Driven by Compassion to Set the Captives Free

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My Painful Beginning

In order to understand my passion, you must first understand my pain.

At an age when most little girls were having fun running around and playing with their friends, I was busy running away from the abuse of my father. I didn’t have much time for playing because I was too busy planning my next escape. All I wanted was for my world to slow down long enough for me to enjoy the beauty of the seasons. If I experienced any good times in my life, they quickly became blurred through my tear-stained eyes. How I longed for the love of my father, free from trauma and pain. Little did I know I would eventually find that love, not in my earthly father but in my heavenly Father.

Living with My Parents 

I grew up the eldest of four siblings by my biological father and mother. I had three younger brothers who grew up in the same household, and four older siblings by my mother and stepfather who weren’t living with us at the time. My mother was a stay-at-home mom who took pride in caring for the needs of her family, and she did it with style. My mother reminded me of June Cleaver from the 1950’s TV show Leave It to Beaver. Every day she took the time to apply makeup on her face as if she was preparing to go off to work. After getting all dolled up, my mother gracefully made her way into our kitchen and cooked dinner for the family. In the evening after finishing up with her household duties, my mother would sit down at the piano and play her favorite gospel hymns. I was very impressed with my mother’s ability to read music. She also had a beautiful soprano voice that resonated throughout our entire home. Occasionally I’d join in with her and together we would sing in harmony, songs like, “Yes, Jesus Loves Me” and “The Old Rugged Cross.” She also taught me how to play a few songs on the piano. I will always cherish those fond memories of my mother. I believe playing the piano became therapy for her, helping her to escape from the traumas of her own life. Although my mother was very skilled in doing many things, she suffered from a mental disability, which greatly hindered her social skills. I became aware of my mother’s illness when I was twelve years old. Accepting her disability helped me to understand why she was not able to assist me during the storms of my childhood. Never once did I hold unforgiveness against my mother. All I had was love and compassion for her. 

My father was a hard-working man who enjoyed getting up every morning at the crack of dawn and going to work to provide for the family. He was very dedicated to his job. I never knew him to take a sick day off from work during the entire time I was growing up. Although he was a hard worker and good provider, my father had a very serious alcohol addiction that began to eat away at the very foundation of our family. 

I was my father’s first born and only daughter. Being the first born of my parents afforded me special privileges over my younger siblings. I was spoiled and had everything I could ever want for Christmas and birthdays. I knew my parents loved me, which made it very difficult to comprehend that I was a victim of sexual molestation and abuse. The worse part was knowing that the perpetrator was my own biological father.  I recall uncomfortable moments when my father touched me inappropriately when I was four years of age, but my first traumatic encounter came when I was only seven years old. One night as I lay asleep in my bed, my father entered into my bedroom in the middle of the night and got into bed with me. I awakened, startled by him as he held a knife to my throat and threatened me to be quiet while he fondled me under the covers. I laid there in silence, paralyzed by fear. Although I couldn’t comprehend what was happening to me at that moment, I knew what my father was doing to me just wasn’t right. The next morning I awakened confused, not knowing what to expect from my father. Before this traumatic event, my daily routine was to run up to my to my father and greet him with a hug when he came home from work. Although I loved my father very much, after that frightful experience, I began to grow cold and withdrawn from him. The older I grew, the more aggressive my father became toward me. It didn’t take me long to figure out that if I was going to be safe, I needed to run away to protect myself from the lust of my father. After making that drastic decision, it wasn’t long before my life would play out like scenes in a suspenseful movie. 

I dreaded Friday nights because, like clockwork, my father would leave from his job and go out and get drunk. Afterward, he returned home late into the night with intentions of sexually abusing me, but somehow, I often managed to escape. The first time I escaped from the lust of my father, it came with a harsh punishment. After my mother discovered I had run away from home, my father lied and told her I was being rebellious and he vowed to discipline me when I returned home. When I finally returned home, my mother held me down on the floor of our kitchen so my father could discipline me with his belt. This disciplining session went on for a long time, until my mother finally said, “Okay, that’s enough!” My mother noticed that each time my father hit me with his belt, he became still angrier toward me. She then stood between my father and me and held back his hand as he attempted to hit me once again. This was the very first time my mother intervened to protect me from the wrath of my father. My mother didn’t know the real reason I ran away from home, and I was too afraid of my father to tell her the truth on that day. 

One day while lying in my bed, overcome with depression due to the constant abuse of my father, I was having one of my crying spells as I often did. This time I mustered up enough courage to tell my mother the truth. I remember getting out of my bed and wiping away the tears from my eyes as I headed out of my bedroom and made my way into the dining area where my mother was seated at the table. I pulled out a chair and sat down. I looked over toward my mother and said, “Mom, I want to let you know the reason why I ran away from home the other day.” My mother stopped what she was doing and started to listen. I said, “I ran away from home because Dad was trying to have sex with me.” The look on my mother’s face was very disturbing, but the words that immediately followed took me totally by surprise.  She said, “It’s all right if he wants to do that to you!” I could not believe her response. I wanted judgment to be pronounced against my father for trying to commit such a horrible crime against me. I so badly wanted to be angry with my mother, but at the same time I realized that that was not my mother who was talking to me that day. It was her mental illness hindering her ability to process the startling news I had just presented to her. Suddenly it occurred to me that my mother was not capable of making a sound decision that would protect me from the abuse of my father. For the first time in my life I felt abandoned, left to fight this battle all by myself. It was at that moment I realized I needed to grow up fast and get prepared to fight what would soon become the greatest fight of my life.

Read on to see how I escaped from the horrors of my father and became empowered to help set other free.