous, He is also—for now—patient.
The pain pointed me towards God’s Word with new eyes. I recalled God’s commission to church leaders to be kind, caring shepherds (1 Peter 5:1-3) and his determination to hold church leaders to a higher standard in James 3:1: “Not many of you should presume to be teachers, my brothers, because you know that we who teach will be judged more strictly.” I now see Jesus’ heart for abused sheep in how He spoke to the Pharisees.
Instead of blaming God as if He caused the pain, I began to cling to Him as our only hope for redemption. I grasped His promises of a coming world without abuse or sin of any kind as described in Revelation 21:3-4: “And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘Look! God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.’”
One day, every tear will be wiped away.
Even as I actively seek what justice and healing can be found this side of heaven, I look forward to the time when complete and perfect justice will be served, when every wrong is brought to light. I eagerly anticipate the approaching day when God wipes every tear from my mom’s eyes, honoring her above the one who had mistreated and used her.
Like a toddler reaches up to be held by her parents, I reached up my hands to my heavenly Father. He lifted me up, and now I rest in His arms even as tears still run down my cheeks.
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