February 2003.

Group therapy begins tonight. A book on the table next to me interrupts thoughts of bailing. I abandoned Christianity over twenty years ago, vowing never to return. How a Bible made its way into my home is a mystery. I stare blankly for several minutes before succumbing to the power of its own silent gaze. I survey the leather cover and run my fingers over the thin, fragile pages before they fall open to Isaiah 60: 19-22.

The sun will no longer be your light by day,
Nor for brightness shall your moon give light to you;
But the Lord will be to you an everlasting light.

And your God will be your glory.
Your sun shall no longer go down.
Nor shall your moon withdraw itself;
For the Lord will be your everlasting light,
And the days of your mourning shall be ended.

Also your people shall all be righteous;
They shall inherit the land forever,
The branch of my planting,

The work of my hands,
That a little one shall become a thousand,
And a small one a strong nation.
I, the Lord, will hasten it in its time.

In spite of my twenty-year aversion to all-things-Christian, I find unexpected comfort in “the days of your mourning shall be ended.” The fading sun signals departure time. I hug my children. Slip into a daze. Drive toward the setting sun. An hour later, I sit in my car and pray for the courage to walk inside a building that represents everything I hate—to join a group of women I am predestined to love.

Against all odds, I venture inside and locate my classroom. Straight away, I notice the chairs arranged in a circle. Blankets, journals, and teddy bears rest in a heap on the floor like life-sustaining supplies that have been airlifted and dropped over an island of misfits. The handwriting on the chalkboard instructs to select one of each. Fellow survivors choose soft blankets and flowery journals. I grab an army blanket and an ugly red journal. Scribble my name inside.

The counselor appears and explains the structure of group therapy. We sign a form; our signatures serve as a promise to abstain from drugs and alcohol for the duration. Together, we pledge to stay alive and accept a list of phone numbers to call if when we experience thoughts of suicide.

“The days of your mourning shall be ended” melt together like crayons left in the car on a hot day. It’s not possible to heal. I’m here to learn how to live with the hole in my heart the same way an amputee is taught how to function without a limb. What good can possibly come from facing a past I want nothing more than to keep behind me? I open my journal and press my pen hard to paper—once a tree and carve my fears onto the surface.

No voice,
no choice,
invisible child.
Need safety,
Protection?
Access denied.
All broken in pieces,
In pieces believe,
No way to feel better.
Pseudo relief.

I am not a fan of our circle. But it’s too late to run. Introductions are underway. One by one we confess the nightmares of our childhoods. I liken it to watching a televised documentary on child abuse with no option to change the channel. My profile is up. I peer at the floor through a watery lens and shame my eyes for spilling secrets. When I lift my head in search of a tissue, I see these women for the first time. The hollowness in their eyes validates the holes in my own heart. Intellectually, I know I’m not the only one. But I’ve yet to embrace this reality until I recognize the familiar in their faces. I am not alone. And I am right where I need to be.

[Six months later]

Her name is Gracie. When Gracie was a child her father read the Bible to her at night before he abused her. She is in recovery for self-harm. She has no desire to go to church (imagine that). She is twisted and honest and funny and I love her. She inspires me to reach for a Savior who understands what I’ve been through. A Savior who is mad as hell about it, too.

Gracie shares some of the ways she acted out as a teenager.

She is broken.

We all know why.

Our circle of broken embraces her. Not the broken behavior, rather, the obliterated human being who now slumps before us in shameful regret. The group assures her. God forgives.

I listen. I watch.

I am me, the only me I can be in this moment. In any moment—ever, and I have a peculiar way of peering into pain. I’s one of the perks of surviving a senseless childhood with a steely determination to assign meaning to it all. For the first time I half-wonder what broke the man who broke me.

Will you permit me an observation?

For years I believed that the man who abused me was in greater need of God’s mercy than I. But it wasn’t until I loosened my grip on this mindset that I gained deeper insight. What Christ accomplished on the cross is for mankind. We all benefit from forgiveness—whether we’ve sinned or fallen prey to the careless and cruel sins of another. The fence line between “us” and “them” came down. I was sick of hating “him” and “them.” Focusing on “them” doesn’t do “us” any good. It couldn’t help but ponder; The only other side of the fence is perfection—where the shed blood of the sinless Savior makes all things new.

It took time, but eventually I began to open up to God, in addition to my counselor and support group. I confessed my hate. And then I invited Christ into my hate. Overtime—and under no condemnation, the presence of Divine Mercy transformed the hate in my heart.

Today, I no longer hate the men and women who’ve abused me. I do, however, hate all manner of abuse. Because human emotion has its primary root in Love, it cannot be inherently evil in itself. Welcome to Mission EDIFY. Together, we will explore what thirteenth century philosopher, Thomas Aquinas, defines as “the passions.”

Will you invite your Maker into your emotions (passions) today?