A Story of Forgiveness
I was three years old the first time my grandfather touched me inappropriately. My parents had recently divorced and my mom moved away to start a new life. My grandfather took advantage of my confusion and vulnerability and the sexual abuse went on until I was ten years old. One October evening, I wrote a letter to my dad and step-mom telling them about the abuse and before I awoke the next morning, my grandfather was on his way to treatment and my life would never be the same.
This account of that night is a little different than ones I've written before. Those accounts were from the perspective of a ten year old girl and, later, a grown woman trying to make sense of it all. This blog is what I imagine was the perspective of a 59 year old man as that evening's events played out. He was a preacher and had raised 4 kids, resulting in 12 grandkids. He had been married to the love of his life for 30+ years. Did he have any idea of what would happen that night? Probably not. But I've often wondered what it would have been like to take that walk in his shoes...
I imagine him spending a quiet evening at home with his wife, probably downstairs watching tv. The phone rings and it's his middle son on the line, asking him to come to his house. There is an undeniable anger and urgency in his voice and I wonder if my grandfather knew in that moment that his secret had been found out. If I were committing some heinous act in private, I think I would always live with the fear of being found out and I wonder if he was always looking over his shoulder.
I imagine he and my grandma in the car as they drove the short distance to my house. They let themselves in and walked up the stairs. I wonder what he thought as he saw me sitting in between my dad and stepmom on the couch, my face red and blotched from crying, and saw the look on my dad's face as they sat themselves down on the loveseat. I'm sure my grandfather knew at that point that his number was up.
I imagine him watching my dad rise up from his place on the couch and hold out a folded up piece of pink stationery. My grandma took the letter from my dad, opened it and wordlessly read the words of a ten year old describing acts no child should know about. She handed it to him and he read it. I don't know what he felt in that moment but I imagine his heart stopped and a feeling of dread began to build in his gut. He raised his head and my dad asked him, "Is it true?" He said yes and the relief in my ten year old heart was immediate. Just minutes earlier, my dad had said he didn't believe me and hearing my grandfather admit to the abuse was an answer to prayer.
I imagine the fear he felt when my dad told him "Get out of my house," and he walked down the stairs, out the front door, and walked to his car. My grandma remained in the house for a few more minutes, hugging me and telling me she had no idea the abuse was happening, and I wonder what he felt as he sat there waiting. I imagine those few minutes seemed like years. I don't know what words were spoken between he and my grandma as they drove home, if anything was even said at all. When I was a child and knew I had done something wrong and was waiting for punishment or a consequence, I would have this intense feeling of fear mixed with dread in the pit of my stomach. You know the feeling - the anticipation that something bad was coming and you didn't know exactly how bad. I imagine my grandfather felt that feeling times a million on that short drive back home, wondering what was going to happen to him.
I would later learn that after he got home that night, my grandfather took a gun and drove into the hills surrounding the town to kill himself. In the meantime, my dad had called his brother - my uncle - and he made the hour long drive from a neighboring town. When they went to my grandparent's house and found that my grandfather was gone, they went looking for him. My dad told me part of him wanted to find his father dead and part of him didn't want to find him at all. They did find him and took him back home. My grandma called some pastor friend down in New Mexico and learned of a treatment center where my grandfather could get some help. A plane ticket was purchased and he was on the next flight out.
When I was a new Christian and first began working through the issues stemming from the abuse, I was appalled when people told me I needed to forgive my grandfather. Forgive him? Seriously? Didn't they know what it was like to lay in bed at night as a little girl, pretending to be asleep as my grandfather turned on the light, hoping he would just go to bed and leave me alone? Or the incredible shame I felt when my he would make me sit on the floor behind the driver's seat in the car, violating my body while my grandma was running errands and then telling me to get back up on the seat when he saw her walking back to the car? There was no way I was going to forgive him!
I am so thankful for the friend who told me I needed to forgive my grandfather because God commanded it and not wait until I 'felt' like it. I am even more thankful for the incredible work God did in my heart as I chose forgiveness daily and prayed it even when I didn't want to. The fact that I can imagine the situation above from my grandfather's viewpoint, often weeping when I do, is proof that God can change even the hardest of hearts and that He truly is in the miracle business.
This account of that night is a little different than ones I've written before. Those accounts were from the perspective of a ten year old girl and, later, a grown woman trying to make sense of it all. This blog is what I imagine was the perspective of a 59 year old man as that evening's events played out. He was a preacher and had raised 4 kids, resulting in 12 grandkids. He had been married to the love of his life for 30+ years. Did he have any idea of what would happen that night? Probably not. But I've often wondered what it would have been like to take that walk in his shoes...
I imagine him spending a quiet evening at home with his wife, probably downstairs watching tv. The phone rings and it's his middle son on the line, asking him to come to his house. There is an undeniable anger and urgency in his voice and I wonder if my grandfather knew in that moment that his secret had been found out. If I were committing some heinous act in private, I think I would always live with the fear of being found out and I wonder if he was always looking over his shoulder.
I imagine he and my grandma in the car as they drove the short distance to my house. They let themselves in and walked up the stairs. I wonder what he thought as he saw me sitting in between my dad and stepmom on the couch, my face red and blotched from crying, and saw the look on my dad's face as they sat themselves down on the loveseat. I'm sure my grandfather knew at that point that his number was up.
I imagine him watching my dad rise up from his place on the couch and hold out a folded up piece of pink stationery. My grandma took the letter from my dad, opened it and wordlessly read the words of a ten year old describing acts no child should know about. She handed it to him and he read it. I don't know what he felt in that moment but I imagine his heart stopped and a feeling of dread began to build in his gut. He raised his head and my dad asked him, "Is it true?" He said yes and the relief in my ten year old heart was immediate. Just minutes earlier, my dad had said he didn't believe me and hearing my grandfather admit to the abuse was an answer to prayer.
I imagine the fear he felt when my dad told him "Get out of my house," and he walked down the stairs, out the front door, and walked to his car. My grandma remained in the house for a few more minutes, hugging me and telling me she had no idea the abuse was happening, and I wonder what he felt as he sat there waiting. I imagine those few minutes seemed like years. I don't know what words were spoken between he and my grandma as they drove home, if anything was even said at all. When I was a child and knew I had done something wrong and was waiting for punishment or a consequence, I would have this intense feeling of fear mixed with dread in the pit of my stomach. You know the feeling - the anticipation that something bad was coming and you didn't know exactly how bad. I imagine my grandfather felt that feeling times a million on that short drive back home, wondering what was going to happen to him.
I would later learn that after he got home that night, my grandfather took a gun and drove into the hills surrounding the town to kill himself. In the meantime, my dad had called his brother - my uncle - and he made the hour long drive from a neighboring town. When they went to my grandparent's house and found that my grandfather was gone, they went looking for him. My dad told me part of him wanted to find his father dead and part of him didn't want to find him at all. They did find him and took him back home. My grandma called some pastor friend down in New Mexico and learned of a treatment center where my grandfather could get some help. A plane ticket was purchased and he was on the next flight out.
When I was a new Christian and first began working through the issues stemming from the abuse, I was appalled when people told me I needed to forgive my grandfather. Forgive him? Seriously? Didn't they know what it was like to lay in bed at night as a little girl, pretending to be asleep as my grandfather turned on the light, hoping he would just go to bed and leave me alone? Or the incredible shame I felt when my he would make me sit on the floor behind the driver's seat in the car, violating my body while my grandma was running errands and then telling me to get back up on the seat when he saw her walking back to the car? There was no way I was going to forgive him!
I am so thankful for the friend who told me I needed to forgive my grandfather because God commanded it and not wait until I 'felt' like it. I am even more thankful for the incredible work God did in my heart as I chose forgiveness daily and prayed it even when I didn't want to. The fact that I can imagine the situation above from my grandfather's viewpoint, often weeping when I do, is proof that God can change even the hardest of hearts and that He truly is in the miracle business.
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