My Abuser Through God's Eyes

Lie: Forgiving my abuser makes everything he did okay.

This is my favorite photo of Wally. I met him while he was finishing his program at Teen Challenge. My father had called the organization to remove a tree from the church property, which is how we were introduced. Wally started attending our church almost immediately, and the single, elderly ladies relentlessly tried to set us up. Only two years older than me, Wally was the kind of man who would give you the shirt off his back. He always volunteered to help others. Tall and strong, he had a big, country smile. My daughter adored him because he loved playing with the children—he had two of his own. Wally was a true gentleman; he opened doors and always said "yes ma'am" and "yes sir." That was the real Wally, the man God intended him to be. Had he properly healed from his traumatic past, he would have been a powerful force for good.

Teen Challenge taking down the church tree.

I was twenty-four when Wally and I married; my daughter was three, or as she said, "free". Despite Wally's kind and gentle nature, God warned me repeatedly against marrying him. I would soon discover that he had never processed his past trauma, but neither had I. Unbeknownst to me, a storm was brewing beneath the surface of our relationship. I knew he drank weekly with his brother, which didn't bother me initially. Our marriage started well enough, but as our first anniversary approached, his drinking increased, and he began drinking at home. I resented him for choosing alcohol over me, and I began to hate myself, believing I wasn't worthy of better treatment. He struggled to maintain steady employment, so I covered all our expenses with my meager salary. Arguments became frequent, escalating into physical altercations. At first, he threw objects at me—half-empty beer cans, lit candles—which I would clean up the following day. I could see him trying to restrain himself from physically harming me, but eventually, he crossed that line. I hesitate to even suggest he abused me, but regardless of whether I was hospitalized or not, physical abuse, in any form, is wrong. During one of his rages, he threatened that I would never leave him alive. I dismissed his threat until he started using drugs. He was volatile when drunk, but he was even more dangerous when using drugs and alcohol together.

On a typical Friday night, when he would usually be out drinking with his brother, I began loading my Dodge Dynasty with our belongings. I could no longer tolerate the stress of our toxic relationship, and I didn't want my daughter growing up in that environment. The car was about half full when I heard his truck pull into the driveway. I remember exactly where I stood, listening as he closed the truck door. Fear washed over me, but there was no time to panic. I rushed into my daughter's room, closed the door, and told her to stay there, no matter what. He came in through the back door, having passed my car with its back door wide open. There was no missing the pile of our things in the back seat. "What the hell is going on? You think you're going somewhere, Bitch?" He walked toward me as I stepped back. "You're so disgusting; I can't believe I'm with you," he smirked. Suddenly, my daughter appeared. Wally smiled broadly, as he always did, and said, "Well, hello darling?" scooping her up and sitting her on the kitchen counter. They spoke briefly, but my mind was racing, trying to figure out what to do. Thankfully, he had never laid a hand on her. Without warning, he turned, grabbed me, and dragged me through the back door, pushing me down onto the porch. He slammed the door and locked it, leaving my daughter inside. I ran to my car and grabbed the first thing I could find: my curling iron. I swung it around, smashing it through the large glass window of the door. Everything happened so fast; I don't know where my daughter was during this, and thankfully, to this day, she doesn't remember any of it. He grabbed me by my throat, pulling me halfway across the kitchen. I yelled as he slammed me down onto the kitchen floor and began choking me. I tried to loosen his fingers, but he was too strong. I'll never forget the anger in his eyes; it was like looking at a demon. This is where the grace of God comes walking through the door.

Even though I had ignored God three years earlier, He still saw and loved me. He was still willing to save me, even from myself and my poor choices. A drinking buddy of Wally's came through the back door at that very moment as I tried to get some air in my lungs. He grabbed Wally, and forced him to the floor. As he fought to break free, Wally's friend yelled at me to leave. As I was pulling out of the driveway, Wally threw a full can of beer, which, unbelievably, flew through the open passenger window, slammed into the side of my head, and exploded, spraying Budweiser all over the cloth seats. I can't even express how much I hated him. After I left, Wally spiraled even deeper into drugs. Fueled by anger, I refused to forgive him and, worse, refused to pray for him. I didn't care what happened to him; I think I even wished him ill. Sadly, the hate I harbored prevented me from feeling anything when the decision was made to take him off life support after a drug-related incident where he was stabbed multiple times in the chest. I felt that forgiveness would be a victory for Wally, that it wasn't fair he could treat me so terribly and get away with it, just like everyone before him. I didn't believe God would intervene or that forgiving Wally would benefit me in any way. After everything he had done in those three years, forgiving him felt like lying down and offering myself as a doormat again. Where was the justice in that? It made me feel worthless once more, suggesting that maybe I was right and had never been worthy of anyone's love, including God's. Forgiving Wally felt like weakness, so I chose to hate him until the day I died.

But then, many years later, as I began processing my own trauma, I finally understood what God had been trying to show me all along: to see Wally through His eyes. Wally was a son of God, a broken prodigal who was wanted and loved even in his brokenness, just like me. He had done terrible things and hurt many people, but just like with my own sins and imperfections, God wanted to heal his heart and soul, too. Today, when I think about Wally, I feel a mixture of hurt, sadness, and grace. I can remember the Wally I met in the beginning. By choosing not to forgive him all those years, I only hurt myself. It did nothing to Wally, but it created a deep scar on my own soul. Forgiving him does not make me weak or a doormat. It makes me a daughter of the King who is finally able to extend grace, even to my abuser.

2000 

                    
                  Wally as the Easter Bunny                 Wally in the church Christmas float