Made Whole by Emma James
Dusk was settling in, blanketing the horizon in honey-tinted light. The flourishing lilac bush behind me was heavy with amethyst blossoms. A dewy-sweet springtime perfume floated all around the still air as the evening chill hugged my bare arms. I was swinging on my childhood swing set; my long brown hair brushing back and forth, back and forth across my cheeks as my white sundress swished around my pumping legs. I remember a lot from my childhood, but this memory is held razor sharp as one of the earliest. I remember I was happy in the simplicity, as kids often inherently are, but I also remember feeling unusually flawed even at the young age of four. My childhood memories, no matter how beautiful, are all laced with a silent poison.
Someone asked me not too long ago, “Do you recall when your innocence was first broken? Was it a conversation, an image, a movie or book, or was it a gradual process as it is for so many?” I did not know how to answer. I simply do not remember a time when I was innocent.
I grew up feeling dirty. I somehow knew all about sex from an unusually young age, and it always felt like a filthy, secret thing. As a child at the age of three or four, I have distinct memories of secretly engaging in sexual thoughts and behaviors. I spent time pretending very adult concepts with Barbie dolls, stuffed animals, and human friends alike. In fourth grade, when those friends were beginning to discover what sex really was over whispered lunch table conversations, I already knew what they were talking about. In fact, I also had to act surprised when my mom had the infamous “talk” with me on the way home from my grandmother’s house one snowy evening. I already knew all about it. I had for years. But I do not remember how or why.
When I turned twelve, I simply came to the conclusion I was a flawed model of a human being. While I was not at all promiscuous, mentally I struggled with unhealthy sexual images and fantasies. I grew up loving the Lord and was wonderfully protected from media that could potentially serve me a skewed image of sexual health, yet my secret thoughts felt horrifically dark and tainted. I was trapped in a sexual addiction without actually having sex, and I felt completely helpless and alone. “I’m a disgusting, sinful person. I don’t deserve real love,” I thought. I assumed I was born with a scarlet sin etched upon my heart - a sin that no matter how often I repented of, could never be erased. It kept coming back. I was fighting a shameful darkness I did not understand and insisted on facing alone. In addition, I believed no man would ever want me if he actually knew what was held inside my mind.
Although I did not seek to actualize my secret habits in the arms of another, I desired a relationship where I felt safe. I sought after a reliable father figure, as my own dad was a distant figure who was well acquainted with alcohol and slung words of abuse at every corner. I had never known a healthy relationship with a male, and all I wanted to feel was the stability of fatherly love. I recall a poignant moment during my very first summer at youth camp when my youth pastor came to me at the end of an evening service. As the worship band played and people around us prayed, he wrapped me in an incredibly long hug. He knew about my home life, about my dad, and with compassion, he simply held me there until I melted. I had never been hugged like that before. It was a “dad” hug. It felt foreign, safe, wonderful, and vulnerable all at once, and I found myself cracked wide open.
I watched a show years ago in which the main character was attracted to her boss who was her senior by about twenty years. She pursued him only to realize she was not at all looking for him to fill the role of “boyfriend” in her life. She simply wanted to feel safe, loved, and cared for by a man. She wanted him to be the father she had always lacked in her life. She was on an endless quest for a healthy relationship where she had only known brokenness. When the show concluded I sat completely stunned. I had related to the character in such a way that left me feeling exposed. Someone wrote that show, and that someone somehow understood exactly how I had felt for so many years.
What a chaotic, scrambled mess: a girl who has always felt inherently sexually flawed with no understanding of how or why; a girl who carries a gigantic hole in her heart that should belong to the man who fathered her. However, God’s healing and grace had never been too far out of reach. I just had to open my ears to hear His voice and tune my mind to the truth. I had to unravel my mess and lay it bare before the only one who was able to bring mending.
Thirty-five years after my first scarlet-tainted childhood memories, I truly began healing. I thought I had already grown up, forgiven, and moved on. Years earlier I had married the kindest man who deeply loved Jesus. While he has not existed in my life to fill the role of a father, his steady, patient love taught me how to give and receive healthy love. In fact, this love helped to repair the many shameful, broken pieces I had carried around for so long. I even believed I had forgiven my dad for the hurt he branded upon me. However, I did not realize there was even more freedom to be had.
On a drizzly springtime day this past year, I sat across from my dear friend as we shared our lunch hour eating delicious Mexican food. She had been sexually abused as a child, and as she shared the details of her story with me over tacos and quesadillas, my tears began to flow. At that moment I realized I had likely been abused as a young girl. The behaviors she described to me exactly mirrored my own. I did not have a specific memory of when my innocence was broken, and no matter how terrible my father was to me, I firmly believed he was not capable of harming me sexually. However, when I was very small, I was left in the care of a neighbor on several occasions. This particular man turned out to not be a very nice person and was removed from our list of trusted people. Was this the man who hurt me? There was no way to know, as he was no longer living. What I did know is that when I was only a few years old, someone somewhere had taught me things I should have not yet known about. My childhood behaviors stood as testimony.
Despite having no answers to a litany of questions, it was as if I was releasing a breath of air I had held for decades. Did this mean my behaviors as a child were never my own fault? Had I come to believe the twisted lie that sex was a horribly shameful, secret act even before I was old enough to hold distinct memories?
I began to entertain this thought for the very first time: the shameful sins I had carried were not my own to wear. Maybe I wasn’t inherently flawed in this manner. Perhaps my young innocence was terribly broken by a man without my consent. It was possible that even a few moments of violation woke up something inside of me as a toddler and painted darkness over what was created to be a luminous gift.
The heaviest question remained with me: How do you forgive someone for something you do not even remember or know for certain took place? Uncovering the answer to this has been the most marvelous journey, but can be summed up in one profound statement: I had to accept God as not only my savior but also as my Abba Father.
One evening I decided to go for a walk, and surrounded by a silky sunset sky and a million chattering crickets, I heard the voice of God. He simply said, “You haven’t given me everything. You’re harboring unforgiveness towards your father as well as your suspected abuser. Don’t you realize, you do not belong to your father? Don’t you see, your abuser only holds continued power over you at your permission? You are MY daughter and I am your perfect Father. You cannot earn my love; you already have it. My love for you is not contingent on your failure rate or measure of sin - I love you with an everlasting love you have not yet understood.”
I stood in the middle of our silent country road and for the very first time, my eyes were opened to see God as my Abba Father. I had never before considered it “safe” to view Him in such a manner. I had spent a lifetime equating the term “father” to “failure”. But as his presence wrapped around me like a comforting cloak, I realized he has been the perfect father I had longed for my entire life.
Following this beautiful encounter, I have slowly opened up to God in a new way. Yes, he is my Jesus who walks beside me as a brother and friend, the Holy Spirit who teaches and guides me; but now he has proven himself to be the most gentle Heavenly Father. He gives correction and redirection, but it is always paired with grace and forgiveness. His fatherly presence is gentle, unswervingly steadfast and so very kind. He does not abuse, nor does he speak hurtful words towards me. He has generously afforded to me everything I lacked in a relationship with an earthly father. The human definition of “father” does not even begin to touch the reality of the perfection he encompasses as he fills that role. The truth of the trinity he embodies drives out the pain I held onto for so very long.
He has shown me he not only lavishes such love upon me, but he also bestows such astonishing love upon all who call on his name. In the past year, my own father has begun to open up to the truth of who God is. I now see that my dad also belongs to my Abba Father. He is deeply loved by the Lord despite his flaws. His sins are forgivable and are covered by perfect grace. How can I go on living in the dark void of unforgiveness in light of this stunning truth? Likewise, how can I harbor resentment towards my possible abuser, or anyone for that matter, when I hold steadfast to who God is? I have felt and accepted the generous grace of God the Father, therefore I cannot keep clutching hurt, shame, pain, and unforgiveness. There is simply no room for it any longer. If God’s grace is big enough to cover my sins and the transgressions of others, how could I even consider holding onto such poison for myself?
My sins have been wiped clean and my resentment has been surrendered, all because I accepted God as my perfect father. Yes, I was wronged in many ways as a young girl. Yes, I mourn over the reality of what was. But there is no justice found in unforgiveness. Justice is instead found in mercy. Freedom is found in forgiving. Liberty is discovered when we allow God to build beautiful landscapes from our ruins. Love is discovered when we accept all the aspects of who God is. He is all we need.
My mind often wanders back to that lilac-scented sunset - tangled brown hair dancing back and forth in the breeze as little bare legs kept swinging into the sky. I see everything that little girl was carrying inside of her, but now I see just how deeply loved she was, and still is. Her Heavenly Father did not see her as stained, nor was he the voice of the accuser. He loved her enough to prove his love to her over the course of a lifetime. He was always her grace, her forgiveness, her strength, and her loving creator. He created her to accept his love and he created her because of love. He would become her Abba Father. Despite her brokenness and the wrongs inflicted upon her, in him, she would be made wonderfully whole, as was intended all along.
Emma James lives in a small home nestled on a riverbank in the sprawling Wisconsin countryside. She is a pastor, musician, poet and artist who can often be found in coffee shop corners with her nose buried in books. She is currently authoring her first collection of essays and poetry to help others heal from grief and loss.