Before you read, please be warned. The following post is fairly personal, but I have decided to share it with the readers of this blog. Life is definitely a journey, and each of us have a different story to tell. I believe that by living and sharing with one and other, we can "get" more out of the journey. Sometimes it's hard, but, I believe it's worth it in the end.
The following post may be difficult for some people to read. It deals with abuse and anger with God. Please understand, I do not want to trigger anyone, or bring up negative feelings. Thank you for sharing in my journey with me.
There was something missing. I looked around the room, unable to identify what that ‘something’ was. Everything seemed to be exactly like a regular waiting room – a semi-organized stack of magazines,
uncomfortable chairs, generic paintings on the walls, and out-dated kids toys pushed off into one-corner. “A clock;” I thought, “there’s no constant ‘tick-
tock’ to break the
uncomfortable silence.” It took me a moment to realize why the room
didn’t have a clock and then it occurred to me… Time
doesn’t really matter if you’
ve got the rest of eternity ahead of you.
I sat and waited,
contemplating what I was going to say. This was my first chance to speak to this man face-to-face, and suddenly I
wasn’t sure how, or what, I was going to bring up. So many
possibilities swam through my head, and I toyed with them all.
“Sarah, He will see you now,” a voice from behind the reception desk said softly, breaking my quiet
contemplation.
I stood up, and approached the door. With each step, my legs grew weaker and my stomach heavier. I
couldn’t believe this was happening. I had waited for this my entire life, writing blog posts and school essays about what this moment would be like. But, now that I was here, I just wanted my old life back. This man was the most powerful being in existence, and there was no telling what He would do to such an
insignificant person like me. Would He care what I had to say? Would He even know who I was?
All these questions ran through my mind as I walked through the door, down a sterile hall, and into another room. Unlike the waiting room, this room was basically bare; white walls, linoleum floors, a single-paned window, and two chairs. There was not a speck of dust anywhere, not a scuff on the floor or a smudge on the window. It was a bit frightening to be surrounded by something so pure, but I gathered my courage and sat down in one of the chairs, waiting nervously for Him to join me.
It seemed like I had been waiting hour in the spotless room, but it had probably only been a few minutes before the door cracked open, and a man stepped in. Suddenly I found I
couldn’t breathe. I tried to stand and my knees gave away. As I lay crumpled on the floor in front of Him, I silently question whether or not I would be able to speak at all.
“Come, child, sit with me,” the man said, gesturing towards the chair I had been sitting in moments before. As He sat down, I found that I was able to stand again, and I made me way back into the chair. I took a shaky breath before saying anything.
“Lord,” I said, surprised at the strength behind my voice, “I have some questions for You.” I paused for a moment,
contemplating yet again where I should start. “Lord, what’s that verse in Hebrews? The one about running a race?”
“Oh, Hebrews 12:1,
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.”
“Yea, that one. Well, I did what I was supposed to. Remember when I was in Grade 7, and I went up to Camp? Well, when I told my leaders about how someone was hurting me,
well, that was me ‘throwing off everything that hinders’, like what Hebrews 12:1 says to do. I was trying to get free of the chains he held me in. I wanted to follow You, so I stood up for myself. And with it came pain. And then, just a few weeks later, when I was filing a police report against the man for sexual abuse? The officer, she screwed up. She
didn’t do her job right. So he went free. Nine years of abuse, zero years of sentencing for him. And I’
ve had to suffer for it since.”
I found that I was pacing the room. My face was red hot and I was having trouble holding back a flood of tears. God, on the other hand, was sitting patiently, intently listening to what I had to say. I found His peace frustrating and calming at the same time, but I
didn’t want to be calm. I wanted to be angry.
“After years of being silent, I finally worked up the courage to speak up. After years of being held back by the abuse, I gained the strength to break free. But, where were You during all this? Why
didn’t You hold my family together? Or why
didn’t You let me know I was safe? For years after the disclosure, I lived in fear. Fear that I was forever damaged, fear that he was going to come after me, fear that someone else I loved and trusted was going to hurt me. God, I just don’t get it. I was ruled by that man, through the abuse. I took charge and defended my life, realized that I was worth fighting for and I deserved freedom from this suffering. But, nothing seemed to happen when I took the initiative and stood up for what was right, and quickly, my life was ruled by fear and regret.”
By this time the tears were freely flowing, and I had sat back down in my chair. Tremors worked their way up my spine, and I was struggling to hold myself together. I let my head rest in my hands, and took a moment to pull myself together. After a few minutes had passed, I slowly looked up at God, sitting so close to me.
“I just don’t get it, Lord. For nine years, I suffered at the hand of some man. For years and years after, I was a slave to fear and had to struggle down the painful road of healing. He, though, had no punishment, had family around him and freedom to do as he pleased. In what world, Lord, is that the reward for seeking freedom? Why, God, does it hurt so much to stand up for yourself?”
I was finished; I had no more to say, and no breath to say it with. I looked up at this man in front of me, the man I had spent all my life trying to follow. With pleading eyes, I waited for Him to say something that would heal my wounds and soothe my soul.
I waited, with no expectation of when he was going to speak. I waited, without holding back the tears that came and went. After some time, He looked down at His hands, seemed to study them for a moment, and then looked back up at me. And finally, He spoke.
