“Memoirs are the backstairs of history.” – George Meredith
The stories that make up your life are your own. Sharing them doesn’t just help you learn and mature, it helps others as well. Build bridges by sharing your stories.
~Gina G. Snow, Memoir Editor
I spent so many years thinking that my ability to achieve perfection would allow God to use me. I looked for significance in events and orchestrated conversations. I wanted my life to mean something, but I was often afraid. I was afraid of messing up God’s will for my life. I was afraid I was too timid. I was afraid of failure. I had to fall apart to realize that my broken pieces were the exact spaces where God could shine His light.
A few years ago, I experienced the worst anxiety attacks and depression I have ever known. I had been a caregiver for my grandparents for over a year, had a pregnancy that ended in miscarriage, and was trying to fight for the medical needs of my immune-impaired son. The stress became too much for me to handle on my own. I hadn’t lost faith in God, but I thought He had lost faith in me. I felt hopeless, helpless, and alone. I couldn’t see how anyone, let alone the God of the universe, could use me in any significant way. I suffered a nervous breakdown and was hospitalized for ten days for psychiatric evaluation.
As I received the help I so desperately needed, I began to listen to the stories of other patients. I quickly became friends with A.L., a former gang member who had just been released from prison a week prior. He only had the clothes on his back. He told me about his childhood as the son of a notorious Latin King gang leader. A.L. was an alcoholic by 9 and had overdosed on heroin by the time he was 14. He had spent the last ten years in state prison for drug and violence charges.
I prayed, “Lord, where is your Church amidst all this pain?” I felt the Holy Spirit reply, “Well, you’re here.” Suddenly hope flooded my heart. Perhaps the God of the universe could use something as broken as me. God was telling a far greater story with my life than I ever could have imagined.
I called my husband and requested some clothes for A.L. He also brought him a meal to share, something A.L. appreciated more than we truly understood at the time. He later told me, “I have never felt love like this. No one has ever done anything like this for me.”
These days, A.L. is in a program working on his past addictions and trying to move forward with his life. He now has a relationship with the God who uses broken things to make the world whole. He texted me after church one Sunday, “I am so glad you fell apart. I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t met you. Thank you for showing me love. I tell everyone that my best friend is a pastor’s wife. The pastor’s wife and the Latin King are besties.”
God uses broken people like me. He found me in my darkest despair and gave me hope in the pain. God can use your broken pieces, too. When we lay aside our fears and pride, God opens wide the doors to our hearts for His love to walk through. There is nothing you have experienced that God has not seen, and there is no one in existence whom He does not love. What greater purpose can we have but to pull others into the love of Christ? In Mark 12:28-34, Jesus is asked by religious authorities what He believes are the greatest commandments. Jesus replied, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength. The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no commandment greater than these.” May you realize that your pain is not unseen, that you are deeply loved, and that God has not forgotten you. He has a purpose for you and your pain, and it all culminates in love.
Last night was one of the most thoughtful and sentimental conversations I've ever had with my 5 year old son (who is going on 20). He wanted me to read this book to him called "My Dad" as I was putting him to sleep, but he had some thoughts and questions afterwards that were intriguing and encouraging at the same time. This is how it went:
Jase: “Do you miss your dad?”
Me: “What do you mean, buddy?”
Jase: “Your dad passed away when you were little, right?”
Me: “Yup, I was a little older than you, buddy. Actually, he died 39 years ago this coming Saturday. I remember that it was the week before Easter because Easter was a little sad for us that year.”
Jase: “Do you miss him?”
Me: “Yeah, I do, man. I don't always remember him, but when I do, I miss him a lot.”
Jase: “I wish I could have met him.”
Me: “Yeah. Me, too, man. He would have loved you.”
Jase: “How did he die?”
Me: “Well, you know how we sometimes have to get gas for dad's truck at a store or gas station? Gas stations were different back then. There were people who put the gas in for you and checked your oil and other things on your car. One night, two men (Otis O'Toole and Henry Lee Lucas) wanted to take money from him, and he had less than $5 on him, so they shot him and he died.”
Jase: “That's really sad. What happened to the two men?”
Me: “Well, eventually they were caught because they had killed a lot of other people and had done a lot of very bad things to people and were put in jail for a long time. They died while they were in jail.”
Jase: “Dad, I love you. I hope I get to be like you when I grow up.”
(Note to readers: This is like the bear cub says to the dad bear in the book.) I teared up.
Father's Day used to be one of the most difficult times for me when Roxanne and I struggled with infertility for 11 years. It's still a little challenging when I allow my mind to go there too much, so I try to remember the good and remind myself that since 2010 God has "restored what the locusts have eaten" and has gifted me with three of the most incredible children anyone could ever ask for who are amazingly thoughtful and remind me of why God created me. I don't always post about my dad's death and the fact that two serial killers decided to change the trajectory of my family, but I do choose to post about the good things that have happened in order to rejoice and be glad in what God has given to us as a couple, and to me, as a man constantly searching for the will and wisdom of the Father who loves us all.
When I look at old pictures of my dad, I see myself in them (minus the enormous Tom Selleck mustache). I have forgotten what his voice sounds like, but I remember he had a Cajun accent and he used to sing to me in Cajun French in our old Chevy Nova when it was too cold for me to wait for the school bus. I remember he rode a Honda Triumph and would take me for rides on it even though my mother hated that. (Sorry, Roxanne Meche, I think I do get that rebellious streak from him that makes me want to do things with them that I shouldn't do.) It actually fell on us twice, and that was pretty scary.
I remember he wore old school Old Spice (of which I have to go and smell at Walmart every now and then - just because) and bought me Cherry Sours (I still love sour candy) from the Lance candy machine at the Full Service Texaco he managed after finishing his service in the Army during the Vietnam Conflict.
I remember him always eating bologna sandwiches and a pint of milk for lunch, so he could try and keep his blood pressure and weight down but buying me Root Beer, Big Red, or Canada Dry Ginger Ale. I also remember him taking me to boxing matches (against my mother's wishes on that as well).
The further time moves along, the more I remember things, but not necessarily everything. The one thing I remember most though is that he loved me. He spent time with me. He disciplined me (because I sure did need it), but also encouraged me. He played with me. A lot. We played a lot of baseball together. I was 7 1/2 years old when my dad left us, but I remember all of those things.
Someone asked me recently how something that happened so long ago could have such an impact on me at times, and I told them that the thing I sometimes struggle with is not necessarily missing my dad but missing the presence of my dad. Absence is what's hard. Absence can be such a challenging thing at so many stages of our lives because presence is everything.
When I was a Dorm Pastor and Roxanne and I were able to finally find out what was causing our infertility, a student came to me and asked the question, "If you only had spiritual children for the rest of your life, do you think you could be content with that?" My answer surprised her when I said,
"No, because I think that the calling on my life is much bigger than that."
I then explained that it wasn't because I wasn't grateful for the spiritual calling on my life, but it was because I knew what God had placed in my life for being a father.
I've had the privilege and honor to complete 21 years of full time ministry this coming month, 6 years as a youth minister and 15 years ministering to college students at SAGU, and I have been a father for 9 years now (shout out to Anna and Faith who surprise me constantly). I've been able to show love and presence to so many people that have had to experience absence in their lives that I never would have dreamed would happen.
Mother's Day is a month away and Father's Day is two months away. Think now how you can impact someone dealing with absence and be present for them. Be a physical father to the fatherless or mother to the motherless when you can. Countless people came in and out of my life and gave me many "father-like" experiences that molded me into the person I am today. My encouragement to you is to Be Present and available to people that are in and around your life. Your words and small actions make a huge difference. They did in mine.
Hi. My name is Calvin, and I’m a recovering racist.
“GASP! You can’t say that. Why would you admit that? Are you just saying that because you’re white?”
Now, I’ve never worn a white hood, burned a cross, or lynched anyone. I’ve never called someone a racial slur, and I’ve never excluded someone because of his or her race. However, I have identified racist thoughts, assumptions, and reactions that I’ve had, and if I laugh at a racist joke or react negatively based on race, is that really any better? I only came to this realization of myself when I was 34 years old, but my journey to that realization has been nearly lifelong.
I grew up in a small map-blip of a community in Arkansas where there were no minorities at all – just white families on multi-acre plots of land that was mostly family land. In one half-mile stretch of road lived my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, great-uncle, and second cousin. In my fourth-grade yearbook, you can count the number of minority students on one hand. Guess what was pretty normal in that setting? Racism. I grew up hearing race jokes, racial slurs, and really bad theology. Every Sunday on our way to church, we passed a house with “No Buckwheats” spray-painted on the garage door. I grew up in racism. I never really had a choice. I had no interaction with people of color, so I didn’t really have any direct feelings about them, but the seeds of racism had already been planted. This is where I grew up – a homogeneous racist country area.
Then, we moved, when I was about fourteen, to Helena, Arkansas. Helena was 68% African-American and 30% Caucasian in the 2000 census. Needless to say, this was a bit of culture shock for me. Unfortunately, with nearly half the population below the poverty line, many stereotypes were reinforced. I never would have called myself a racist then, but I definitely made a lot of assumptions about people based on their race. Suddenly being in a heterogeneous community, I quickly became aware of racism, prejudice, and perceptions of discrimination. This was where my journey really began.
Upon encountering differences between races, I ran the gamut of defensive racist responses as I grew from teenager to college student going to my all-white church in my mostly minority town:
“There is no inequality. Everyone has the same opportunities. They just need to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.”
“The real problem is this reverse racism.”
“I’m not racist. I don’t even see color. We’re all the same to me.”
At some point in college, I realized that despite “not seeing color,” I had race-based assumptions, and I began trying to remove them whenever they cropped up. As I graduated from college, got married, and headed into the world, my wife and I found ourselves in Columbia, South Carolina – a very racially divided city. As a bi-racial couple, we sought out a church that had diversity, and my meaningful interactions with people of color increased. I found myself actively seeking out racist thoughts and assumptions that I didn’t even know were there – insistent that I would treat all people equally.
Eventually, we moved back to Waxahachie, and as the years passed, racial tensions seemed to only get worse in the country. Then, in the summer of 2016, I found myself aghast as the television relayed the events of July 7th when five Dallas area police officers were killed while protecting a protest event. I had engaged in conversations about the killings of Trayvon Martin, Michael Brown, Freddie Gray, Alton Sterling, and Philando Castile, and I had debated the merits of Black Lives Matter vs. All Lives Matter, but nothing had prepared me for this. Despite my years-long journey from ignorantly racist to actively avoiding racism, and continual growth from no minority acquaintances to multiple friends of various races, I still found this immediately more horrifying.
As I scrolled through argument after argument on Facebook the next day, I came across a very powerful comment – “If you’ve said, ‘Let’s wait for the facts’ when a black man was killed by police, congratulations, you’re racist.” My hackles raised, my ire went up, my blood boiled. I had spent twenty years trying to not be racist, and here someone was saying that my logic was proof that I was still racist! I had dozens of replies and retorts ready, but instead, I thought about the post. Why would he say that? Was he right? If not, why was he wrong? If so, where was he right and why? I couldn’t quell these questions, so I went to my computer and typed out all of my thoughts and feelings. After nearly thirteen pages, I came to a significant conclusion – I don’t understand.
While I had spent years reacting, responding, and self-introspecting, I had not yet studied the issues. I only knew one thing: I didn’t want to be part of the problem. So, I set to studying. I read article after article and engaged in conversations with people of all races. Nothing was too taboo to look into. Nothing was immediately dismissed as incorrect. I needed to know what I didn’t know and then learn that information. I needed perceptions from every side of the issues. I questioned the concept of race itself, the definitions of racism, the history I’d learned about slavery and the Civil War, and my perception of laws and opportunity. I learned a lot. Most importantly, I learned that I still have more to learn.
My reading helped me see the only way forward is to admit that racist thoughts and assumptions are present in my thinking and that I don’t want them – to ask my friends to help identify, correct, and eliminate such thoughts when they arise. The idea was to stop making “racist” such a powerfully negative accusation that it prohibits open discussion that would challenge stereotypes. This was the point I decided to recognize—that racism is part of my past, and therefore part of my present. If I can be honest about it, I have a chance at beating it.
My studies in the past three years have shifted my opinions on a lot of things, and they’ve solidified my opinions on other things. I recognize inequality in our nation that I didn’t recognize before. I admit that systemic racism is a real thing. I understand the concept of white privilege but side with different, more accurate nomenclature for it. I know that African-American Vernacular English is not an “uneducated degradation” of English, but just another dialect that is actually in many ways similar to my own native dialect. My positions have changed.
The true problem lies in each individual heart and mind – with racial stereotypes, assumptions, and prejudices. The problem lies in self-segregation – literally or mentally. The problem lies in thinking that we’re different, but that we can’t talk about it without losing friends.
It starts with you, and it starts with me. If we’re going to turn this country around, we have to cross the divides, have meaningful interactions, and build real (not token) friendships with different races. We have to listen to each other. We have to admit our prejudices and be willing to change them. We have to respect each other as individuals and not just part of a group.
It isn’t a quick band-aid fix, but it can be effective within just one generation if we can just admit “I don’t understand, but I want to” – then listen.
I was born in 1932, the fifth and youngest surviving sibling of a grand total of eleven children, and the only one to be born in Mexico. My father and mother and my siblings had lived in the U.S. for many years. My father had been employed in various occupations, but then came the Great Depression and the subsequent lack of employment. He decided to return to his homeland where the opportunities were better if not equal to those in America, and there, I was born. In 1946, our family returned to the U.S., settling in Gallup, New Mexico. I spoke virtually no English at all.
I met Raymond, my husband of almost seventy years now, when I was just fourteen. That may sound strange today, maybe even criminal, but in those days, it wasn't unusual for brides to be taken at a very young age. By fifteen years old, I was mature and ready for adulthood, womanhood, and motherhood—better prepared than most twenty-five-year-old women today. Even so, my father thought fifteen still too young to wed. He was aware that a man was seeking me for marriage and agreed to let us wed after I turned seventeen. So, in September of 1949, just eight days after my seventeenth birthday, I was married. It wasn't long after that, with our first daughter in my arms, that we said goodbye to New Mexico and began to call Los Angeles, California home.
My young family grew with a second daughter, and we settled down in an enclave in the eastern part of Los Angeles. The neighborhood was populated by mostly American citizens of Mexican descent (like my husband) and immigrants from Mexico (like me), so I fit right in. There was little need for English as local shops and grocery stores were staffed by similar peoples. It was a poor neighborhood, then and now referred to as "the projects," where there was little chance for advancement. It was becoming the type of community where you wouldn’t want to raise your children. Then, as my husband's income began to grow, we scraped together enough money for a down payment on a house. With the birth of our first son in 1955, our young family of five closed the deal on our new home. It was a dream come true! My young, handsome husband and I and my three beautiful children living in the suburbs in a home of our own—who could ask for more? We were in the big leagues, becoming neighbors with middle and upper-middle-class families who were just as eager and adventurous to grab hold of the American Dream as we were.
Soon after we moved in, our second son arrived, making us a family of six. My girls were now enrolled in the local Catholic elementary school, but I struggled to fit into this new and strange world because I still spoke mostly Spanish with a very strong accent that I carry even today as an older woman. Back then, we were in a new neighborhood that was 99% white. In fact, my family was the very first family with a Hispanic surname to move onto our street. It didn't take long for me to feel eyes staring at me and my children, especially when I opened my mouth to speak to my husband and children in my native Spanish.
I felt enormous pressure to assimilate—to learn to speak English. I used every avenue I could, including television, radio and newspapers, music and other fluent speakers of the language. Some giggled, and some outright mocked me as I bumbled through my learning experience. I was grateful to all those who helped me learn to read, write, and speak English, especially my bilingual older children who taught me so much without even knowing. I would struggle while talking with the other stay-at-home moms as we chatted over the fence while hanging laundry on the clothesline or trimming the beautiful bougainvillea and ivy growing on the chain link fence separating our adjacent properties. Despite the many similarities in our suburban lives, it was evident to me and the rest of the neighborhood ladies that I was different.
My kids were no doubt a handful to care for. Being a direct reflection of their parents, they never left the house without pressed clothes on their bathed bodies and hair neatly groomed. No pants with holes in the knees were tolerated so we would expertly patch otherwise still-usable pants. Shoes were polished to reflect the California sun. We were very careful to keep up appearances. We even kept our garbage cans as clean as possible. I understood that I was different, and I certainly didn't want to encourage any prejudice my neighbors might have had against me. Once you have been treated as inferior, you never forget that feeling. Even as a young mother, I understood where those disapproving comments and stares were rooted, and understanding that led me to avoid treating others as inferior.
Only a small handful of women seemed to go out of their way to remind me of my ethnicity, my accent, that I wasn't born on American soil, or that I stuck out in my neighborhood. Most were kind and gracious, judging me on my honesty and character, how I reared my children, and the love I had for my family. But in the beginning, it seemed like almost weekly that I had to politely and respectfully illustrate to someone through friendly conversation that they were condescending, unfair, even racist. This required creativity and quick thinking and care. I wanted friends, not enemies, and took it upon myself to be a trailblazer for the many Hispanic families to arrive later. I felt like I was an ambassador representing a foreign nation, displaying dignity and honor with kindness and compassion.
After perhaps nine or ten years living in the suburbs, I remember an incident that occurred when a neighbor noticed that her windows had repeatedly had dirt thrown on them. Through conversation with another lady, who had the courage and fortitude to be honest with me, I learned that the neighbor woman with the repeatedly dirtied windows believed that my boys were the prime suspects. Shocked and taken by surprise, I thanked her for getting me up to speed on the gossip going around the neighborhood. Restraining my natural instinct to march over directly, rap on the door, and settle the issue perhaps barbarically, I instead—thankfully—saw this as a test, one which would no doubt be discussed for weeks. I had to move cautiously and with dignity.
My boys were boys, not angels, but had I failed in teaching them basic respect and courtesy for their neighbors? I prayed that they were not involved. Upon questioning, they denied any knowledge of the dirt on the windows. You parents who pay close attention know when you are being bamboozled by your children, and I knew right away that my boys weren't involved. So now the issue became how to confront the accusation diplomatically, maintain control, yet be assertive in defense of my sons and the reputation of my family.
The answer came in an unexpected but welcome manner. Since the perpetrators were novices and not discreet, they were observed committing their dirty little crime by a watchful mother—a friend who never believed my boys were involved in the first place. She came to me and told me she had witnessed two other boys throwing dirt at my neighbor's windows. Now armed with an eyewitness, the time had come to settle the issue once and for all. But this still required tact. I didn't want to vilify my neighbor because she falsely accused my boys and made us— “that Mexican family"—the talk of the neighborhood. I wanted to explain to her that taking the high road would have been her coming to me first to relay her suspicions.
I didn't raise my voice or insult my accuser as others thought would have been justified. Instead, I politely asked that if any of my children were ever suspected of any misdeed in the future to please come to me first. The brief period of red-faced, awkward silence was broken when the third party told the errant accuser that she had witnessed two boys, not mine, who were the real culprits. We shook hands and parted peacefully.
The neighbors admired my fearless but controlled confrontation, and respect for me, the heavily-accented Mexican lady, jumped higher than most of my peers. That was important for me. You see, defending my boys was just a part of the ordeal. I needed to show that despite being different, despite my heavy accent, despite my ethnic otherness, I had feelings like everyone else. My ethnic heritage and accent should not prevent me from receiving the basic courtesies we all deserve, namely being treated fairly. I wanted to prepare my Anglo neighbors for the influx of other Hispanic families sure to follow, showing them that despite our differences, we can build bridges of friendship instead of walls of unsupported suspicion. I wanted them to know that I expected to not be pre-judged based upon my speech or education or accent or whatever but upon my character, integrity, honesty, and benevolence.
My children are all grown up now. I've done my best with them, and they come home to roost frequently, warming and rewarding me with the love I've invested in them. They gather now even more frequently as I prepare for surgery to hopefully cure me of this liver cancer. I know they see the example of my life experiences, and I continue to give instruction and guidance even in my old age. Ray is and has always been my anchor, my biggest supporter, and best friend. He remains with me, still 6 years my elder. We hold hands not only out of affection but also for physical stability. I have been blessed far more than I ever dreamed and certainly far more than I ever deserved. This little old American lady (I became a legal citizen in the late 1980s) can read, write, and think in English, despite my accent which I never shook loose nor wish to anymore. I have lived a full life, and hopefully, peacefully and diplomatically, I've torn down some walls and stereotypes, built bridges over some chasms, and made many long friendships over the years.
Since the submission of this memoir, the author has undergone surgery, which was sadly unsuccessful. Lupe plans on living the rest of her life surrounded by the comfort and love of her family and friends and looks forward to eternity with her Savior, Jesus.
I walked with you to the edge of the bridge. When you got there, you briefly looked back to your family, your friends, and all those memories you cherished. I stood by your side during your moment of reminiscing... Peering at you from the other side of the bridge was a Man, glowing and beaming with joy to receive you. When you said you were ready to go, I told you, “I’ll linger back and care for those you’re leaving behind.” You walked forward, gaining wings as you walked toward the other side of the bridge…
My name is Kimberly, and I am a Registered Nurse. This story began when I was seventeen, somewhere deep within the desert land of Turkana in Kenya, Africa. I had accepted a position on a mission trip team to bring God’s Word, as well as medical aid to the tribes of Turkana. Some of the most amazing moments during this trip were when I watched our team nurses deliver medical care to tribe members. Despite the need for a translator to communicate, care for each person was delivered with a smile and a glowing love for serving people. It was during this utterly raw experience that I most profoundly heard God’s direction toward a life of helping others. He revealed to me that I had the strength to grow a skillset and become a nurse. I merely needed to trust Him and work hard. Subsequently, I spent the following years pining away in a library or hospital fine-tuning my skillset.
The progression of my career led me to giving care to the very critically ill patients in a Cardiovascular Intensive Care Unit (CVICU). My job requires advanced knowledge of medications and human pathophysiology. With this skillset, my goal is to aid patients’ recovery from medical ailments. However, there are patients that I care for that do not recover and pass away with me standing beside their bed alongside his or her family and friends.
My patient Elijah (name changed to protect privacy) was an older gentleman I cared for over a few weeks. Stricken by a heart attack, his body became very weak. Elijah became dependent on a machine that assisted his heart to pump blood, and he needed surgery to give him the best chance of surviving. The surgeon carefully detailed the risks associated with the surgery, including never waking up and passing away. Elijah was surrounded daily by family and friends, giving him support to continue the difficult fight toward recovery.
Many people surrounded Elijah’s bed for the days leading up to the surgery. He spent time reminiscing on wonderful memories spent with each family member and friend. His children and grandchildren were perplexed on how to feel about the days to come. Despite the hours that were filled with smiling, laughing, and reminiscing about life, they feared his time was growing scarce. In the quiet evening hours, Elijah spent the most delicate moments with his children discussing life, belief in God, and the feelings he had of a fulfilled life. Elijah revealed how unfair it felt to think of ending the wonderful life he had, but spoke of his faith in God’s plan and surrendered control to God, knowing His will must be done.
Elijah spent many hours on the operating table with a cardiovascular surgeon fighting to surgically repair his heart. After the surgery, Elijah was transported to the CVICU to begin the process of recovery. Hours turned into days, and days turned into weeks… Elijah never woke up. Despite our best efforts, he was never able to respond to a voice or the touch of his family. Elijah had made his wishes known that he wanted to give a fair fight but did not want to suffer if he was unable to speak for himself and if odds were against him living a purposeful life again. I grew close to Elijah’s children as they spent their time patiently waiting by his bed for any sign of his recovery. Despite surgical and medical intervention, Elijah’s body continued to weaken.
When sickness overtakes a body so strongly that recovery is unattainable, nurses may often identify with feelings of failure. Knowing that God led me to this career, even at these times, I know that He is working through me in ways beyond what I can see. During the quiet hours of Elijah’s care, when no other family members were around, I spent time talking to him. Most of the time, I talked about how wonderful his children and grandchildren are and how beautiful a life he had. I complimented him on all the admirable things he did for them and how great it is for them to cherish memories of him. During this time, I had the feeling to help trim his beard and hair. His granddaughter had mentioned to me previously how he was always well groomed but had grown somewhat unrecognizable to her over his long hospital stay. Subsequently, I gathered scissors and a razor and trimmed his hairs back to their proper state. I knew Elijah would have wanted me to preserve his well-groomed self, even during his last few days.
The following day, Elijah’s body continued to weaken. Although he was unable to communicate with me verbally, I could feel a tug on my heart that it was nearing time for him to depart our earthly world. With as much strength I could muster, I called and encouraged the closest family members to be present on this day. The hours of waiting for each of his children to travel their long commutes made my heart throb painfully. I had a deep feeling and desire for his children to be with him when he passed away. I was standing by his bed as his last son arrived at his bedside. I looked over, and even though Elijah had not been able to communicate or respond to anyone for days, a small tear rolled down his eye. I stood crying with the family as they identified this as his last sign of joy for his children to surround him as he departed from this world. Elijah passed away 17 minutes later.
The moments I have spent with people as they left this earthly world remain the most impactful on my life. I truly take pride in days of triumph and healing, but I know that God has equipped me for years to be present and helpful in the moments of death. Just as my hands have caressed the forehead of someone’s mother during her last breath, my arms have also wrapped around children as they ached from grief. When you said you were ready to go, I told you, I’ll linger back and care for those you’re leaving behind.
My life hasn't been the same since “he” died. His death impacted me in so many different and difficult ways.
Relief.
Guilt.
Grief.
Loneliness.
Shame.
Anger.
Sadness.
I never expected to feel so confused by one person's death. But when that person is the one person who changed your life in such a negative way, it makes sense.
My name is Aneesa Royce. When I was four, I was sexually abused by a family friend. I can only remember it happening once, but that's one of the worst things—not knowing everything that “he” did to me or how many times.
I was nine when the memories resurfaced. Nine. Imagine a nine-year-old girl—red hair, pasty white with dark freckles—sitting in a gymnasium as they talked about sexual abuse. Imagine her listening to the kid-friendly version and flashbacking to when she was in a similar situation. Imagine not knowing who to tell because it was so long ago and struggling to keep your mouth shut, trying and failing to forget.
Fast forward to age eleven with the awkwardness of puberty hitting you like a freight train. Imagine sitting in health class, the teacher discussing sex, and knowing more about it than you should. A blush creeps up your neck and spreads to your cheeks, but for a different reason than your classmates’ blushes.
Age thirteen, you feel utterly alone. You go to church with a fake smile, go home and start to feel like yourself. Then he invades your home, and you shrink back into the shadows. You once thought of him as a brother. Now he’s the one who makes you wish you were dead.
Dead.
I thought about killing myself every night for four years straight. I didn't because I knew it would’ve destroyed my family, and they didn’t deserve that.
At sixteen, I begin to feel like I had something to live for again. I find comfort in God, my family, and my church family. Although surrounded by friends, I know they’d never understand why I am the way I am. I feel like I’m dying inside, but I don’t trust anyone to talk about what happened. Can I be a Christian and feel so empty inside? If the love of Jesus makes me whole, why don't I feel it? Doubts plague me, but I stick to Him because He had gotten me this far.
At eighteen, I tell my best friend Megan everything. Every struggle, feeling, doubt. We don't talk about it often but having someone understand is freeing. Someone finally knows the perfect, Christian girl image I projected isn't all there is.
Age twenty. Youth camp. I'm a counselor for my church along with my dad and Megan. The evangelist is preaching on where our praise comes from and encouraging us to share what that means to us. My heart begins to race.
I hear a Voice whisper, "It's time."
I resist. Not yet… You don't want me to share all that. What if they don't believe me? What if they laugh? What if I disgust them? No… I can't do it.
"It's time.”
My dad's here. This is not the way I want him to find out.
"It's time.”
Tears pool in my eyes then stream down my face as I turn to Megan. She starts crying for me, instantly knowing what's going on. No words needed. She embraces me, and I cling to her like my life depends on it.
Tears streaming down my face, my feet move forward, up the stairs of the stage. They feel like they’re made of concrete. Everything within me is screaming, "No!" I feel nauseated as the evangelist hands me the mic.
"Most of you have known me for my whole life, but you've only seen one side of me. I'm sorry, Dad, that you're finding out this way." I take a deep breath, my dad silently encouraging me to continue. "When I was four years old, I was sexually abused by a family friend."
Like a dam breaking, the rest of my story spills out of me. I see hundreds of faces go from actively listening to actively breaking as the old image of me fractures right in front of them. Yet there’s no disgust or pity, just empathy and understanding.
Freedom from heavy chains—that's the only way to describe the feeling I had as I ended my story and collapsed into the arms of both my earthly father and Heavenly Father. For the first time in sixteen years, I could breathe. I couldn't hold it back anymore. We told only the family that needed to know, like my mom, when we got home from camp. I didn't want to wreck everyone, and I didn't think they all needed to know.
Being like a second mother to me, I talked to his mom. We cried together and agreed that her family didn't need to know. I wasn't going to wreck their lives or their brother’s image based on his actions sixteen years ago. I didn't need or want that.
Fast forward to twenty-two years old. I finally feel like I'm on solid ground with God again. I have an incredible boyfriend who loves and understands every part of me, even the bits that I used to be ashamed of. I’m not afraid to tell my testimony anymore. I'd be lying if I say there aren't days I struggle, but I feel whole again.
Until “he” died.
My mom’s phone rings at 5:00 a.m. She answers, and I hear the screaming on the other end from where I lay.
My heart drops.
"Hello, is this Kay?" An officer asks after he realized my second mother was incapable of talking.
"He" was in an accident early this morning and passed away.
I feel like I'm about to puke.
My mom’s words fade out. My mind swirling, I’m overwhelmed by feeling so many emotions at once. “He's” gone. “He's” gone?
Relief. Relief is the one feeling I never expected to feel.
Guilt. Directly tied to relief is guilt. Guilt for feeling relieved that “he” won't ever walk into my home again. Guilt that I won't have to see him or hear his voice again. While a large part of me hated him for a long time, I had internally forgiven him years ago. Who knows what led him to do the things he did to me? There could’ve been countless reasons. His mom and I talked about them when I told her about it.
Grief. I grieved for the person his family lost… the person I once thought of like a brother. There were a few good memories from before I realized what happened, and I grieved thinking about who “he” could’ve been. It was weird to grieve for someone who so negatively affected my life. Not many people understood that. I didn't want him in my life, but that didn't mean I wanted him dead.
Loneliness. Unexpectedly, I felt lonely after “he” died. And then I felt isolated. I slid back into depression, though I tried to stop myself. I felt empty. Every ounce of freedom I had gained felt like a lie. I felt hollow inside.
Shame. Suddenly, I felt so ashamed. Ashamed for feeling like I was thirteen again. Like I wanted to stop existing.
Anger. I was so angry at God. All the old feelings resurfaced. I was drowning again. I thought telling my story would be the end of it. I was wrong.
Sadness. Sadness consumed me. Sadness for the people I loved. Sadness for myself. After years of progress, I felt like I was back where I started.
I didn't know how to move forward. It felt like I was being pulled deeper and deeper into a hole dug for me. My relationship with God faltered. I felt like He failed me, abandoning me when I needed Him most. My faith was wrecked—my belief in God almost non-existent.
Fast forward to today. Almost two years have passed since his death, and I feel like I've barely progressed. But I have. I’m slowly building a bridge back to God. Brick by brick. I want to live for Him. But, some days, I just don't know how. My anger has subsided. I've begun to feel like myself again. I’m surrounded by amazing people who pray for me and love me even as I work through my anxiety and depression. I'm building a bridge back to myself.
Pain happens. There's no avoiding it or lessening the impact. Through it, we discover who we are and who God is shaping us into. Through pain, we learn to love and appreciate our God-given lives.
I wouldn't change my experience. Do I wish that it happened? No. But my story helps others and gives my life meaning. I can now work with foster kids and understand the abuse they've suffered, and I feel more connected while helping others. It’s cliché… but without my story, I wouldn't be me.
If you've ever felt anything like the feelings I felt, as described above, know you are not alone. There are people around you that love you and need you. When you feel alone, turn to God, even if it feels like He has failed you. He hasn't. He is always there. He has a plan, and He allows things to happen so you can grow into who He wants you to become. Talk to a counselor, a friend, a pastor, or an R.A. Talk to someone. Even if you feel like you can't talk about it, someone cares enough to listen. I care enough to listen.
If you have been affected by sexual assault, know that you are not alone. RAINN is a 24/7 National Hotline that exists to help survivors of sexual assault and equip those who love them. For immediate help, call 800.656.HOPE (4673). Online chat is also available 24/7 at https://www.rainn.org/get-help. Know that you do not have to suffer in the dark and your voice can be heard.
"The Lord is a shelter for the oppressed, a refuge in times of trouble. Those who know your name trust in you, for you, O Lord, do not abandon those who search for you." -Psalm 9:9-10