Timothy Kline: Thoughts and Reflections

Life's lessons are SO painful!

Since I’m having so much trouble sleeping tonight because my mind won’t leave me alone, I figure I might as well do something, and since I haven’t written in a while, this will serve as an update on my life, as well.

As I have discussed recently, I’ve had the amazing privilege of being reunited with now two of my three daughters whom I was essentially coerced into giving up for adoption by the State of Michigan some 19 years ago. It’s been nothing less than miraculous, really, and more than I dared ever expect—even though that didn’t stop me from hoping and doing what I could to get my name out there on the chance they might want to find me someday.

Be that as it may, it hasn’t failed to provide its own surprises, as well as frustrations—one of which I talked about in the previous entry.

I found out, for example, that I am a grandpa five times over. I didn’t, I admit, see that coming. My oldest daughter, Brandi, has three children, and my second-oldest daughter, Danielle, has two children. Insofar as I know, my youngest daughter, Melinda—whom I have not had contact with as of this writing—does not have any children.

Strange new territory, this being a grandpa so suddenly! But I’m very happy about that (and who wouldn’t be, really?) and looking forward to watching them grow and mature.

But that isn’t the reason why I’m sitting here writing at 2am in the morning.

It’s the realization that I’m coming into their lives after so many things have happened that might have been averted.

I’m frustrated because I can’t help but feel that it is the curse of a parent to want a better life for your children than they seem to want for themselves. I want you to remember that, because I’m going to come back to it later on in this entry. But that’s later.

First, I want to elaborate on what I mean.

In getting reacquainted with my daughters after all of the years that I was forced to miss out on, I can’t stop myself from wanting to kick into what I’ve laughingly referred to when I’m with them as “Daddy Mode,” where the father in me kicks in and wants to set matters straight and get to the bottom of the mess as soon as possible. The catch is that I haven’t been a part of my daughters’ lives for 19 years. They’ve been raised by the adoptive family, and are a product of that environment—and environment that weighs as a heavy influence on their decision-making skills, morals, outlook on life, and even their view of themselves. I know that it’s unrealistic to think that I can come on the scene after all of that groundwork has been laid for them, and expect things to suddenly be able to shift direction. It doesn’t, however, stop me from wanting that to be how it goes.

So, it’s a learning process for me as I try to get acquainted with my long-lost daughters, encourage them where I can, help them where I can, and realize that they have their own lives that they are living. The way I explained it to them was “I’m not going to tell you what to do or how I want you to live your lives. But I will probably tell you how you should. I will offer advice, but it is your choice whether to follow the advice or do things your own way. Either way, I will never withhold my love from you.” I also told them, “I will not always agree with your decisions, but I will always be there for you and have your back.” To that, I added, “I do not expect you to jump through hoops with me in order to be approved by me. If I give to you, it is without strings attached, where I later hold it over your head.” But I also made one other thing clear to both of them: “I will do everything within my power to help you with whatever it is that you need; however, I will NOT carry you.” The way I explained it was that I won’t help them unless I see that they’re at least helping themselves.

And true to my word, I’ve been dropping fatherly advice into both of my daughters’ laps—sometimes delicately, sometimes plainly and bluntly. But it is SO hard to give advice and then let the matter rest, and watch them continue doing things the way they are used to or prefer. But the way I figure it, it’s their life, and they’re free to live it however they want to live it. The bottom line is that I’m going to continue to love that and endure whatever angst, frustration, and disappointment comes with that—as well as the bliss and memorable moments.

Years ago, someone asked me if I believe in unconditional love, if I thought there was such a thing. And typically, the answer would be no for most people. But I do believe in unconditional love, a love that is simply given—regardless of whether it is returned, acknowledged, or ignored outright. I know there is such a thing because I have children, because I have sons and daughters. But I also know there are parents who, unless their children live the life that the parents want them to live, or do things the way that the parents want them to do them, will withhold their love, or even stop interacting with them altogether, cutting them off from the family in some attempt at ultimate discipline. Perhaps they disapprove of the lifestyle, or the boyfriend/girlfriend, the career choice—whatever the reason or excuse they concoct to justify their simplistic, unloving approach to their own flesh and blood.

I’m certainly not going to say that unconditional love is easy. It’s not. In fact, it will often run counter to every fiber of our being—because we as parents naturally want our children to obey us and comply with us. Sometimes, it’s for the simple reason that we know where they’ll end up if they don’t follow our counsel or advice. But as much as we want to protect our children, to save them from cuts, scrapes and bruises brought on by life, we have to let them crawl, walk, and then fly. And when (not if, but when) they stumble and fall, we will be there to help them back up again. They need to know that. They MUST know that, and we have to be the ones to tell them. And any temptation to say “I told you so” or “Well, if you’d listened and did what I said to do…” needs to be stomped out of existence, plain and simple. It is pointless and just plain evil.

All of this, of course, is a sort of preface to what has been bothering me since recently.

There are two things, actually, so I’ll start with the first part, and then get down to business with the other part.

Both of my daughters are in what I will settle for calling predicaments of their own making. And the more I think about their predicaments, the more I want to go insane, because it is SO crazy to me. I’m at a complete loss what to do about it to help them. I’ve offered each of them advice, of course, and made recommendations, but they seem determined at this point to do things the way they prefer or are comfortable with. So, I am having to let the matter rest and let them see where their way takes them, and wait to see what happens next.

There are the predicaments, as I said, but there is also that “groundwork” that I referred to earlier, laid by the adoptive family. Then, of course, there are the obviously unresolved issues related to the whole family upheaval and subsequent adoption placement. Abandonment issues, emotional trauma (at least for the two oldest girls), insecurities—not even to mention them being told for the past 19 years that their daddy was a molestor and their mom was nearly as bad with issues of their own—a subject that I address in the previous blog with much frustration.

So, I completely understand that there are numerous factors in play here. It’s actually, at times, overwhelming how messed up everything is about this whole situation, and how it could have all been so different. But I try not to spend too much dwelling on that because it can’t be changed now—all that I have to work with is the here and the now, and potentially the future—IF I don’t screw this up by scaring them off with my “Daddy Mode.” Finding that balance is HARD, let me tell you!

Now, just recently, I was able to spend the day with both daughters that I have been reunited with at this point. It was, on the one hand, the most wonderful day for me since I can remember—and on the other hand, it had the most gut-wrenching, heartbreaking moments since I can remember.

I suppose a lot of it is due to the fact that the more I become acquainted with them, the more I am uncovering or discovering, and I am absolutely gutted to see just how broken they are. People who have spent any time with me online may be familiar with that expression because I’ve used it from time to time, where I’ve made the observation that everyone is broken—it’s just that some people are better at coping with it than other people are. Be that as it may, I’m not talking about other people, or everyone here: I’m talking about my daughters.

I want to make one thing absolutely clear here: I signed a piece of paper 19 years ago acknowledging that the court had the right to terminate my parental rights and subsequently adopt my girls to another family. I acknowleged that I was releasing all parental rights in that declaration. But in my heart and in my heart and in my soul, where the court could never reach or compel, I refused to stop thinking of myself as their father, and I refused to stop thinking of them as my daughters. They were taken—I did NOT give them or abandon them to the state. So, in every sense of the word, they never ceased being MY daughters, I don’t care what a piece of paper says or how I was coerced into signing that paper. And they will ALWAYS be my daughters!

And I suspect, as I become reacquainted with them, that I had made my fatherly impression on them to such an extent that they remembered my love for them in their very core, and that for their entire life they have had an insatiable void that they have tried to fill through lost, misdirected choices and relationships.

Be that as it may, I can do nothing except try to put the pieces back together, to try to repair the brokenness and heal and salve and bear the pain throughout the entire process.

What makes matters even more difficult is that they seem to be able to point out the faults of one another’s life choices and each other’s boyfriends—but they aren’t looking at their own lives and focusing on what THEY need to be doing with their own life. That, to me, is both crazy and frustrating. I’m torn between laughing hysterically and wanting to pull my hair out of my head! Worse still is that there are uncanny resemblances with BOTH of their situations that I won’t go into here—resemblances that I wish SO much they could see. But while they don’t like how the other one is living their life, they aren’t doing very much with their own life, either.

Which just goes back to what I was saying earlier in that they have that choice, and must make it for themselves. I can’t tell them how to live their life—I can only tell them how they should live their life.

But regardless, I love them both, and care for them beyond words. So, it hurts when I see them at each other. It hurts when I know where their choices may take them. And it hurts to let them have their choice. Love hurts, and at the same time, I would never want to stop loving them—even though I know the worst of the pain, heartache, and frustration is still ahead. But as bad as this gets, I want them to know that I am not going to step away from this. They can, but I will not. I will never stop being their father, or stop caring, or stop wanting nothing short of the best for them. Ever.

Which brings me to the final part of this blog, and the motivating factor that set things into motion.

To preface the final, closing point, I need to lay down a couple things to provide perspective.

The same day that I met Danielle, she had asked me if I could take her to her new boyfriend’s place. It was out of my way, and I told her as much. After a moment or so, I offered a compromise: ride back with me once I picked up her sister for laundry day at my house, and I’d swap vehicles and take her to her new boyfriend’s place. She agreed, and I picked up Brandi, and we headed back to Perry. After we got to my house, I of course, invited Danielle in and showed her around, introduced, and that sort of thing, and then we were on our way to meet her new boyfriend, outside his ex-girlfriend’s place, where Danielle said he had been staying for the past few days. I dropped her off, and headed back to Perry.

A short while later, I got a phone call from Danielle, asking me if I could take her home because she was hungry and hadn’t eaten, and her new boyfriend wasn’t ready to go home and would be staying behind. Of course, I said I would but that I’d bring her back home with me and feed her lunch and then take her home the same time I took her sister home. She said that was fine,  and was on my way to pick her up.

And then, as I was heading to the town to pick her up, my cell phone rang. It was Danielle. She said that Jeremy was wanting to go home with her now.

My stomach clenched. I didn’t know what to say. My first thought was that I’m being played, either by Danielle or by both of them—and I didn’t care who was playing me: I did NOT like it.

I finally bit my tongue and said okay, and let her go. The rest of the way there, I battled with myself, angry at feeling like I had been played. Should I take them home after I had already invited Danielle back to my house for dinner with everyone, or should I take them straight home like Danielle and said they wanted to do. What to do, what to do!?

And this voice came out of nowhere, reaching into the back of my frustration. “Now you know how it feels for me.“

Now I’m not a churchy, religious, Bible-thumping Christian. But I am a believer and a man of faith. And I’ve had my fair share of moments in my life that could ONLY be explained through my belief in God. This had to be one such moment. There is no other explanation that fits. Now you know how it feels for me.

In that moment, I realized that it must suck to be God. To love your children unconditionally, and let them have their choices and have to deal with the consequences of those choices. And do you still remember what I told you to remember at the beginning of this blog entry?

It is the curse of a parent to want a better life for your children than they seem to want for themselves.

I had been brought into this because God was wanting me to learn something about him. What it’s really like to be a parent—the good, the bad, and the ugly. And then letting me decide: do I want to be the sort of parent that He is, or the sort that I think I should be? If I’m going to talk about unconditional love, then I’m going to be put to the test, sure enough!

And sure enough, in that moment, I was. And yet the choice was mine to make. Nobody was going to make me choose or tell me what to do.

Now you know how it feels for me, the voice told me as I drove. You want to know how it feels to be a parent? You want to talk about frustration? Anger? Disappointment? About your children not listening to what you’re trying to tell them? But you know what? I never stop loving my children. I never said it would be easy for you, and you can still walk away from this. I’d understand. But I don’t believe that you will, and I want you to know that you won’t be alone in the tears or the happiness. I’ll always be here for you.

I can’t say that even then I wanted to do what I felt in my heart I should do. But the Voice stayed with me the rest of the way to Williamston, and once Danielle was sitting in the seat next to me, I made my decision. I AM in this, no matter what. Heartbreak and all. I love my children too much to do anything else.

So, I brought them back home with me, to have dinner with the rest of us.

But I did take Danielle for a walk with me as soon as we got the house, to tell her my gut feeling that I had been played and that I did not like feeling that way. I also did my best to assure her that I care about her, because I do.

Was I played? I’ll never know for sure. She explained things from her side, of course. But even if I was, I made my choice, and I accepted the consequences for that choice by having her and her new boyfriend come back to the house for dinner.

Besides, the remainder of the visit and day went fairly good, and in time I forgot about that initial frustration because my appreciation and gratitude for having two of my daughters together in my home at the same time was joyous and reward enough for me. If I had listened to by frustration instead, I would have missed out on that.

I think the way I worded it in a Status update on Facebook was that I had enjoyed a day with two of my long-lost daughters, and while are a few crinkles, kinks, and wrinkles needing to be worked out, I am SO thankful and grateful to have these two beautiful, amazing women back in my life.

And I mean every word of it.

Brandi, Danielle, and Melinda, 19 years ago

It’s been three weeks now since I had the surprise of a lifetime, when I sat down to my computer and saw a Facebook notification that I had been sent an email from one of my three daughters whom I have not had contact with for some 19 years. I remember that initial feeling of “Is this a dream?!” that I had as I read the message. The day that I had always looked forward to and hoped and prayed for was finally upon me. What should I do? Do I respond? Do I ignore the email? After all, it had been 19 years, and I doubted that they even remembered me. That’s not even to mention that any role that I could have had in their life was taken away from me, both because of my own mistakes and a system of justice that was full of injustice.

For 19 years I imagined how well they must have done without me in their life. All successful, all beautiful, all so-much-better off than they would have been without me in their life. And yet during those years, I did everything I could to put my name out there, and with the internet I was able to do it more thoroughly. Surely they would be online, somewhere, and one day–out of curiosity, perhaps, they would type my name in and find me.

For 19 years, I second-guessed myself in the whole situation. I had been coerced into releasing my parental rights after trying to fight the system some six months after their mother had signed away her parental rights. I was told again and again by the case worker that she would make sure that I NEVER had a chance, that I might as well sign the papers now, and that if I loved them, I wouldn’t stall another minute.

Every fiber of my being fought the suggestion. I knew that I wasn’t the best parent, and that I had screwed up and was a screw up, but I had been doing everything the court asked of me, and more. And this in addition to all of the drama I was having to go through with their mother, who took off with another guy, disappeared to Florida for like three months, and then came back and threw as many wrenches into the situation as she could, before finally signing off on the girls. I didn’t find out until after I finally relented that she did that to make sure that I didn’t get them either, because the caseworker had been clear from the time she came on the case that a single father would NOT get those girls. So, by Tonda signing off, she had effectively signed my death sentence as a father. I just didn’t know it until after the fact.

And true to her word, she pulled out all the stops, and went looking for anything she could use against me. Mind you that this was not the original caseworker in the case, but she was definitely a man-hater, or at least in no way objective. She came on the case well after I had already established total compliance with the court’s requirements and my having already earned some measure of respect for my efforts to reunite the family. The earlier caseworker was going to request return of the girls, so it was awfully convenient that THAT worker was replaced with this new one, whose agenda was completely opposite.

In any event, the newer caseworker tried to “coax” me into signing away my fatherhood by raising an accusation that I had sexually abused one or more of the girls. And while it’s interesting that NO investigation was ever done, NO charges were ever brought, AND that the girls were checked by a doctor AND a child psychologist and it was confirmed that NOTHING of the sort ever happened, it was still enough to raise the spectre of DOUBT in other people’s minds. No amount of me defending myself or swearing to God on High that I find even the implication of such deviancy ABHORRENT would clear the doubt.

And as the court records attest, it was nothing more than an off-handed remark made by someone to the caseworker, allegedly. But it was enough. Even so, I was, after much effort, once more granted UNSUPERVISED visitation with the girls by the court. Now, if there had been ANY basis to that allegation, would ANY court allow me to have unsupervised visitations? I’m certain that I’d either have been arrested and convicted, or at the least NEVER been left alone with them. EVER.

To make matters worse, I found out from the daughter who contacted me that all three girls had been told repeatedly that I DID molest them, to the point where the girls actually believed and remembered it happening, and that as a result of that instilled memory and repulsion, they want nothing to do with me.

What sort of twisted, evil, demented people would go to such lengths to DEGRADE me and compel my daughters to hate, resent, and despise me for something I never did? Was it not enough that they managed to get my daughters? Was it not enough that I would possibly forever be cut off from ever knowing what became of them? Was it their intention to make sure that the girls NEVER even WANTED to find me by painting me as some sort of perversion who preyed on them–and by doing so make THEMSELVES look as though they were the ones that really loved the girls? I mean, WHY DO THAT?

Yes, I made mistakes. Yes, I was a young, naive (even stupid!) parent. But that’s all. I would never have stooped to such evil. I don’t even have tolerance for people who are found guilty of that, regardless of the reasons. Preying on a child is beyond redemption in my book. Maybe God can forgive molestors and pedophiles: I do NOT.

But what makes all of this even worse is that maybe I could have lived with that accusation hanging over my head forever if it meant that the girls went on to have fantastic, successful, productive lives. It would be worth the personal sacrifice. But from what I’ve seen so far, it’s been hell for them, and all I can think about is how to help them…  not out of guilt, but out of a sense of purpose and compassion. And because I have never stopped caring or loving them as my daughters.

But how do you overcome brainwashing? How do you overcome years of being told that your father did such and such to you, blah blah blah? I have the court records, of course, to show my innocence. But what if they don’t care to find out the truth–and think that they KNOW the truth already, because, logically, why would their adoptive parents ever say something like that if it wasn’t true, right? Why would adoptive parents lie–especially about something like that?

That IS the question, isn’t it? And I keep coming back to the same answer: to ensure that they would not want anything to do with me. EVER! To break that initial bond I had with them. And, I’m pretty certain that they accomplished their goal.

As I mentioned at the start of this, I was contacted by one of my daughters–my oldest daughter. I’ve learned that she is going through things that I wish she didn’t have to, and I’ll do what I have it within my power to do to help as I am able, but I can’t help wondering how differently things had gone if I hadn’t been coerced into releasing my fatherhood so that they could all be placed with a family that would spend the next 19 years villifying and painting me as some embodiment of evil.

Things are going as well as they can. I am trying to get to know my oldest daughter all over again, and to rebuild a relationship, but it’s going to be a long, difficult road and I can see that now. But I’m going to put my best foot forward, be open-minded and see where things go. And I have concerns, of course (what parent wouldn’t?), but I’ve already gone off-topic once in this blog.

The friends that have known me and known how long I have waited for this, the tears that I’ve cried, the frustration I’ve lived with, have been SO encouraging through these past three weeks, and describe it as nothing short of a miracle. They are tremendously happy for me, as well. Being reunited with even ONE of my daughters after adoption is something you only get to see in a television show or movie. But in my case, it has become my reality.

Will I ever get to know my other two daughters? I wish I could say. If I could say anything to them, it would be that I am not the same person that I was back then…  that I have spent my entire life bringing myself to a place where–if they ever showed up–they would not be ashamed of me as their biological father, and that I would be able to help them if they needed it. That I’m here for THEM. And that I have missed them more than words could ever convey, and my life has never been complete, not once, in the past 19 years (and counting).

Anyhow, that’s it for this blog entry.

For what it’s worth.

Although I have been working my way chronologically through my life with this series, I thought I might digress momentarily, to address an issue that will provide a necessary basis for what I will be relating in Part 6.

Molestation takes away everything you might have ever become.

If a child is confronted with and immersed in what can only be termed as evil (and I would certainly call multiple acts of child sexual molestation, physical abuse, and emotional abuse to be forms of evil) on a scale that most other children never experience, what happens to that child’s psyche? Experts concur that the child’s mind can become fragmented as a result of the mind trying to process what is happening. As a matter of survival, the inner child recedes further inside the mind while the outer child adopts whatever façade is necessary to minimize the threat to its survival.

It is a natural response to unnatural circumstances.

Unfortunately, the consequences of that form of psyche defense is, for one, the child’s inability to later move into relationships apart from the parental relationship. The inner child that would’ve developed under nurturing circumstances into a fully functioning mature individual in the adult world instead becomes locked behind the walls of defense that were mounted out of necessity, making it unbelievably difficult to have and participate in a relationship that requires anything beyond a modicum of cordial intimacy. The child will not even realize it because the defense mechanism is so primal, so core to us as human beings. That is the very reason why child abuse is evil enough in itself, but child molestation is utterly evil.

It is, not to put too fine a point on it, a murder in which the victim lives.

For their own sexual greed and satisfaction, the molestor is willing to sacrifice their victim’s life but just cowardly enough not to physically murder them. It is a travesty of nature, and nearly every culture that has ever existed has for that very reason struck laws to prevent it from happening. But the molestor does not care, or they justify it somehow in order to show that Nature has it wrong, that there are exceptions.

And while it may be true that the molestor may themselves have been a victim of abuse, neglect, or molestation, it still holds true that they are not willing to prevent someone else from becoming a victim in turn. Their own inner child psyche is still in regression, even into adulthood—and like the schoolyard bully, they take what they want. As a result, another child’s psyche is torn by an act of violence against Nature, and must live with the consequences of that violence imposed upon them against their will.

If, then, the molestor is acting in response to their own damaged psyche, which has the behavior of a child at the age that they themselves were violated, should they be held accountable as an adult, or within the confines of that inner child’s capacity?

It is a known fact that when a molestor tries in any way to hide their act of molesting by justification (“you should’ve seen how they were coming on to me”), by threats (“if you tell mommy, I’ll kill you”), or lurid promises of love (“It’ll be our little secret”; “You’re daddy’s little girl”), they unmistakably are aware that their actions are wrong. Their act of hiding their evil is enough to establish that they know it’s evil and yet are willing to go ahead in spite of that.

Unfortunately, if they are convicted in a court of law, they typically are sent to prison where they will likely be raped themselves (prisons have within their culture their own form of justice, and child molestors are likely to discover that early on), further metastasizing their own damaged psyche. Clearly, they need to be removed from society at-large until their issues are addressed, but it is equally certain that there is no such thing as a cure. In other words, they will never cease to be a child molestor, even if those urges are somehow diminished through chemical means, therapy, or a miracle. And it is outside the scope of this blog entry to go into further detail where the molestor is concerned.

But what about the child that was molested? I mentioned earlier that because the natural response to such an unnatural violence is to erect barriers in the psyche to protect the very core of the child’s being, this presents the child with significant challenge in the development of intimacy later on into teenage years and adulthood. How this is manifested will vary from child to child, and is truly unique to the individual, although psychologists have come to recognize patterns. But throughout those patterns, the one common factor that they all share is a hunger for love and affirmation, the very love and affirmation that a child would have received in a nurturing environment, thus allowing them to grow into fully functioning adults in the world at-large.

In my own case, because I grew up through years of abuse and was molested, I have had a tremendously difficult time developing relationships with any level of intimacy. By all appearances, I am a fully functioning adult. My outer child has managed to make the necessary adjustments so as to not “stick out” from society at-large. Even so, it has had to make certain concessions in the process. As a result, there is a sense of lost identity, because my life has always been defined by who is around me. I became what I needed to become in order to fit in or appear normal.

The exception is with children. I do not and apparently cannot relate to children below a certain age. I know this from experience especially through my own children, although there have been countless other occasions where I was around infants, toddlers, and young children, and felt lost and unable to relate on any level with them. It wasn’t until my own children reached 12 years or so that I could suddenly relate to them.

Because of that inability to achieve intimacy within a relationship, my being a father has been a road strewn with many bad memories due to my own inability to cope with the responsibilities associated with good parenting. I have both my mother and my molestors to thank for that. I can only hope that in doing what I could figure out to do, my sons will go on to do a better job than I did in raising them. If they are not able to, I must share in the responsibility for their failure to be able to do so.

I have often used the term “survivor of abuse and molestation” in describing myself, because I am. But it in no way is meant to imply that because I have survived such a life, that I overcame those things. That would not be true. I continue to carry the memories and live with the consequences of those things every day, even though it was by another’s choice that they be willfully imposed upon me when I should have been nurtured, protected, and loved. Who I could have become in this life was murdered all those years ago. I am all that remains now, for better or for worse.

It is an unimaginable thing to come to terms with the realization that the guilt that I have borne all these years really was never my guilt, but that of my abusers, those who murdered me in order that they might not have to face their own evil. I think this is the one most difficult realization that a survivor of abuse and molestation must make. We become somehow convinced that we are bad, that we have reason to feel guilty and worthless—even as we try to overcome those feelings of guilt and shame through whatever means we can avail ourselves of—whether it be drugs, alcohol, sex, our jobs. Others turn to the other end of the spectrum, devoting themselves wholly to their church, to religion, to their family, to a benevolent cause. Whatever the case, it is through those things that we try to find escape, peace, acceptance, love, and a sense of worth. And for a time, we do. But the gnawing doesn’t go away. The craving never really is satisfied, and we devote ourselves still more into our “addiction.” And the cycle repeats itself endlessly, always with the same results.

I think it’s safe to say that there have been countless times that I had wished my abusers dead. Because I wanted to believe that with them dead, I could be rid of this rage, guilt, and shame. Yet I know that this will be with me the rest of the days of my life, whether my victimizers are dead or not. In my particular case, the first man who molested me died in a drunk driving accident. The second man eventually contracted AIDS from one of his partners and died. My mother, of course, remains alive and devoted to her ego-centric lifestyle.

But even though my molestors are dead, nothing has changed for me. I did not find the resolution that I had hoped for in their death. That alone is enough to convince me that neither will anyone else find it in the death of their own abusers and molestors.

To others who, like me, have been forced to live a life in the wake of abuse and or molestation, I can offer little more than a compassion with the struggle. Nobody that has not themselves underwent what we have will ever be able to offer that because it is so unimaginably heinous. This is not to say that they won’t try to extend compassion, and we must never downplay their efforts to do so when done out of sympathy rather than pity.

Even so, as I work my way back through my life in this online journal, on this matter I have come to one realization. I can better see now why God allowed me to suffer through such traumatizing events in my childhood. I can now better understand why I was not protected as Christianity would have me believe I would be if I accepted Jesus as my Savior and had faith. If I had not, I would never have been able to give the testimony that I am giving now. If I had not, I would never have been able to feel utter compassion for someone that has lived with abuse and molestation. If I had not, I might never have come to know what it means to truly love, even when I do not feel loved or worthy of love.

In my lifetime, I have known rage, bitterness, resentment, even hatred. I have known what it is like to be emotionally emasculated by an abusive mother even as she physically assaulted me, day after day, year after year. I have known what it feels like to be overpowered by someone and forced to satisfy their perverse sexual lust at the expense of my own childish body. I know these things because I have experienced them, and whether or not I admit it, these have made me who I am today, as well as forever stolen from me whatever I could have become.

But in the midst of it all blossomed this power within me that could not be stifled and can only be described as Love. It has enabled me to be more sensitive the needs of others, to sense what they are feeling even when they are not saying it. It has enabled me to care and to sympathize in the absence of these things from my own life. And so much more.

If I had not gone through what I did, I might never have learned how to be sensitive, caring, and compassionate with others—not in any real sense of those words.

Even so, it does not make things better for me. It does not take away the things that I carry inside me nor the things that I find myself saying or doing when I am not paying close attention to myself. But it does make all those things more bearable. And that, at least for now, must suffice.

Take of life's waters free

I first became familiar with the Bible when I was very young, as far back as my memory will carry me. I remember the large, oversized ivory-colored family Bible on the table in front of the sofa, with its holographic picture embedded into the cover, a portrait of a long-haired Jesus that would shift to another picture where Jesus was standing at a door and knocking.

I remember pulling back that thick cover to reveal the pages, and I remember being captivated by the pages of red-letter text on many of the pages toward the back of the Bible. I was too young at the time to read, so it was the coloring that first grabbed my attention. That, and the utterly beautiful illustrations that had been placed throughout that Bible.

I remember staring into those pictures for the longest time, taking in the exquisite attention to detail. A whole story unfolded from each singular moment captured on canvas. Some were joyous, others were evidence of despair; yet all of them together constituted my first impressions of the book that so many hold dear: The Holy Bible.

In time, I learned to read, as children often do. I remember unmeasured hours poring through the pages of a series of books called “The Bible Stories,” published by the Seventh-Day Adventists. I was living in Lake Odessa, Michigan, at the time, and apparently, the Seventh-Day Adventists–who were based in Battle Creek–were going door-to-door selling their various books which included Ellen G. White’s thick volumes of exposition about the Bible, the aforementioned Bible Story books, and the Uncle Arthur’s Bedtime Stories collection, which were stories with a moral or lesson to be learned. That was around the same time that my mother purchased a complete set of World Book Encyclopediae.

The Bible Stories collection was a remarkable piece of work and in many ways it still is. The artwork is stunning, and the writing level makes for very accessible reading to a wide range of ages. They capsulized much of what I had always been drawn to in that family Bible. I learned about Creation, and Adam and Eve, as well as the story of Cain and his brother Abel. I learned about the Flood and a righteous man named Noah. I learned about Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who were the founders of a great nation called Israel. And, of course, I learned about David, Solomon, and Daniel. Not to be forgotten were the stories about Jesus and the men who believed what he taught about God’s Kingdom, men who faced hatred from their own people yet stayed the course in order to teach others about Jesus and the promise of God’s Kingdom.

Of course, the more I learned, the more questions I asked. A lot of them, apparently, because my mother decided that attending church as the answer (at least for her, because she was an agnostic and had no interest in all that “religious” stuff.

The first church I attended was the Nashville Baptist Church, in Nashville, Michigan. It was their Sunday School, to be more specific. The bus would come by early on Sunday morning and pick me and my brothers up and take us–along with a few neighborhood kids–off to Sunday School. There, I learned how to look up verses in the Bible, the books of the Bible, and how to read the accounts in the Bible straight from the source rather than from books like The Bible Stories. It was a lot different, reading raw text and having to visualize things, and I would often summon up the imagery from the books and use them as a foundation, and fill in the details from there using the Bible.

Of course, Sunday School also included child-friendly sermons on such subjects as being “saved,” who Jesus was, baptism, and other niceties. But it was all taught at a level that matched the comprehension of children, and I was one of the few that seemed to appreciate it while other kids fidgeted and found pageflipping to be a worthwhile distraction.

One particular memory that I still have to this day is that of a challenge that was presented to my Sunday School class. We were to memorize the 23rd Psalm, and in exchange for our hard work we would receive our choice of 1) a fishing pole; 2) a gift certificate to some restaurant; or 3) a metallic cross, in either silver or red, on a chain necklace. Each subsequent Sunday, one of us boys would take our turn at the recitation. The Sunday School teacher would help the person when they faltered, until the Psalm was recited. Afterwards, the boy would be given his choice, and upon making his decision, the reward was given.The majority of the boys chose the fishing pole, probably because it was the most expensive “prize” being offered.

When my turn came up, a few weeks later, I blushed and stammered and stuttered my way through it. It was harder than I had imagined it would be–my first evidence that I did not have the gift of public speaking, that’s for sure! But I muddled my way through the ordeal, I was asked to make my choice and I timidly said that I wanted the cross necklace. Several of the boys snickered because a necklace was considered a sissy’s prize, but the Sunday School instructor ignored the snickers and asked me if I had a preference for color: the silver or the red. I said that I wanted the red one, because it represented for me the shed blood that Jesus gave up that I might live forever. The instructor told me that I would receive my prize the following Sunday School, because he had only brought the fishing pole and gift certificate with him, since those were the only ones everyone seemed interested in.

Sure enough, the following Sunday I was handed a small gift box, and inside it was the metallic red-colored cross hanging from its lightweight chain necklace. I wasted no time in putting it on; I didn’t care what the other boys were whispering and giggling about, and I wore it all of the time. I was very proud of that piece of jewelry, because deep within my heart I knew what it represented to me, and that was all that mattered.

That same morning, the instructor also handed me my very first personal Bible, a red-leather King James Version, complete with Jesus’s words in red text. It became my companion for a very long time.

That summer, the church pastor was arranging for baptisms to be carried out at the Jordan Lake in Lake Odessa, and inviting the public to the sermon that would be given before the baptisms were performed. Without hesitation, I made up my mind to be one of those who were baptised.

The day arrived, and it was a perfect day. The air was warmed by a slight breeze, the lake was welcoming the crowd with its gentle wake upon the beach. The pastor spoke from one of the pontoons, and when he was finished, he invited all who wanted to be baptized to step forward. I was one of the dozen or so who stepped forward, and if memory serves me correctly, only one of three children.

I won’t soon forget how warm the water was that day. It was like entering a bathtub. The breeze that had been blowing earlier was now stilled, as if the whole world was watching this scene of people getting baptized in Jordan Lake, myself included.

I was led out into the water with the person holding my hand and arm to give me stability. When we were out to the proper depth, the person asked me if I accepted Jesus as my savior and had repented of my former sins and was dedicating my life to serving God. I told him yes, and he told me to pinch my nose closed, and that he would be tipping me backwards into the water until I was fully submerged. I did as instructed, and a few pounding heartbeats later I felt myself plunged beneath the waters of Jordan Lake. All sound went muffled as I found myself in a state of sudden weightlessness. And then, just as suddenly I was raised back up.

It was an immensely powerful moment in my life, one of those moments when I felt closest to God. It had such a deeply spiritual impact that I now look back at it with a sense of appreciation that I could never have had before now. In that moment of my coming up out of those waters, at the tender age of seven, I felt renewed to such a degree that I think the majority of people could never possibly relate to. From being that young tyke who was first drawn to the family Bible, to having access to the Bible Stories books, to Sunday School at the Nashville Baptist Church, it all played a role in my life, in establishing a foundation upon which I would build my Life. That moment when I rose up from those waters, I felt such a sense of being clean and approved and alive! I felt, dare I say, the very presence of God’s holy spirit. It was a comfort beyond the words of a seven year old, but no less real.

Years later, there would come a time when some would try to belittle that experience and convince me that it meant nothing, that that moment when I said without reservation that yes, I did accept Jesus as my savior, that I did repent of my sins and that I did choose to serve God with my whole heart, mind, and spirit–that that moment amounted to little more than a lie.

But the reality of what happened to me the day I was baptized at the age of seven, the witness that was borne to me by my God when I was but a child yearning to learn about Him, could not so easily be undermined. To this day, it stands as a testament to my profound tenacity, even as a child, to take the need I have for God in my life to be as serious–if not more so–than anything else. And it was not an experience that was duplicated at my second baptism many years later, a baptism that I underwent at the behest of those who insisted that my earlier baptism was insufficient and invalid. But I will touch upon that more in a future entry.

In any event, in spite of the learning, probing, and questioning that went on up to that day at Jordan Lake, the day of my baptism proved to be only the beginning for me in my ongoing quest for insight and understanding about myself, others around me, and about the God that I serve and worship.