It’s been forty-one years since those bully boys stole my body, mind, and bits and pieces of my shattered soul. They posed as interested neighbors, ready to help my ancient babysitter. They’d take me off her hands, lessen her load. Which is strange if you knew me back then. I wasn’t a handful. I’d already learned the art of being invisible. And if I wasn’t occupying myself alone, I found ways to please people. I was a good little girl. Innocent, even.

Those friendly boys (brothers, boy scouts) took me into the woods. They invited friends to take turns. They violated me under too-tall evergreen trees. They took me home with them, stealing more of me in their bunk beds, a sheet draped over the bottom bunk so they could do it “privately,” all while their June Cleaver mom hummed pop tunes and made cookies just two rooms away. I wonder if she knew.

I escaped their clutches by sleeping all afternoon into the early evening. And later, we moved far, far away. But their haunting stayed with me. I felt dirty, violated, utterly alone with my secret story. I tucked it in a dark corner. The story didn’t resurface until I met Jesus. And then it leaked, then gushed from me in anguish.

How do you forgive that?

Choosing to forgive those boys didn’t happen overnight.

You start by making a choice to forgive. You continue by walking the radical, nonsensical journey of forgiveness.

Today I’m taking another step toward forgiveness. Right here, right now, I’m writing a letter to those boys. I do not know who these men are today. But, perchance, by God’s great mystery, if they ever, ever, ever stumble across this blog, this letter is for them.

Dear Boys of the Last Name that Roils My Insides,

I am still angry.

What you did. Oh, what you did. Your choices dug scars the size of channels in my soul. You stole me. My innocence. My wide-eyed trust. My valiant view of life. My bravery. All kidnapped. In the aftermath of the sexual abuse, I hollowed. I believed lies about myself.

  • I am unworthy of being protected.
  • My self-worth = my sexuality, but in the most warped way.

I am still angry. Because when I watched my daughters turn five years old, I could barely breathe. Such fear. Such sadness. All I wanted to do was protect my girls.

But if I stay camped in the land of vengeance my joy will emaciate. You will have won the conquest.

You see, I met Jesus when I was fifteen years old. Gentle Jesus found me just in time. 

Under an evergreen tree, the memories of your violation stung my eyes. And yet there, in that sacred place, I met Jesus. He took my sin (oh so many sins, innumerable really) and flung it eastward in a projectile one billion miles away from me. He cleaned me, scrubbed my aching heart, and started me down the painful and beautiful road of healing. He took on my sin and my pain.

He changed my I Was statements into I AM statements.

  • I was molested. I am cherished by God.
  • I was stolen from. I am given everlasting, joyful, abundant life.
  • I was less than. I am more than I ever thought I’d be.

I am free to forgive you. I am free to look upon you with grace-graced eyes. I am made whole by a holy God. Alleluia!

I see Jesus, naked on the cross with labored breathing. He understands the vulnerability of nakedness. On that cross, He could’ve crucified all the violators, all those who sent Him there, but He breathed wild forgiveness. He chose to do what you did not. He suffered for someone else’s sin. And instead of enacting vengeance, He ushered in an era of grace.

I wish this Jesus for you.

I’m proof, beautiful proof, that you can be set free. You can be scrubbed clean. You can be forgiven.

All I can do is pray you’ll find this letter through some beautiful God-breathed serendipity and finally want to be set free from what you did to me. I forgive you both. Come to the fount of forgiveness, inaugurated by Jesus. Let my words serve as your entryway:

I forgive you.

My mountain of sins toward a holy God dwarfs the molehills you enacted against me. I read Jesus’ words about the unmerciful servant and understand: “Then the master called the servant in. ‘You wicked servant,’ he said, ‘I canceled all that debt of yours because you begged me to. Shouldn’t you have had mercy on your fellow-servant just as I had on you?’ (Matthew 18:32-33).

If I really, really believe in Jesus on the cross who bore all my shame and sin and muck, then I have to believe His sacrifice is sufficient for you too. His mercy sparks deep mercy in me toward you.

It’s odd this affection, this ache I have for you two. I long to see you free from those memories, from the abuse you enacted and the abuse you faced. I can’t offer clever solutions or pay for years of therapy to eradicate the pain. All I have is beautiful Jesus. All I have is my life made whole. All I have is my testimony. All I have is this: I am okay. I am wildly loved by my Creator. I am healed. I am living a life of truly impossible joy.

We stand for healing. We stand in Jesus’ strength for the sake of future radically saved lives. We who know redemption are tired of miring ourselves in the painful past. Instead, we will STAND. We will dance. We will give our healed lives to rescue souls from the darkness. What Satan intended (and even you, brothers) meant for evil, God makes a holy turnaround.

We who desperately needed rescue are now agents of rescue, of reconciliation, of forgiveness.

Oh that you would experience this new, new life Jesus offers you, brothers of the last name. I invite you on the journey. And if we ever meet under the evergreens, by God’s life-altering grace, I will hug you. I will pray for you. I will weep. I will say forgiveness words. I will welcome you to the family of the messy-yet-redeemed.

Standing in the glorious, sweet light of Jesus,

Mary, no longer five, wholly loved

If you’re reading this, and you have the same story as those brothers, please let this message seep deep into your heart. The God who hung on a blood stained cross offers you a way out. His scarred hands are the hands of victory and forgiveness and light. Extend your hand to Him. He who stoops to the earth is reaching out to you.

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MARY DeMUTHI want you to know this about me: I love Jesus. And really that’s the most important thing about me. It’s not writing or speaking or praying or mommying or any other -ing you can find. I flat out love Him. Why? Because He’s amazing. And He has utterly, truly, completely re-storied me. I have three adult children, and I’ve been married to Patrick for 25 years now. I count those relationships as the most important people in my life.

You can find Mary and all her books online here or at: MaryDeMuth.com.

 

 

WhitneyD

WhitneyD

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