The Story

The story has changed.

It is no longer what it once was.

Years ago, whenever someone approached, hands twisted together, eyes filled with pity and embaressment, their lips asking, "Can you share The Story?" I knew precisely what they were asking for. Not a love story. Not a birth story. They wanted to hear the painful, soul altering story... the one I could never ever forget.

You see, The Story had been repeated and repeated and repeated for months on end. Recited like a grocery list for detectives, for police officers, for therapists, for pastors, for questioning friends and family, for social workers, for professors, for the Dean of Students, for the county judge.

Over and over again.

Engraining itself into the very strands of my DNA. Recited as if it were part of my identity, a new sort of social security number to be given at each new appointment.

My name, age, address, phone number.

Check the box that applies.

Victim of Sexual Assault.

Please describe:

Repeat The Story.

How odd that I did not notice when The Story changed?

Somehow the details of assaulted flesh and soul started to become less important.

No need to describe how he broke into the apartment.

No need to share my feelings of fear or to describe the sensation of feeling your limbs filled with lead, unable to move, unable to fight. The terrible sickness that follows being drugged against your will.

The intense shame of opening your mouth to speak the words of what occurred for the very first time.

That long moment in the shower, hours later, when I contemplated the razor in my hands. Wondered if I dragged it across my face, if I altered it forever, would I find any relief in that?

All of those ugly details began slipping away.

Words tumbling off the page.

Till all that remained was the initial box to be checked. Victim of Sexual Assualt. This will never be unchecked. And yet, The Story has changed.

No longer fear and agony, no longer hopelessness and anger.

Now it begins, "I was sexually assulted by a friend in college...and THEN...."

Now The Story tells of a body rebuilt, of a mind renewed, of a heart humbled before God.

Now The Story is one that I will proudly tell my sons. No shame involved. One child of God to another.

The scars are now separate from The Story.

Not because of any herculean effort on my part, not out of miraculous overnight healing.

The Story changed over the course of a thousand days. Because He loved me enough to draw close to me each one of those days. A long labor of love.

He drew near.

I reached out.

And now The Story is less about me and more about Him. As it should be.

One of the first lessons I learned after the assault was one I would cling to for years.

No matter what happens to me, it is never bigger than what Jesus did on the cross for me.

Over time, the lesson evolved into the overreaching theme of the entire story.

Thank you Lord for turning The Story into another kind of story all together.

I no longer dread that moment, years away yet always on my mind. In that future afternoon of filtered sunlight in a blue room scattered with race cars and knick knacks, perched on the edge of a bunk bed, looking into the eyes of my sons and sharing The Story. Letting them see what happens when men give in to their selfish desires and choose evil over self control is not even a tenth of the greater lesson.

Listen my sons to what the Lord has done for me....