"But He's Good"

“The terrible thing, the almost impossible thing, is to hand over your whole self – all your wishes and precautions – to Christ” (C.S. Lewis).

I used to absolutely hate it when people told me to “just trust in God.” Didn’t they know what I was going through? Couldn’t they see that this was absolutely impossible for me?

Life used to seem that way – impossible – all the time. I didn’t see a way out, and I couldn’t trust anyone, least of all God. It wasn’t that I hated Him, or blamed Him for the things I was going through; I could often be grateful for the times He never left me. I was grateful…but trust was a different thing entirely.

When I began dating the worst abuser, all of my walls went up. He taught me that I could trust no one around me – no one except for him. And I did trust him, for a while. He had groomed me to believe that he was the only one who would never leave (so long as I did everything he wanted), and eventually, in accordance with his wishes, I shut everyone out. I kept my light alive as long as I could, but I came to a breaking point.

About seven months into the relationship, all of his apologies, all of his masquerades of love, melted away. Instead, I was left with a sadistic psychopath, whose only aim was to inflict the highest amounts of pain possible in order to achieve his own sexual gratification. In those seven months, I had learned that keeping quiet was the best way to bring the pain to a quick end, but there were some nights that his torture was too intense to stay quiet.

Seven months in, I experienced one of those nights…the worst night. I remember exactly where I was. I remember starting to scream, and I remember him putting his hand over my mouth and nose and telling me to, “shut up.” I remember fighting as hard as I could, but not being strong enough to make it stop. I remember begging his grandparents to walk out and save me, and I remember that last hope fading away. I remember falling back, and letting my head fall to the side, and letting my tears fall. I remember crying out in my head to Jesus, “God, make it stop, or let me die.”

That was the night that I stopped trusting everyone. I was in the shower, washing all the blood away, trying to ignore the bruises, and I let everything that made me “Taylor” die away. I put the walls up – so high, so thick – and refused to let anyone in. That was the moment that I refused to let anything get to my heart. That was the moment I decided that even though I loved God, I couldn’t trust Him anymore.

The abuse lasted for years after that. It lasted for too many hospital trips, too many bruises, and too many concussions. It lasted for too many nightmares and sleepless nights, and too much victim-blaming. It lasted through losses of friendships and the loss of the school I loved so much. It lasted through a police visit that ended with being told that pressing charges would be “pointless.” It lasted through hurt, pain, and anger that I thought would never dissipate.

Trust God? Why? How?

Why would I ever trust a God who let so much horrific violence happen to His daughter, whom He supposedly “adored?” How could I trust a God who watched His daughter be choked, beaten, and raped a hundred times over, and did nothing to stop it? How could I trust that He loves me – that He calls me “chosen” – when all I heard for over six years was that I was a “dirty wh*re” only worth “raping?” But when I used to think those things, no matter how angry I might have been, I was always brought back to the inescapable moment when all of those doubts faded away.

“Life with God is not immunity from difficulties, but peace in difficulties” (C.S. Lewis).

In that worst moment of abuse, when I let my head fall to the side and begged God to just let me die, I felt His presence in a way I’ve never felt before. I know I’ve written about this moment several times before, but I feel that it is beyond important to emphasize above all else.

I felt my God’s protection. I felt Him holding me, and crying with me. I felt Him encase my heart, spirit, and soul, protecting them from the Enemy. I felt His anger towards my boyfriend, who was harming His precious daughter. I felt Him rocking me, and stroking my hair.

And when I remember that, all of those feelings of doubt just fade way. Nine months ago, when I gathered my strength and said, “No more,” I felt God’s power inside my heart. Those thick walls I built started slowly coming down. I had this new sense of purpose instilled in me. I wouldn’t be one of those girls who died as a result of the abuse; no, instead I would fight for those girls. Nine months ago, when God gave me this purpose, I felt the fear of the Enemy. Satan had kept me down and out for so long; I listened to his lies and listened to the words of evil men instead of the words of my Creator. I was a victim, not a victor. I was a fatality, not a warrior.

No longer.

“My prayer is that when I die, all of hell rejoices that I am out of the fight” (C.S. Lewis).

I am no longer the girl who allows people to walk all over her. No; I assert myself because I know that I am worthy of love and affection. I am no longer the girl who fears rejection; instead, I go after God’s purpose for my life unabashedly. I am no longer the girl who cowers when faced with a challenge. No, I am a warrior for God. I take up my sword and I fight against every lie whispered in my ear. I open my heart and let God in. I trust Him with my life and with the struggles that plague my heart. I trust Him to take care of my future. I trust Him to help me in healing from the PTSD that seems so impossible to overcome. I trust Him to shape me into the woman of God who will bring the light of Christ and the Gospel into unreached parts of the world – to both women and men, because I know I am equal and I know I am worthy. I refuse to ever again be that victim. I am a victor. I am a warrior. And as scared as I may be with the field I am called to, I know that there is a purpose for my life I cannot ignore. No matter what happens, and no matter where I go, I know that my God is always good.

“If there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.”
“Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy.
“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver; “don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe! But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you” (C.S. Lewis, "The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe").