I sat silent when Grandma had ran out of breath. She looked like she was ready to go in again, but then she looked at me...her granddaughter and softened.
I knew what I had to say, but I was so scared. But I drummed up the courage and said, “Grandma, the only judgment I’ve heard has come from you. Perhaps all those things were true of the church you grew up in—I don’t know. Perhaps all those things are true of the church I visited Sunday—I don’t know. I’ve only been there once.”
“What I do know,” I swallowed and continued, “is that I was received in an attitude of love. I was welcomed there in a way that I’ve never been welcomed by anyone here. When I told Ethel all my dirty secrets, she didn’t preach a diatribe against me like you just did. And for what? Daring to consider a viewpoint different than your own? Even if I decide to become a Christian, I’ll never force what I believe on you. Perhaps women aren’t supposed to teach men—I don’t know—but I do know that Ethel is as valued a part of that church as anyone else.”
Shamefully, as I continued to counter Grandma’s arguments, I had raised my voice to match her. She didn’t just take it. We screamed it out right then and there. The more ridiculous Grandma got, the more I realized that her problem wasn’t with me and the church today but with her parents and the church she grew up in. That was her problem.
When I didn’t think that I could take the raquet any more—our venomous voices were now joined in with loud music from Chester’s room, Ms. O’Henry’s broom, and Mr. Spencer’s fist poundings—I stopped. I stopped and thought about how ridiculous everything we both were saying was. And I considered how if I could get such a rise in Grandma by simply visiting a church, then perhaps there was a little bit more going on here.
After we both sat back down and our faces turned back to more natural shades—mine a light brown and hers a faint pink—I reached over and put my hand on hers. She flinched.
There was definitely more than hypocrisy in her mind.
“Grandma,” I asked through tears—why couldn’t my eyes stay dry?—, “What did happen in that church?” I got no answer for a long enough time that I thought about asking it again. But then her voice—timid as I’ve never heard it—answered my plea.
“They forgave my attacker.”
Connecting
I was confused. Attacker? What attacker? She had certainly not mentioned anything about an attack, not in this conversation, and I was pretty sure not in any other, either. That was something I would remember.
“Who, Grandma?”
“My attacker—the man who raped me,” she replied in a still more timid voice. I inhaled sharply at that strong word and the thought that our stories were more alike than I had previously thought.
“I’m sorry, Grandma. I had no idea that there was something so hurtful that had happened. Was it a man in the church who attacked you? Your pastor? Your father?” With the last question, I swallowed with dread. I was not sure that I wanted to hear that my grandfather was such a hypocrite.
“No, it was no one in the church,” my Grandma responded, with a little more life. “He was a stranger—though I wish that he had stayed that way. It happened one evening after I left a friend’s house. I was walking home—though my parents had told me over and over again not to walk home in the dark—and as I was walking around the corner near my house, he caught me, pinned me to the ground...”
“That’s okay, Grandma,” I said, reaching for her hand again. If anyone knew her pain, I most certainly do. “I don’t need to hear the rest. I understand.”
“Thank you...I haven’t talked about this in probably 50 years. Though I’ve tried to push it out of my mind, I’ve probably thought about it every day. You never outgrow something like that. You never forget. And I believe you never forgive.”
I was saddened to hear those words. I had hoped that I’d somehow outgrow the memory of my own abuse, like I’ve outgrown so many memories from my childhood. I hadn’t thought about what it’d feel like 50 years in the future.
“So how did your parents handle it?” I asked, thinking of my own Mom’s silence in response to my own admission of being assaulted.
“Well, at first, they didn’t know what to do. We reported it to the police—I hated going into so much detail, feeling like I was being violated. I knew disgusting secrets about what he looked like under his clothes, and that was what did him in. Apparently, another woman had described her attacker the same way I had, and they were able to catch him.”
“I’ll never forget the day that they caught him. When I first saw his picture on TV, I broke down. Though I knew he couldn’t get me—it was only his picture on TV as he was then in jail—I don’t think I would have responded any differently than if he had walked into the room. After the trial my dad did the unthinkable. He visited him in jail.”
“Your dad visited your attacker in jail?” The thought baffled me. Would Mom visit Jamari’s uncle, even if he was safely behind bars? I just couldn’t see her having the guts to do it. And I don’t think it’s just because she was a woman—after all, she had no problem standing up to some of the nastiest and most dangerous food suppliers.
“Yes, he did. He visited him. And he shared the Gospel with him, the good news. Why did he share something that was supposed to be good with someone so evil? My attacker didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve anything more than what he got: the opportunity to spend the rest of his days in prison.”
“But what’s worse, my attacker recognized it as good news. He accepted it, and began making changes in his life. Even though he was behind bars with no opportunity to rape young women again, he said that he was a changed man. And my father was stupid enough to believe him. He became my attacker’s personal mentor, visiting him in jail every week, taking him books and praying with him. Together they started a prison ministry. Father was so excited about it too, and to hear him tell mother about it over the dinner table disgusted me. After about a year of this, I had heard enough. I exploded. I chewed out my father, telling him that this man wasn’t worth the nasty prison food that they fed him. He deserved to die for what he did.”
“And what did your dad say?” I was intrigued. I couldn’t imagine having that kind of faith to confront, let alone befriend, your teenage daughter’s rapist.
“He said that I was right. That my attacker did deserve to die. But so did he. And so did I. All of us. But that God gave us all a second chance at life.”
Grandma’s words reminded me of what I had heard from Ethel and read in the journal.
“Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“Well, it may be true in his world, but it is a cruel thing to say. I told him that my attacker should go to hell like he deserved for what he did to me. I didn’t care what his precious Bible said, some people shouldn’t deserve an opportunity at life.”
“So what happened next?” I asked anxiously.
“I turned to drugs, abandoning any faith I had. I have already told you what happened when my parents found out about the drugs. I couldn’t live with people who would forgive their daughter’s rapist so flippantly. So when they wouldn’t let me do my own thing, I left.”
“But was it really flippantly? Don’t you think your dad agonized over it?”
“I didn’t at the time. Now, having a perspective as a parent and knowing his character, he must have. That doesn’t mean that I wanted to be reminded of what happened at the dinner table all the time.”
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Grandma. And I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but I understand a bit how you felt. I, too, was sexually assaulted.” It felt weird to say those words aloud, but each time I told the truth it was a little easier.
The anger rose in Grandma’s face faster than it had in our heated discussion previous. I hated to hurt her again, but I knew that I’d never have a better opportunity to tell her. And she needed to know she wasn’t alone.
Relenting
I was thankful that painful discussion with G
randma was over. She had clearly known a lot of hurt in her life. While I knew she wasn’t always in the right, it was important for me to realize that she had been where I was now.
I didn’t want to become like her. I love my Grandma, but I didn’t want to be characterized by that kind of bitterness at her age. I don’t want to have a strained relationship with my daughter because I couldn’t get over issues that had happened to me as a child. “Getting over” them didn’t have to mean that I had to ignore them, but I did need to realize that I wasn’t ruined forever just because of another’s actions.
I knew that my actions weren’t rosy either. Sure, I have never hurt anyone physically nor stolen something from anybody, but I have lied. A lot. I have hated too often and not loved. I certainly haven’t honored my mother. I don’t even know what else God requires of me, but at least I know I’m guilty of that much. “For whoever keeps the whole law and yet stumbles in one point, he has become guilty of all,” as Beth quoted. Stumbler...that’s a great nickname for me, as I seem to be stumbling all the time.
What could I do? I only knew of one thing. That’s what I did. I cried out to a God, a god I knew must be real. Who else would have brought the journal into my life? Who else would use that awful night to bring me to my knees?
That evening I trusted for the first time in a God who was there, who saved me, taking the punishment for my sin upon Himself. There was nothing I could do, but whisper “thank you.”
I wanted to tell Ethel about my decision right away, but as I glanced as the time, I realized it was too late to chip her. Instead, I turned to an older friend.
December 25, 2001
Today we celebrate Christmas, the day of our Savior’s birth. To think that all these years I’ve really only been celebrating all the gifts! I really made it all about me. It’s hard to change my mentality, but when I remember all that God has done for me, what else could I do but celebrate Him at Christmas?
That’s interesting. I never realized that’s where the word came from, or that was what the holiday was about. I suppose as hard as Beth found it to focus on Jesus at the holiday, it’s gotten worse as I hadn’t ever heard that Christmas had anything to do with Christianity.
Mom and Dad actually agreed to do the holiday together. I guess they had fought—nothing new there—about who got Meg and I Christmas morning, and they couldn’t come to a decision, so their mediator suggested this arrangement. I can’t believe that it required a mediator for them to come to such a simple decision, while only a year ago they were making all sorts of decisions together.
There was no hint of Suzanne today. I don’t know if she’s still in Dad’s life or not. Perhaps he’s just trying to play nice with Mom so he left her out of our Christmas celebration. I do know that I want to try to make an effort to get to know her if she’s going to be in my life. I may not agree with how she got there, but I can’t change that. I need to love her and love Dad by loving her.
Mom and Dad got me a study Bible for Christmas. While they might not agree with my decision to follow Christ and be all “churchy” as they call it, I appreciate the fact that they recognize that it is important to me. I asked them how they knew which one I wanted, and they said that they asked Faith. In all that’s been going on, I hadn’t even realized that they knew who Faith was. It felt good to have that connection, even just for a moment.
Meg is still pretty distant. I’ve tried to ask her about school, but she’s mum about everything. She’s apparently forgiven or forgotten that I didn’t tell her about Suzanne (when I didn’t know!), but things are still not the same with us.
This has been a strange semester and I’m thankful that it’s over. I had so much more to write about than I had planned, so I’m going to have to start a new journal before too long. I can thank Faith for that one—she anticipated as much, and gave me a new one a few days ago.
After reading the last few entries, I closed the journal that had meant so much to me. I had no idea what happened next for Beth, as there were no other journals in Hasan’s shop. He couldn’t remember when he got this journal. He thinks it may have just snuck in unnoticed with a box of books he bought from an estate sale, the seller unaware of its value.
Certainly, the seller would have been unaware of its value in my life. Without that journal who knows what my life would be like? I certainly have Beth to thank for introducing me to my new-found faith as she started me down this path. Though I imagine God could have found another way to bring me to Him, He chose her. Now I’ll never know more of her life.
I can’t wait to meet her in heaven. I have a feeling she’ll enjoy hearing what her journal has meant to me.
Breathing
The next morning I woke up refreshed and ready to tackle whatever came my way. If it were Ryan, I knew that I could handle it. She could remind me of my own sin all she wanted—I’d agree with her.
If it were Ming, I could handle her too. I don’t know why she broke my trust, but I could forgive her. She has had it rough too, not just me. It may not be easy to be friends with her again, but it’d be worth it to have an ally at school.
If it were another day like the day of the concert, God help me. I don’t know if I could handle that. But God could help me, right? He helped me the last time—even though I didn’t know it at the time—and He’d sustain me through it again, if necessary.
As ready as I thought I was, I wasn’t expecting what happened next.
I received a chip from Ethel. Eli had been by her place that morning with a package addressed to me.
A Bible-shaped package.
On my way out of the school to pick it up, I caught a glimpse of Ming as she was disappearing out the door ahead of me. Though it made everyone look my way—something I’d been anxiously trying to avoid—I ran and called after her. She was startled, and turned back my way.
With that look, I knew I that I was right to seek her out. No matter what she had done, she was still Ming, my only friend. Well, I suppose I count Ethel as a friend now, but you can never have too many.
“Ming,” I said louder than I meant. People were still staring at us. I guess anything about me draws attention now, since so much of the school gossip has been centered around me this year. Every time I talk to anyone, everyone took notice as they could be witnessing the next headline in school gossip.
“Ming,” I repeated, this time in a normal tone. “Can we talk?”
“Uhh, sure,” she said, still surprised.
“Caffeine bar again?” I asked.
“Sounds good,” she said with a smile that wasn’t quite genuine. “Don’t you have work?”
“I already asked Hasan if I could work Friday instead, and he agreed. This is more important.”
“Okay,” Ming said.
As we arrived at the caffeine bar we quietly placed our orders and sat down with our bitter drinks. The weather was unseasonably warm, so the shop was busier than it had been.
I decided to come right out with it, breaking the ice.
“Ming, I forgive you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“What are you talking about, Amala?” I could see in Ming’s face that this wasn’t a defense mechanism but true bewilderment.
“About telling Ryan—or someone else who told Ryan—about me going to church.”
“You thought I told? Why would I have done that? I’m on your side, not hers.”
“Wait,” I said, surprised. “Then how did she know about it?”
“I don’t know. You guys used to be really close friends, right? Had you ever used each other eCred cards?”
“Oh,” I said. Of course. She looked at my eCred account and was tracking my movements. She must have been suspicious when I left early on a Sunday morning and figured out—or guessed, which I confirmed after her accusations—as to where I was going.
“Oh, Ming,” I don’t know what to say. I was convinced she was in the wrong, but it was me. I falsely accused her, without giving her a chance to d
efend herself. I didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt, but at the first sign of trouble, I accused her of betrayal and abandoned her, something with which we were both too familiar.
“I’m sorry, Ming,” I said reaching out to give her hand a squeeze. “I’ve been ignoring you because I thought you betrayed me. It turns out, you were the one being betrayed by your new friend. Can you forgive me?”
“Yes, Amala. I wondered why you had been so strange around me, but I thought maybe you might need your space, so I waited until you approached me. I realized I had kind of pushed myself on you from the beginning.”
“I’m glad you did push yourself on me, as I couldn’t imagine what I’d do without you. I supposed I did need my space, but I didn’t need to push you out to get it. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately, and I’ve come to a decision.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I’ve decided to become a Christian. As I continued in Beth’s journal, she came to a point when she realized her utter hopelessness and her need for a sinless Savior to die in her place. I’ve come there, too, and oh, what a dark and glorious place that is.”
“Wow, I had no idea you were taking all that seriously. I mean, I find it interesting, but I’m not willing to go that far.”
“That’s okay, Ming. I won’t push you. But I do hope you’ll still be my friend, even though I’ve not been the best one to you. Now come on: we have something to pick up.”
The Journal Page 15