"Today's Journey": Thoughts on Healing from Grace Biskie

This is the third post of our weeklong series, Into the Light: A Series on Abuse and the Church, which
features the stories of abuse survivors, along with insights from professional
counselors, legal experts, and church leaders about how to better prepare
Christians to prevent and respond to abuse. (Previous posts include: The
Scar of Sexual Abuse by Mary DeMuth and No More Silence: An Interview with Boz
Tchividjian of G.R.A.C.E.) Through the course of the series, we will be
discussing child abuse, spiritual abuse, sexual violence and abuse, and
domestic violence. In addition, my friends Hannah, Joy, Shaney, and
Elora will be hosting a synchroblog focused specifically on spiritual abuse,
which you can learn more about here.

Today
we will be focusing on the winding road to healing. This morning’s post comes
to us from Grace Biskie.  Grace is a
high-school-student-wrangler for a non-profit foundation, a speaker, and a
writer for Prodigal Magazine and A Deeper Story.  Grace is working on her
first book, Detroit's
Daughter, a memoir about surviving her father, her brother, abuse, racism,
Christians, boys, and poverty, while growing up in Detroit. She is married to
Dave, and raising two handsome little Lego lovers, Ransom, 7, and Rhys, 3. She
loves photography, fashion & swiss cake rolls. She hates horcruxes and
human trafficking. You can follow her adventures in trying to lead a
purposeful, grace-filled, beautiful life on her blog, Gabbing With Grace,
or on Twitter.  

Trigger
Warning: Sexual abuse by a father

***

I
gave my life fully, completely to Jesus at 19.  That same December I went
off to a large student conference where 500 of us gathered for a Hope &
Healing seminar for abuse victims.  Since I knew Jesus now, I thought it
might be nice to explore the idea of how to help other women who had been through something similar. I, of course, had
no healing left to do, because I, Gracie Green had met Jesus in early April.

I
ended up hunched over on the floor, violently weeping, shaking uncontrollably
while my InterVarsity staff worker, York prayed over me and soon called
others over to help.  Total train wreck.

Months
later, I began counseling to finally address the beast in my life: as a kid my
father had sexually abused me for several years.  It took every ounce of
my emotional, spiritual and physical being to continue to address the abuse,
the consequences, the ramifications for three very long years.  I
continued in counseling while I was violent with suicidal desires, deep in
depression, and addicted to shopping, masturbation, sleep and powdered
doughnuts, all the while my Ma became very ill and poverty had encroached it's
claws onto my bare back.  I could barely move my neck.  All that
grief rose up and landed right on my shoulders, a constant reminder that everything was painful, everything a
disgrace.

But,
Jesus...

From
the shame of the abuse, the shame of the depression (which was still largely a
stigma for me), the shame of the masturbation alone for crying out loud, I would
have buried myself and wrote "unworthy" on the tombstone if I could
have. None of that looked like healing.  I often wondered, 'How the hell
is this healing?  How am I anything remotely resembling God's
healing so full of mercy?'

What
I see now, I couldn't see then.

***

I
remember telling someone for the first time that I'd officially forgiven my
father.  I was young.  Seventh grade young.   It had been less
than a year since I'd testified against my Dad & watched him carted off
to prison.  I sat in a small group of six girls at Rhonda
Duke's pre-tween birthday party and told them what happened.  To quote myself,
I said I was "like, sooo over it."  Jodi Pennington looked at me
and said, "It's so awesome that you told someone and that you forgive
him!"  I adored that gold star of affirmation.

I
wish I could scoop up that naive' little babygirl and tell her she don't know
the half.

The
thing is, that same thing kept happening.  At fourteen, I started a
ridiculously unhealthy sexual relationship.  Our tender ages should have
been indication enough there would be trouble, but once I'd chosen sex for
myself, I knew.  I knew.  
Something was very, very wrong about sex.  Not only was it painful and
disgusting but that the act itself made me want to throw myself in front of the
closest moving vehicle.  Like most teenaged girls, I assumed that the
something was wrong with me. 
I was the unworthy slut who got what was coming to her. 

Again with the naivete, I thought if I visited my Dad in prison I'd be better,
his repentance would soothe my problems away, but the the
visit left me in absolute ruins.

***

After
three years of married life, a Daddy-like dude came into my life which brought
every single Daddy issue I had right back up to surface level.  I went to
a conference called "Guilt & Shame: Adult Survivors of Sexual
Abuse." Absolute hell on earth.  It was misery.  In my small
group were eight people in their 50's, 60's & 70's.  The oldest member
was 87.  We spent hours creating a Trauma Egg where we detailed every
trauma in our lives and each took an hour to share.  Every member of my
group cried -some hysterically- through my egg presentation.  It was their
feedback that popped on a bright light bulb for me: they were jealous, full of
holy envy that I had suffered the worst part of my healing journey while I was
young, before I was married and before I had kids to worry over.  All but
one in our group of misfits hadn't lost their marriage over the consequences of
the abuse:  me.

I
didn't realize at nineteen that I'd begun a long journey where often the first
leg is the worse.  I imagine it's a lot like that first step in Alcoholics
Anonymous, just admitting the problem.  I thought I was going in for the
recommended twelve weeks, and it continued to surprise me, month-after-month
for three years, that I was still in the thick of it.

***

 I
had such a riot at the Guilt & Shame Conference, I signed up for more
counseling.  Again.  The Daddy-like dude issue only got worse. 
The next year, my father died.  My husband and I attended his funeral
because I wanted to tangibly extend grace –again—in a way I knew he couldn't
shit on, being dead and all.  But I learned at the funeral that he'd told
his entire family that I'd lied about the abuse and that he was wrongfully
imprisoned.  That was a blow.  And it was back to counseling.

***

I
could go on with stories about this Daddy-like dude who I didn't end up
evicting from my life until nine months ago (I know, I know), or more of the shameful choices I've made (plenty), or more
of the counseling I've had (recently), or the weight these issues have put on
my marriage (almost to its demise), but you probably get the point by now:

My
healing, our healing, is a long journey like a trek up a steep, winding and
dangerous mountain.

For
this journey, you need camping gear. You need to stop and rest.  You need
water because it's taxing and flashlights because it's dark.  You need
correct expectations because no one climbs a strenuous mountain
unprepared.  But most of all, you need to know that you won't see the
top, the very top until you pass from this life to the next.  That
mountain top experience of 100%  healing from abuse is not for us in this
not-yet-fully-here Kingdom of God in which we currently reside.

Call
me a Negative Nancy, but I'm looking to heaven for my complete healing.  I
don't sugar coat, ya'll.  My father broke my heart. 

When
I decided to stop trying to fix what is irrevocably broken, my hope soared.

One
day I will see Him face to face, when all things will be made new for this
tattered heart of mine.  Until then, I press on in my messy-as-hell
journey toward healing.  Yes, this healing journey of mine has been as
FUGLY as the day is long, but I'm still on it. I've watched others get off and
shrivel into...well, a Jerry Springer episode.  

The minute
you climb down, the minute you back out of active healing and forgiveness,
that's when you succumb.  And as people so tightly held in God's hands, I
want to encourage you not to give up. Don't be discouraged when the coping
looks worse then a Housewives episode.  This is not a one-stop shop. 
This is not a pastor who pushes you over and claims, "HEALED, in name of
Jesus!"  This is a less-than-reality-t.v.-worthy, day after day, messy journey
of faith draggin' its triflin' self back to the cross where Jesus offers peace
and blessing to the broken-hearted.  I don't have a Dad, but peace and
blessing I have in abundance.

With
hope in Jesus, professional counseling, godly counsel, trusted books, anti-depressants,
accountability, repentance within loving community and regular workouts I'm
convinced every little thing is going to be alright... 

...at
least for today's journey.

***

Be
sure to check out Grace’s blog. For
abuse survivors, Grace recommends The Wounded Heart: Hope for Adult Victims of
Childhood Sexual Abuse by Dr. Dan Allender.

For
additional information on how churches can prevent and respond to abuse, check
out yesterday’s interview with Boz Tchividjian.

Other
Resources:

The
Allender Center at the Seattle School

Diane
Langberg on The Spiritual Impact of Abuse

Diane
Langberg on Sexual Abuse Within Christian Organizations 

Child
Sexual Abuse: Startling Statistics

​