It Doesn't Usually Happen Like That--Part 1

As I sat in my dark living room the night my husband admitted molesting the girls, I wept, and questioned, I prayed, and I wondered, "What will happen now?"  My mind raced.  Thoughts like, "If only he had been having an affair", co-mingled with "If he had been caught in a prostitution ring I would have been shocked, but it wouldn't have hurt so much. If..."

After an hour or so of just sitting and thinking, I fired up my laptop and began writing my thoughts.  The page was titled, Along Came Hell. I hope to find it sometime this week so I can share what was going through my mind because I don't really remember  I know that I felt angry those first couple days, then I went numb.
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Several weeks passed before I began learning about all the behind-the-scene activity that  had taken place before the family meeting in our home. As I began hearing bits and pieces of information, the picture became more and more clear as did the realization that God had been more involved that I had realized.  Two years later, when I finally agreed to see a therapist, I shared the whole story, as I knew it.  She was amazed how it all unfolded.  Situations like ours just don't happen like ours did.  Here is what I mean.

A couple weeks into January, 2008, my daughter sat down with her girls for a talk. For some time, she had felt uncomfortable about the attention her dad gave the girls.  She had said nothing to me about her fears for the same I reason I had said nothing to her about my fears--she didn't want to plant doubts in my mind, especially if there was no truth to her feelings.  Anyway, the answers she got to questions she asked were not what she wanted to hear. Her fears were confirmed and she was devastated.

"It doesn't usually happen like that."  Children usually keep the secret between themselves and their molester secret.  They have been told not to tell and they don't. Well, in our case, the truth was told and it was believed.

After everything was under control at home, mainly herself, she called a brother and went to see him.  She poured out her heart to him.  He than called another brother.  They talked with each other and with other grand-kids.  Then, after they knew that at least two girls had  been molested, he called his dad and asked him to come over.

 On this particular afternoon, each of us was oblivious to the ax that was ready to fall.  I was at home in a recliner watching TV. Six weeks of physical therapy and absolutely no work were the doctor's orders for a pinched nerve in my neck. So, my husband went merrily off to see his son. Within minutes of his arrival, he knew his secret was no longer secret. I didn't find out for a week.  I remained in oblivion.  How?  I don't know.

So, the confrontation took place and the second "it doesn't usually happen like that" took place. My husband admitted he had inappropriately touched some granddaughters! From my understanding, when people who molest children are questioned, accused, or backed into a corner, they never admit they did anything wrong. My husband confessed his guilt.

Even though he had allowed himself to be lured into the depths of hell itself, and was no longer hearing the Holy Spirit very well, he had not yet become deaf to it. This will become more clear later.

The next days, all our adult children were together.  The boys spent hours with their dad, asking him hard questions about everything from pornography, to victims, to affairs, to...I don't know what.  I wasn't there.  I was probably at physical therapy or in my chair being entertained by TV.  I still had no clue what was going on.  I didn't even know our out-of-town kids were now in-town kids.

The time the boys spent with their dad was the third "it doesn't happen that way" event.  During their walks and talks, their dad revealed many things. He was listening to their questions and telling as much as he either dared or was able to dig out of a sin-sick soul. Although he didn't fully comprehend the seriousness of what was going on, he didn't deny he was in big trouble. He didn't recant his admission of guilt nor, did he run.  "It doesn't usually happen that way.

The next "it doesn't usually happen that way" was the fateful night I finally learned the truth.  With the family gathered together, there was much talking, questioning, explaining, back pedaling, and periods of silence.  One of these silences was broken by a son saying to his dad,  "Dad, you need to resign from your leadership position at the church and in________, a Christian organization he belonged to. You also need to turn yourself in.  The family is reporting you to the Sheriff's Office tomorrow."

My husband had all sorts of reasons he thought he couldn't resign from his responsibilities. He was in charge of several important activities.  He would resign in a few weeks.  "No, Dad.  You have to do it this weekend.  You are no longer spiritually qualified or able to lead."

"I can't. There is no one to fill in for me."

"Dad, you have no choice."

The evening ended with the same gal who told Papa what it was like to be molested saying to us, "Satan would love to use this to destroy our family, but God will use it for good."

No, it doesn't usually happen this way.  God had prepared every step of the way and opened every door we were to walk through.  As much as it hurt to walk through them, His presence was felt.

Because of length, I have divided this account into two parts.  Part 2 will be posted tomorrow. 

Goodnight, Lord

  

Although I’m tired, I feel the need to write something for the blog.  I’ve started several different things, but they just aren’t flowing, gelling or working.  I feel compelled to get something posted, no matter what.  That is probably not a good reason to write.  But, here is where I am tonight.

Well, Lord, this has been a very good day as well as a very long day.  My brain doesn’t want to work. It feels like mush.  My fingers don’t want to hit the right keys. Well, actualloly they do wnat to  hi the wright keys, but tey aren’t.   I’m not complaining, Lord.  I just want you to know what I’m feeling.  Silly me, of course you know what I’m feeling.  I just want to tell someone, I guess.  So, I’m telling you. I’m tired and I want to go to bed.

Before I go, though, I want you to know I’ve been blessed today.  Thank you for the beautiful and safe drive to a son’s home.  Thank you for the delicious lunch we enjoyed at a restaurant.  And Father, thank you for the shopping trip for much needed shoes. Two pairs, wow.

Yes, I am truly thankful for all those things, but they are just things. Wait, Lord.  I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. They are things, and they are truly blessings.  By things I meant they are not family. They aren’t my loved ones.  They are not what I hold dear. 

You know I am thankful for the things in my life, but I am even more thankful for my children, their spouses, and their children.  I sit here in awe of the way they have all blessed me, especially over the past years. Their generosity and love overwhelm.   The way they listen to your leading is humbling.  Thank you.

Oh, Lord, forgive me.  My heart knows one thing, but my mushy head says another, and my clumsy fingers type something else. Of course I know in the very depths of my being that my family’s love and generosity is nothing compared to yours.  Theirs allows me only the teensiest glimpse into the abundance of yours. 

Although I don't deserve their generosity and love, I  am still blessed by it. That being said, there is absolutely no way I deserve the love and generosity you show me on a daily basis.  Deserving the love and generosity you showed me on the cross, is completely out of the question. No, I don't deserve it; grace I think it's called.  You truly bless me. I am humbled.

Yes, the day has been a long one. My brain no longer functions, and I’m now ready to put my little blessed body and soul into bed.  Thanks for the wonderful day that filled me with your blessings and love and grace. Goodnight, Dad.

 Amen"

Coincidences? I Think Not.

I had never truly realized how faithful God was or is until that January night in 2008.  Like any other night, my husband and I were enjoying our meal together.  The phone rang, I answered and told my husband that his son wanted him to come over for a few minutes.  That was not unusual.  Our son probably needed some help with a project or something.  Within the hour, my husband returned, sat down by me and said, “The kids are coming over in a few minutes.  We have to talk about something.” 

Those few words caused fear to race through me.  I knew then and there what was about to happen. My suspicions would be confirmed.

“How bad is it?” were the only words that left my mouth.

“Not as bad as it could be.” was his answer.

Try as I may, I cannot remember what happened between the time he made his announcement and the moment our kids quietly walked through the door.  But I do remember my complete and utter surprise when a son and his wife from out of town arrived along with the other kids.  “Hi Mom’s” were followed by hugs. Finally, we were all seated and quiet.  The silence broke when a son looked at his dad and said, “Dad, I think there is something you need to tell us.”  Thus it began.

“I did some inappropriate touching.”

I will spare the details of the conversation that evening, but the following events that had happened years before were extremely instrumental in what happened next.

1.       A niece, who lived in New York State, voluntarily takes a bump from a domestic flight in exchange for a free round trip ticket to anyplace in the U.S.

2.       She is a mental health counselor.

3.       She is an avid hiker.

4.       Some of our kids and my husband plan a school break hiking trip. 

5.       Our niece discovers the planned trip and arranges to join the family.  She has a free ticket.  Amazing!

6.       Female family member on the hike has been dealing with the trauma of being molested during her childhood years.

7.       These two women develop a relationship during the few days on the trail that ultimately leads to very beneficial long-distance therapy.

Now, let’s go back to my husband’s comment about inappropriate touching.  Those words were barely out of his mouth before we heard from a very quiet member of the family, “Papa, that doesn’t tell us a thing. You have to own what you did.”  Whoa, her comment was completely unexpected.  As he tried to avoid the uncomfortable situation he faced, she again spoke up. “Let me tell you what is like to be that little girl.”  She looked directly at him and told him exactly what it was like.

Much later that evening I prayed, “Thank you, Lord.  Thank you.” You see, I had been unable to fall asleep so I had gotten up to sit in the dark.  My mind played and replayed the words that had been spoken that night and who said them.  Slowly I became both aware of and awed by what God had done in preparation for that encounter.  A family hiking trip, free airline ticket, counselor niece, abused family member had all been stirred together in an improbable mix. Time, much prayer and hard work had begun much needed healing.  That healing led to unbelievable courage and the ability to put pain aside and speak truth. 

“Let me tell you what it is like to be that little girl” were the words that, after everyone was gone, ultimately led my husband to stare at the carpet and ask, “What have I done?”

Coincidences?  I think not. As painful as that night was, God began to unwrap and disclose all the work he had done to prepare us for this time.  As I will say over and over again, our God is a faithful God.  He is also the Lord God Almighty.  

I'm Just Fine

I had no idea that answering my brother-in-law's question would lead me to a windowless waiting room. He simply wanted to know if I was getting any counseling or therapy. His question was simple. So was my answer. “I’m not getting any.” I responded with a note of pride in my voice.  The look on his face told it all.  He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Thus began a half-hour discussion about seeking professional help (which I didn't need) and its benefits (which I also didn't need).  “I am doing fine, really.”

Dr. Bower’s waiting room was the typical, off-white room with soft chairs, soft music, green plants, and an assortment of magazines.  Although typical in most ways, at least this room’s magazines weren't typical.They were current.  So, as I sat there trying to concentrate on the latest Hollywood gossip about people I had never heard of, I still wondered what I was doing in a therapist's office. In my mind, psychiatrist and other mental health professionals deal with mentally ill, insane, suicidal, addicted, and severely depressed people.  As for me, I was none of those.  I was just fine.

Within a few minutes a pleasant woman opened the waiting room door, called my name, introduced herself as the doctor, and ushered me into the inner sanctum containing unexplored realms of the unknown which were trying to stare me down, get me to blink, and make me doubt my decision to even come.

Our first session was just introductory.  I related quite precisely and unemotionally that my husband of 45 years had molested our grand-daughters and was serving 10 years to life in a Washington State prison. I told her what I had gone through up to that point, and then told her I wasn't sure I really needed to be there because I wasn't psychotic, schizophrenic, or depressed. I was just fine.

Dr. Bowers gently asked me questions about my feelings. What feelings? I was a little ticked off. I was a little sad, but that was it. Besides, I have never been an overtly emotional person. What more did she want or even need? I didn't really want to think about what I felt. If I didn't feel anything, I didn't want to go looking for anything to feel.

To help me explore those places I didn't want to explore, my first assignment consisted of drawing a self-portrait, and writing about lost hopes and dreams.  Drawing a self-portrait, although somewhat childish in my mind, was the easier of the two. I like to draw.  I had also just begun a water color class, so I could experiment with paint. So that is where I started.

My resulting picture was surprisingly more than a children’s drawing.  I had drawn my heart and my mind  in ways I could  never have imagined.  My glasses, graying hair, and slightly overweight frame were the easy parts to draw.  But before I knew it, I was drawing a heart wrapped in barbed wire. There were drops of blood oozing from the punctures and running down the side, but one end of the wire was beginning to come loose.  I had discovered that I was indeed in pain.  Maybe I wasn't just fine. 

What I drew about my mind was also interesting and revealing.  I filled it with a row of filing cabinets that were in disarray.  Drawers that had once been well maintained and organized were now dumped on the floor, their contents strewn asunder. I no longer knew what belonged where.  My world had been turned upside down.  I was confused.  No, I definitely was not fine. I was in need of an aid car.

Thankfully, my entire drawing was not dark. In the top right corner of my paper I drew a circle which included playing children, green grass, colorful flowers and singing birds.  This was my light at the end of my tunnel.  It was my image of what brought joy into my world of pain and confusion.  Ah joy. I had found one more emotion.

                                                                

Seeking His Voice.

“To be Continued”,   that is how my last blog ended Monday night.  I was up until 12:30 Wednesday morning writing about Lesson #1--Trust Enough to Tell.  As I wrote and rewrote,  edited and reedited, questions like, “How did I learn that and when?  Why did I learn it?  How has it affected my life?  Has it changed me?” kept arising. I finally decided to go to bed and finish in the morning, so I got up at 7:00 and started typing.  My hopes of completing and posting before I left for Bible study at 9:30 were dashed. It wasn’t going to happen.

Don’t worry, it will be completed.  So will the other lessons, but I feel the questions filling my mind need to be answered first if I am honestly sharing them as lessons the Lord taught me.  I want people to understand how they happened to me and their final results.  Actually, final results are misnomers because God’s results are not and will not be final until He returns. I probably should say, "Results up to this point." Right now my mind is filled with so many ways to organize my thoughts and different ways I can effectively communicate, that I need to really pray for both clarity and wisdom as I proceed.  Please bear with me.

In the mean time I will share a grandchild story I have told quite often to the grandkids who love to hear stories about themselves.  In fact, after a grandchild read the slug story on the blog, she told her mother, “That is not a Jan’s Jottings.  That is a Jan’s Re-Jotting.”  So, here is a Jan’s Re-Jotting.

When one of my grandsons was just a little tyke, he loved to hide in plain sight.  If he couldn’t see me, I couldn’t see him. One day when I was washing dishes I heard his little voice call out, “Nana, Nana”.  I looked to where the voice was coming from and clearly saw him under the dining room table.

I decided to humor him and play his game. So, I chose to ignored him and kept washing dishes. It wasn't long before I again heard, “Nana, Nana."

“Hmmm.  Did I hear something? “  I muttered loud enough for him to hear.  I then proceeded to go the fridge, open it up, and start rummaging around.  “No, it’s not coming from the apples or the milk or the cheese.  Maybe it’s coming from the freezer instead.”  I opened the freezer and exclaimed, “I know! It’s in the ice cream.”  Again I rummaged around looking for what was not to be found.

After washing another dish, I shouted out my new insight, “Ah ha!  It must becoming from outside.  I bet it is in the tree.  Nope, I don’t see anyone there.  The garage roof, maybe.   Nope, it’s not there. The ferns?”  I finally sighed a disappointed sigh and moaned, “I must have been hearing things.”

In a matter of seconds I felt little arms clutch my legs and heard a laughing voice shout, “Nana, here I am!”

“Where were you?” I questioned.

“Nana I was right here all the time. You didn’t look in the right place.”  He then hugged my legs even tighter.

Isn’t that the way we are with our Lord?  There are times we hear him call our voice, but chose to ignore it awhile.  When we finally seek him, we look in all the wrong places.  Food and nature are just a couple places we search, but to no avail.  Sometimes we decide we are only imagining his callings and urgings, and just give up.  He finally has to grab us and say, “Here I am.”

“Where were you, Lord?”

“I was with you all the time?  You were just looking in the wrong places”   

    

My Story--The Beginning

Even though I don’t completely understand why I felt uncomfortable about my husband’s “obsession” with the girls, I think this background will help somewhat. He was an only child with very outwardly affectionate parents.  Every time they visited us, we got huge hugs and kisses. I was completely taken aback the first time I met his parents. His dad kissed both of us.  I didn’t know what to do.   His open affection towards us was something I had never before experienced.

You see, my family was just the opposite.  We four children knew we were loved and had a great time together as a family, but we were not hugged and kissed much—at least not that I remember. I guess that is why my husband’s holding the girls all the time seemed strange to me.  I had neither experienced it nor thought about doing it.  Of course if one of the kids wanted to be held or wanted to climb into my lap to be cuddled or read to, I jumped at the chance.  But, I did not instigate it like my husband did. 

He picked them up and hugged them; I smiled and winked at them.  He took them on trips to town for ice cream; I sat on the couch with them and conversed.  Whenever I felt uncomfortable with what I was seeing, I easily explained it away.  He was reared to be physically affectionate and I was not. Yet the doubts always hovered in the back of my mind.

After several months of growing concern, I finally got up the nerve to say something.  We were driving back home after a trip to town.  I don’t know exactly what I said.  Confrontation is not my style so I probably said something like this, “Hon, could you explain something to me.  It seems odd that whenever you’re around the girls you can’t leave them alone.  If you aren’t picking them up and holding them on your lap, you are playing dolls with them.  If you aren’t helping them play computer games, you are taking them on walks.  That just seems strange since you don’t pay any attention to the boys. It makes no sense to me? “

I also don’t remember what he replied.  I know he said something about the boys entertaining themselves, and that he hadn't really connected with them like he had the girls.  He also said something about keeping the girls occupied so the adults (if we had a family get-together) could visit without interruption.  His answer satisfied me.

Now, five years later, I see that I didn’t ask the right question to get the answer that was necessary.  I also didn't come right out and ask if he was molesting the girls.  In reality I wouldn’t have asked the question at this point because I was not even admitting it was a possibility. But what I could admit was his possible grooming behavior.

After Thanksgiving in 2007 we had a weekend get-away on the Oregon coast.  After a fun day of shopping, dining out, and a movie, we returned to our room. Once in bed, he put his arm around me to cuddle.  I burst into tears.  I poured out my concerns about his behavior and what I was seeing.  I told him I had never seen any “bad” behavior—just “weird-to-me" stuff that I interpreted as grooming.  I told him I feared not only for the girls’ safety, but also his. Befuddled, he tried to hold me closer, to comfort me, and assure me he would never do anything to harm the girls.  He loved them too much to cause them harm of any kind.  He tried reassuring me that he loved me too much to hurt me. Sadly, he understood neither my concerns nor my tears.  Neither did he understand my getting out of bed and sleeping on the couch.  Never in our forty-four years of marriage had I ever been this emotional nor had I ever slept in a different room.

In the following weeks, there were several times I considered calling the Sheriff’s office.  I did not because I didn’t know what to tell them.  I could hear myself saying, “I want to report that my husband holds his granddaughters on his lap too much when they come over. He takes them for walks, too.”  Instead I convinced myself that I had the problem because I didn't understand his "touchy, feely" actions.    

I didn’t even talk to my kids about my concerns.  If I were being completely unreasonable in my fears, I didn't want to put doubts about their father in their minds.  I chose to keep quiet and keep an even more diligent look out for... Well, I didn’t know what.

My husband was a wonderful, loving, considerate man who would drop whatever he was doing to help someone in need.  He was a Christian man, generous with his money, and active in our church as well as a volunteer Christian organization. We loved our involvement with our church’s prison ministry. So the idea of him molesting our granddaughters was unthinkable. But, as we found out later, there was a piece missing from the puzzle.  As a child, he had been sexually molested by a teenage relative or friend of the family.  He isn't sure which.  For almost seventy years he had been too embarrassed to tell anyone, not even me. As a child he already felt he had a family image to keep up; he did it well.

Don’t get me wrong.  What he did was abhorrent. His being molested does not excuse his behavior.  Even he will say that. The sad fact is that people who are molested often become molesters themselves.

 It is getting late tonight, so tomorrow I will explain why I am writing this. I have a whole list of reasons in my head.  Actually they are lessons I have learned. If I were to wrap it all up in a nutshell, though, it would be this. Don’t make the same mistakes I did.  Please, please listen to the Holy Spirit’s quiet voice and act on it. Don't let Satan's whispers and lies drown out the Voice of Truth.  I so wish I had never doubted my initial concerns and suspicions.  I so wish I had discussed it with my kids. I so wish I had called the police instead of feeling like I would be seen as a foolish, suspicious grandma. I so wish…

Wishing won't change anything.  It won't make anything better and it won't make anything worse.  So instead of wishing, I will giving thanks.  I have so much to thank God for. I am so thankful that the nightmare came to an end when it did.  I am so thankful for children who asked their daughters the tough questions.  I am so thankful for granddaughters who related what their Papa had done.  I am so thankful that...Well, you'll find out.

To be Continued

Song Within a Song, Sermon Within a Sermon

I used to pray, "Lord, keep my mind on you this morning, and on your word." while driving to church on Sundays  Our  pastor's sermons always touched my heart and soul, but my mind often drifted into a realm where stories, ideas, thoughts, and images dwelt. Guilt rushed in whenever I realized that either I was no longer singing the lyrics of the song everyone else was singing, or else I hadn't heard the past few minutes of the sermon.  "Concentrate, girl, concentrate" I would reprimand myself, then refocus on worshiping or listening.

My mind still tends to wander, but I no longer feel guilty about it.  Why?  Because it is during these mind-wandering moments I have often heard God the loudest--not loud in decibels, but loud in clarity. Let me illustrate. Just weeks after my family discovered what my husband had been doing, we were all at a son's church for worship.  It was the first time we had worshiped together since the discovery. Family sat on both sides of me and in the seats behind.  Although a heartbroken group, we were a united family group coming before the Lord to praise and pray.

The singing began.  Since I didn't know most of the songs, I just read the words from the power-point presentation and clapped to the rhythm of the music.  During this mindless exercise, the song You Never Let Go, written by Matt and Beth Redman grabbed me. The song talked of the storms of life and the fears they bring. It talked about my God being with me through it all, of his never letting go, of my never having to fear.

Then came the chorus along with my mind-wandering images.  As I tried singing this unknown song, my mind wandered to a place where I no longer sang the words because I was both imagining and feeling a terrible storm. As waves crashed down on me, I flailed wildly, trying to stay above the water. I  had been thrown into an uncontrollable, raging, maelstrom.  I knew my hands and arms were wet, cold and slippery, unable to grasp anything.  I would drown. Then I realized God had reached down, grabbed me by the wrist in such a tight hold I could never slip away, and he would never let them (me) go. I  imagined my hands and arms as cold and weak, and my mind as confused. In contrast, the real tears flowing down my cheeks were warm, yet comforting. "Oh, no, You never let go, You never let go of me" sang the congregation; and I joined in, my arms lifted up, held in God's grasp while the raging storm unsuccessfully fought against him. Although my mind had wandered, God hadn't.  He had spoken.

Over the passing months I sang this song often, and my mind wandered in return. Each time, God reminded me that his mighty arms were reaching down, holding mine, keeping me from slipping away, and, at the same time, calming me.  Thankfully, my mind began returning more easily toward heaven with praise and thanksgiving.

One evening during a  Celebrate Recovery Group for grief and loss  I realized something had changed.  When did it happened? I don't know, but it had.  I was singing You Never Let Go with our group and my mind, as usual, wandered off  to find my storm. But it was different this time. I no longer found myself held by my hand and wrist in God's strong grip.  Raging waves no longer clawed at me. Instead, I was enfolded in his arms, clasped to his breast, and being consoled and comforted. No longer wet, cold and slippery, I was now warm, dry and at peace.  My Lord had spoken anew in the midst of my mind's wandering.

The last time I remember singing this song, the image had again changed.  This time I was unsteadily walking a path.  Unsteady? Yes-- but not alone.  God again had me by the hand, occasionally letting go, but always there to catch me, to help me regain my balance, or to steady me.

As I noted several times in this jotting, my mind tends to wander during worship and sermons. I am not encouraging wandering minds.  I still need to take many thoughts captive, but quite often, as in the story just told, I get a song within a song or a sermon within a sermon. Now, I love discerning and discovering how the Spirit will use my mind-wanderings to either stir or speak to my soul.