I’ve always struggled with faith.

Not my belief in God (though sometimes, I have).

But my belief in what God can do.

And more specifically, what God can do in and through me.

I’m a pragmatist, even as emotional as I can be. I’m rational. I’m realistic.

In regard to healing, I’ve seen God heal others of much, and me of much.

I’ve also seen Him not heal, at least in the way people prayed. (True, they were “healed the other side of heaven,” but sometimes things just don’t make sense on this side.)

For twenty years, I’ve battled a painful fight with endometriosis, a disorder in which tissue that normally lines the uterus grows outside the uterus. It sounds weird, but essentially once a month, this tissue causes much inflammation, lesions, bleeding, and curl-up-in-a-ball-and-cry kinds of pain. It affects fertility and when it’s happening, I’m essentially useless for two or three days. It hurts to walk. To eat. To watch TV.

I’ve had surgery to have it removed, but as long as there are hormones in my body, it will always come back. The only true “cure” is a radical hysterectomy, removing all reproductive parts, and staying off estrogen therapy, which causes early, surgical menopause – a much faster, more intense process than the normal “change of life.”

It would also mean ending any chance Tim and I have of biologically conceiving our own baby, without going to extreme measures.

Sunday night and into Monday, it felt like a fire was ripping through my abdomen, down my legs, up to my shoulders, into my knees. Tim and I were supposed to go to a movie premiere for a movie about healing, Holy Ghost Reborn​, but thought it would be best if I stayed home instead and he went.

I started looking for an OBGYN in Iowa to discuss options, including a radical hysterectomy. I fell asleep. I woke up and asked Tim if they had started praying after the movie yet, and if not, if he could go up there to pray with someone about this.

As my text made it through to him, he was already on his way for prayer.

A woman named Anne (yep), met him in the front and asked what she could pray for. He explained our situation.

The other Anne also suffered from endometriosis.

The other Anne said my faith has made me well (important to note: this was also the passage we studied at church on Sunday, which I shouldn’t have heard because I was supposed to work in the nursery, but someone else really wanted to work in there instead, so I was able to be in the service).

The other Anne said we’d have many kids (I’m hoping not any more fur babies; two dogs are enough, thanks).

And when I received the texts from Tim telling me this, I began weeping in bed, still grieving the miscarriages from this year, afraid that it could be true, that I could be healed, afraid that it wasn’t true, that I could not be healed.

Because God doesn’t always heal people like we think.

Tim got home, told me to put my jeans back on and believe the T-shirt I was wearing. “What t-shirt?” I had dressed for bed in the dark. I looked down and was wearing the “Jesus Loves You” t-shirt Tim’s friend made. We were going to go back to the movie theatre and get more prayer.

A few minutes later, we pulled in.

Nobody was there.

My Doubting Thomas said, “See? see? This healing isn’t for you!”

Tim calls our pastor, Dan.

“Can you guys pray over Anne?”

Ten minutes later, late at night, we arrived at Dan’s house. I waddled in, hunched over in pain, still crying, still confused, still angry, still grieving, and still hopeful. I was honest. I said I don’t believe God always heals, so I should have no right to expect it. I don’t want to get my hopes up and be let down. My faith is already so small.

Dan and his wife Sarah prayed over us. My body felt numb and I didn’t know why. Pain meds? All the crying and emotions and it was late? An hour later we walked out, exhausted. I went straight to bed when we got home, my eyes swollen and painful from crying.

I slept through the night, only rising when a dog kicked me in the ribs. My eyes were still sore, but I wandered into the kitchen for some water. Looking out the window, over the bluffs and allowing my eyes adjust to the new light of day, I realized something.

I felt…different.

I wasn’t in pain.

If you know anything about endometriosis, the pain doesn’t just suddenly stop, especially in the middle of an episode. It may lessen or come and go, but it doesn’t stop.

But more than the lack of pain, something in my heart–that hole that was left by knowing how broken my insides are–the grief that has been weighing on me for most of this year…it was gone.

It was removed.

I tiptoed around the apartment getting ready to run to the grocery store, afraid if I made too much noise, somehow the pain, both the physical and emotional pain, would wake up and come back.

But it didn’t.

I told friends who were praying for me, fighting for me, waging war in the heavens for me, what happened. I confessed to Sarah my fear that it was surreal, and reality would set in soon. She wrote back:

“There was an old African village lady God healed in the movie, a witch doctor, but she did not smile. The guy explained that the older generation always had a saying…’don’t smile today because tomorrow you will cry.’

The pastor that healed her (who had a crazy story) said, ‘I smile today because I don’t care about tomorrow!’ Meaning he was thankful for the miracles today held, and he fully trusted God for whatever tomorrow held. Eventually they got this old lady who had been healed to smile and even dance. It was precious. Enjoy your miracle today!”

Do I know what will happen tomorrow? At this time next month? In a year? Will I have a baby, or a radical hysterectomy? Will I be sidelined with pain or dancing in new healing?

I don’t.

But as my friend Sarah says, I will enjoy my miracle today.

After I returned from the grocery store, Tim asked how I felt. Being a non-verbal processor, I wasn’t quite sure how to put into words what happened. Honestly? A part of me was afraid to say, “I think I’m healed.” But the words slowly made it out of my mouth.

He sat in the orange chair across from the sectional, ADD getting the best of him, and while celebrating with me, noticed a weird reflection on our ceiling.

“What’s that reflection coming from?” I looked up and saw some red.

“Oh, it’s probably that red bottle on the window sill.”

He moved it, the reflection didn’t change.

“Are you kidding me? Look how big it is!” A full array of colors, a rainbow, displayed over me on the ceiling. Tim looked out the window and noticed the sunrise was shining on a No Parking sign down on the street, five floors down.

The sign was reflecting that rainbow all the way into our apartment window, directly over me, at that very moment.

“It’s God’s promise to you.” Tim said.

This does not feel normal to me. It does not feel comfortable. The devil and the angel on my shoulders are still playing a game of tug-of-war. But I have been surrounded by prayer, covered in promises, and so I will walk in faith. I will take up my mat and tell, I will sing, I will dance, and I will smile about what God has done.

Even if God has given me a miracle only for today, it is a miracle nonetheless.

And to Him be the glory for the things He has done.

Virgin Mary Consoles Eve by Sister Grace Remington

Dearest One,

Your conception was a miracle. Ten months after our first miscarriage, six months after our second, and one week after I was simultaneously searching for a surgeon to perform a radical hysterectomy while being prayed over by friends and strangers because of a debilitating condition that affected my fertility, you were conceived.

It shouldn’t have even happened then. I ovulated a week early from an ovary that had no fallopian tube connecting it to my womb. But somehow, in some way, the other tube found you floating around, swept you up, and planted you into my innermost part.

Five weeks later, I was so tired, exhausted by an unmistakable fatigue I have only experienced twice in my life–once ten months before and once four months after that. Could it be? Could I be?

My cycle was a week late, so the next time I was at the market, I picked up a box of two tests. It was on sale and cheaper than the single. I followed the instructions. Waited two minutes. Only one line appeared. I wasn’t pregnant.

The tiredness continued throughout the week, but I chalked it up to Thanksgiving festivities and the new cold weather and grey skies. I woke up on Black Friday with the sun, and made my way to the guest bath, as not to disturb my sleeping husband (or the two dogs, who would start howling for the breakfast).

In a basket next to the sink, I saw the second test. Would five days make a difference? I gave in to the white, plastic temptation. Followed the instructions. Waited two minutes.

Two. Lines.

Immediately, two bold lines.

Just five days beforehand, I told Tim that I wasn’t pregnant, and our lives went on as normal. But now?

I went back into the bedroom and quietly sat by him with the test. I showed him. We held each other, dogs vying for our attention, unaware of the angels who were undoubtedly rejoicing with us.

A blood test and ultrasound first showed you–well, the small, almond-sized sac you were living in. We couldn’t see you just yet. A few weeks went by, and we first saw your plump head and your flickering heartbeat.

Now, here we are a third of the way in our journey to meeting you. I wish I could say the miracle of you was enough to remind me to be joyful and grateful at all times (as it should be), but I have not been the perfect carrier of life. I’ve been angry when I’m sick, or tired, or in pain. I’ve been upset at the way all the changing hormones in my body cause strange things to happen. Now that my old pants don’t fit and my body is slowly growing into something I don’t recognize, it’s been hard for my broken mind to adjust.

It’s almost like you know when I need a reminder. Just the other night after poking on my unfamiliar rounding belly, you leapt in my womb. It was such a strange and lovely feeling; a feeling I know will become normal over time. And soon, you’ll enter the world, and you will yawn and cry and pee and poop and spit up all over everything. And you will wrap your tiny fingers around one of mine or one of Tim’s. And you’ll change before our eyes and we won’t be able to remember every headache, cramp, or sleepless night.

Your presence is teaching me a patience far beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. In a world where I can get almost anything I need or want almost instantly, nine months seems like a terribly long time to wait for something. At times, it seems like July is an eternity away. But with each slow moment that passes, my mind is as equally slow to change to cherish every moment with you now–every non-repeated, hard, holy moment. It is a rhythm of grace I am happy to relinquish my fast, predictable pace to.

As a Christian for almost 36 years, I’ve been well versed in the miracle of the birth of Jesus. How a small, humble baby came to change the world; how he came to change me.

Sweet child, you are a miracle to me. You are changing me, silently now. As your fingernails form and your legs lengthen, my heart is reforming and my hope lengthens.

Sweet child, yes, I can’t wait to meet you. But I’m perfectly thankful for where you are now.

This is my final post.

It’s been a year or so since I took a break from the Interwebs–away from writing online, from traveling and speaking, from Tweeting and Facebooking and Snapchatting and the like. Pregnancy was such a lovely season, and truly a miracle. Our baby girl was born perfectly happy and healthy in July 2016. She’s almost 10 months old now, trying to scoot around the house on her bottom (unsuccessfully), with 8 teeth she definitely earned the right to show off. She’s coming into her own, a little drama queen human who I can’t believe just a year ago was the size of a cantaloupe, tucked away in utero, kicking my bladder, my kidneys, and everything in between.

When I was in high school, I wanted to get a Ph.D. in psychology and become a doctor of sorts, a clinical psychologist. Life didn’t head down that road like I expected, and instead, I ended up working at churches, writing a few books, and traveling all over the world to share stories. In 2010, after my divorce, I considered going to medical school but knew I would likely have to sacrifice having a family to start a career in medicine at the age of 30. Three years later, I met and married my dear husband Tim. Medicine as a career was still ever on my mind, but there were books to write and events to speak at. Then sweet baby girl came along.

When my most recent book released a year ago, I had a feeling it would be the last. I was still under contract to write another one with Baker, but nothing surfaced in my heart that I had to write about. I waited, they waited, and still, nothing came.

Why put more words out into the world that’s overwhelmed by words, when nothing needs to be said?

I graciously asked if I could exit my contract and they graciously agreed.

The season of life when I am an author, a speaker, a blogger–the season when I knew something needed to be said and I was sure I was the one to say it–is over. There have been moments of grief, of saying goodbye, but overall, it has been the most peaceful, sure, and easiest transition I’ve ever made.

I’m heading into a new season now, and have been for a while. I’m back in school working toward a B.S. degree in Health Sciences, either to become a Registered Dietitian or Diabetes Educator. I hope to focus on pediatric nutrition and family education. I realize that’s pretty far off from where I started ten years ago, but I think I needed to learn more about God, about people, and about myself to end up here. We’re back in Dallas, surrounded by family. Tim’s working in videography and I split my time between school and serving in patient care at a hospital as a technician, and as a nutrition consultant/Associate Certified Diabetes Educator.

I’m thrilled. It’s not perfect, but it’s bliss. And I have to say: there is a freedom in ending a career in professional Christendom.

Thank you.

Thank you for allowing me to speak into your life over the last twelve (!!) years of blogging. Thank you for encouraging me, supporting me, buying books, giving literally millions of dollars to very worthy organizations. Thank you for sponsoring Compassion kids, for praying for me, for us, and sharing your stories.

There’s a commonly asked question: If you had to say one thing, to leave people with one thought, what would it be? 

I’d have to say this:

• It’s okay to not be okay.
• It’s okay to be different, to not fit in.
• It’s okay to quit and begin again (and again and again and again).
• You are worth so much more than you could ever imagine in your wildest dreams.
• Sometimes the quietest lives love the loudest.

I guess that’s five things, so I’ll ask for your forgiveness and thank you for humoring me one last time.

It’s been a gift. You’ve been a gift. You are a gift.

With love,
Anne Marie Miller

I only break my social media silence for very important things. With the spotlight on the SBC and abuses of all kinds, I can’t stay silent. People within the church and within the SBC have sexually and emotionally abused me and many I love. The cover-ups by the church and the SBC specifically further perpetuate this abuse.

If you have been abused by anyone, report it to authorities in law enforcement. Do NOT go to your church to report abuse in an effort to “keep the peace.” Go to the authorities. It is not the church’s job to investigate and penalize criminals. It is not man’s duty to protect the church. God can do that just fine on his own. He has his work cut out for him and it could only take God to bring good out of the egocentric tarnishing that continues to happen as people use his name for their own advances and to cover up their fears of being found out for what we all are—human—and for what some are—criminal. Being human is not a mistake.

Being a criminal is and criminals need to be held accountable for their crimes.

Dear Baby Girl,

First, you’re not really much of a baby now, are you? I can’t believe you’re almost two years old. So big, yet so small. So fiercely loving even though you don’t even know how big of a heart you have or how much this world needs it.

Even though we’ll talk about it when you’re older, I wanted to write a few things down while I was living them live, in real time.

Last night when I put you down in your bed, prayed our prayer, and stepped out of the room, I started weeping because it was the last time I will get to see your face for the next month. Those closest to me know the heartbreak that comes in saying goodbye, even when it’s for a good thing. I’m afraid my absence will damage your heart or your mind. I’m afraid you will think I am gone forever. Or that I left you and don’t love you. Or that you did something wrong to make me leave.

My girl, none of those things are true.

Ever since the moment I knew you existed inside me, since the day when your dad and I saw your jumping tadpole body on the ultrasound, I have loved you with a love that only grows stronger with each day. The amount of gratitude I have for you feels like taking a deep breath of the purest oxygen and I feel my chest rise with gladness, the molecules of thankfulness penetrating each one of my cells.

It seems you grow up every night we put you to bed and you’re impossibly more beautiful, more lovely, more smart, more curious, and more surprising than the day you were born. I don’t know how this is possible, but with close to 22 months under our belt, it’s safe to say the research has been consistent.

Fear consumes me when I think about what could happen to you out in the world, whether by accident or on purpose. Part of me (most of me) dreams of a world where you do not fight the mental demons your father and I fight. That you trust fully but wisely. That no harm falls on you. That your heart never breaks.

Even if, baby, even if…

• If your brain tells you lies, you’ll know the truth.
• If someone breaks your trust, it won’t break you.
• If harm falls on you, it won’t bury you deep.
• If your heart breaks, it won’t always bleed.

And should you feel like the lies, the breaking, the burying, and the bleeding become too much, look all around you because you are so loved. Ask for help when you need it and you’ll have an army already by your side.

So, my sweetest girl, I want you to know that it’s all worth fighting for.

That’s why I’m gone for now.

I’m out fighting for me, for you, and in a way, for others so that maybe I can be hope to them too.

• My brain tells me lies, so I’m fighting for the truth.
• Someone broke my trust I’m fighting to be made new.
• Harm fell on me so I’m fighting out of the heap.
• My heart is broken and I’m fighting to be free.

I love you, baby. I love you.

Several times over the last ten years, I found myself in the city where the man who sexually abused me as a child lived. Most of the time I was terrified to accidentally run into him. Sometimes I became full of rage and fantasized seeing him at a gas station and attacking him. And other times I would get caught off guard by my grief and sit in my car weeping outside the hotel where I was staying.

As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, the myriad of emotions I experienced changed as naturally as the Texas sky in springtime. Sometimes I’d feel guilty about the complexity. Other times I wouldn’t.

I learned that each emotion had its place.

In March of this year, when I found out the man who abused me was never reported to law enforcement, a strong desire for justice gave me the extra courage I needed to walk forward. I felt validated knowing the criminal justice system would handle what the Southern Baptist Convention would not–and could not–handle. I felt a sweeping loss as my mental health suffered. I burned with indignation as this man, who already has taken so much of my life by his actions, consumed more: I lost sleep, I lost time with my daughter and my husband, and lost the easy joy I generally danced in.

There were parts of me that wanted to destroy him. There were parts of me that wanted to destroy myself.

And again, each emotion had its place.

As I worked with law enforcement, my detective encouraged me to not share the name of the man who abused me publicly until they had everything in order for the criminal case they’re working on. They understood this man’s current role and his access to vulnerable people, including children. Yet the benefits of not coming out with his name publicly outweighed the risks in regard to the integrity of the criminal investigation. I respected their wishes then and I respect them now.

Somehow this felt right and good and okay. Even though the only thing that remained between me exposing the man who did this to me was a “publish” button, I have yet to have peace about sharing my story in such a public way, most likely because of the condition of my heart. Some people have gone public and done it in a way that glorifies God while respecting the criminal process. I would have shared out of a place of vengeance.

I’m glad I had a little extra space to reconsider going public because, for me, it was not the right choice to make at the time.

Since I’ve been offline for most of the last two years, I guess I forgot how ruthless the voices on social media are…myself included. In the last month, since I shared my story online (without identifying my abuser), I’ve clicked on enough hashtags and read enough fodder to lose a little bit of faith in the world (and in myself).

Don’t mishear: there are some pretty awful people who have done some pretty awful things. Many well-respected men and women, especially within the SBC, have had their skeletons come out and be displayed for all the world to see.

In the court of public opinion, most are starting to pay a hefty price for their sins and for their crimes. I want to reiterate that the people who commit these horrid acts–and the ones who cover them up–are ultimately responsible for whatever consequences come their way.

But in all of this, there is something I just can’t get my spirit to shake off:

This court of public opinion–social media, newspapers, blogs–is not and should not be the final destination of justice. However, it seems as if most of us treat it as the highest court of all, damning those who have lied, cheated, stolen, raped, abused, and covered up to a man-made hell of Twitter firestorms, petty insults, unnecessary commentary, and misplaced desires to have the final word.

I understand as survivors of abuse we feel like we have no voice and now we can say whatever we want, when we want, to whomever we want. There is power in rediscovering our voice.

We cannot neglect our responsibility to be like Christ and we cannot evade the call to exercise wisdom with how we discuss these things, especially in public forums.

Justice and grace are not mutually exclusive.

Does the man who abused me, who stole so much of my life from me as a sixteen-year-old and over the last 22 years deserve the justice coming his way? Yes.

Does he deserve grace? No.

But here’s the thing: I don’t deserve that grace either.

I don’t write this in a self-deprecating manner.

I don’t intend to minimize what has happened to me or to the countless number of women and men, boys and girls, who have been abused in the worst possible ways, and in the name of Jesus.

The humbling reality we are faced with in this and in every part of our life is the very basic tenet of the Gospel: God so loved the world that He gave his only son to die for my sins, for your sins, and for the sins of the man who abused me.

This includes his sin of abusing me.

It is a grace none of us deserve but all of us can freely receive.

I’m afraid that the beauty of this grace is being buried alive by the permission we now have to speak freely. Life and death are in the power of the tongue, and in our attempt to bring the light into darkness, we are inadvertently suffocating out the Life the world needs to survive.

As we enter into this new climate of finding freedom from abuse that happened to us, let us not use this freedom as an opportunity to cause harm to others in the name of seeking justice.

Let us recognize the same God who sought us out and asked us, “Where are you?” seeks out all of us, even the criminals hanging on the cross.

When reconciliation plays out here on earth, may we remember the love of God that has reconciled us is also available to those who have hurt us.

May we give thanks that all of our brokenness is healed through the same holy man on the same holy cross. This man is near to us when we are brokenhearted and he is near to those who have hurt us when they are brokenhearted. He grieves for us when we are far from Him and he grieves for the world when they are far from him.

As justice begins to shine like the noon-day sun, may our hearts also shine with hope and grace for ourselves, for others, and for the world to come.

Lord Jesus Christ, son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

Dear Dr. Ford:

As you look Brett Kavanaugh in the eyes on Thursday, I’m thinking of you.

I’m a stranger to you, so it may not matter, but I’m proud of you for coming forward in such a high-stakes and public way. The entire country, maybe the entire world, is watching the hearing on Thursday where you and Mr. Kavanaugh will be testifying.

Credit: Democracy Now

You’ve opened up to the most intimate part of your life, released a weight you’ve carried for almost forty years, and in that vulnerability, there is no doubt in my mind you’ve been wounded. I’m not on social media much these days and in my limited reading, I’ve seen the polar and bitter opposites debating your truth, damning your courage, and pruning your life to pieces bit-by-bit, as you were a wounded animal on the side of the road and strangers on social media or in the news are vultures preying on you, shredding you to pieces until all that remains is dry bones.

Dr. Ford, I believe you. And my heart is with you.

Earlier this year, I reported the man who sexually assaulted me to police and a couple of months later, he was arrested and charged with three felonies. He was not a candidate for the United States Supreme Court, but in his own pond, he was a big fish. He is a conservative family man who was well respected in evangelical circles and who had a position of power and authority.

The story made it on the news in a few places, and when it hit TV news in the town where he was a pastor for a really long time, people were shocked. The emails I received that I must be lying because everyone who knew his character knew he could not have committed the crimes he did, sexually assaulting and abusing a sixteen-year-old girl when he was a 25-year-old seminary student and youth pastor. And it happened over the course of several months. If I continued going back to him, why should he be punished for it? Clearly, I was consenting. And of course, why bring it up now, after all these years. I’m exhausted from explaining the answer as I’m sure you are too.

When my story was published as front-page news in a Star-Telegram, I read the man who assaulted me is maintaining his innocence. His lawyer’s comment, “Mark is innocent and this case will be tried in court” sucked the air out of my lungs then, just as it does now as I type it.

It is likely I will have to sit in a court and only a few attorneys away, my abuser will be sitting. He will watch me walk up to the stand and I’ll have to sit in a wooden box with a judge on my right and tell every horrific detail of my abuse to both strangers and the public, all while he is sitting there, fully aware that the light in my truth will bring the darkness of his lies out. Fully aware that this is his reckoning. That the road of his denial over the last 22 years, whether direct or omitted, ends.

While TV and movie courts typically elevate the freedom and justice of a survivor speaking his or her truth, what is left out is the panic-ridden moments that fuel each and every day, stealing life and joy. We play the reel of our court hearings in our minds days, months, even years before they happen. The Hollywood dramas don’t show we feel like we’re going crazy and that every ounce of denial from the person who preyed on us hammers only more shame and guilt and loss deeper and deeper into our cores.

When I learned I will have to sit in a courtroom with the man who sexually assaulted me 22 years ago, and who has denied it ever since, 99% of my will wanted to go back to the detective who worked so fiercely and yet so kindly on my case and tell him I can’t do it. Not because I made it up, but because I am not strong enough to face my abuser. His lies hold a power over me that is pure, unadulterated terror. I don’t even know why.

But you see, and I know you understand, there is this 1%. And this 1% is so violently stronger than then 99% that feels all-consuming. The 1% for me is my daughter and every other little girl, whether she is two-years-old like mine or 91 years old like my grandma, but every – little – girl needs a voice to go before hers.

• A voice that says I don’t care who you think you are, you have done something evil and you have not yet paid the consequences for it, let alone admitted to it.
• A voice that says I am worth fighting for and the pain and joy and loss your actions caused in my life deserve to be heard and justified.
• A voice that says, yes, I’m sorry that many people have been hurt in the wake of this truth coming to light, but you know as much as the next guy that the truth does set you free. Why you didn’t believe this for yourself is on you, and not on me.

Dr. Ford, you have been on my mind and heart since you were first asked to testify in this hearing. When you first said “not yet” I fully understood. When they asked you to do it so soon, my heart raced in fear for what you must be feeling. And when you said yes, my gratitude for your bravery left me speechless.

I know you carry the weight of what this man did to you even now. I know you feel sadness for his family and his friends and the people who feel so completely deceived by him. I carry that weight too, and it is not easy.

But thank you, Dr. Ford. Thank you for going first in this situation where the man who assaulted you completely maintains his innocence. It is a lion’s den not many can say they are thrown into, and yet you willingly jumped in.

When my time comes, I will be carrying the strength you have given us all with me as I look the man who assaulted me into his eyes and speak the truth, one more time, in one more step to freedom.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: I have received emails about this asking me to defend why I think Dr. Ford is not making this up or to remove this since Kavanaugh was confirmed. The people reading this who wrote those emails do not understand the point of this post.

This is not an op-ed on Dr. Ford; it is a thank you note. We share the same situation: she claims someone assaulted her and he maintains his innocence. I claim someone assaulted me and that man also maintains his innocence.

If all you get from this blog entry is the fact it’s up in spite of his confirmation, you’re missing the point. I’ll be selfish here. This post is about my fear that is brought about by the Kavanaugh hearing. So don’t email me your political thoughts. I immediately delete those emails and I don’t read them. Thank you.]

It has been over four months since Mark Aderholt, the man who sexually abused me in 1996 and 1997, when I was 16 years old, was arrested and charged with three felonies: two counts of Indecency with a Child–Sexual Contact and one count of Sexual Assault of a Child under the age of 17.

This arrest made headlines because the Southern Baptist Convention’s mission arm, the International Mission Board, knew about the abuse, found it to be credible after an internal investigation in 2007, and did not report it to authorities or within the SBC, citing they could potentially face legal issues if they had let Aderholt’s future employers know that he sexually abused a teenager when he was a student at Southwestern Baptist Theological Seminary. That’s why he was able to get a job pastoring in an SBC church two months after he resigned from the IMB, and climbed the ranks into a state convention executive position.

Even after his arrest, the IMB held defensive ground until their then-president, David Platt, returned from remote Africa and found out about the “extremely disturbing” situation. He and Dr. Russell Moore, president of the SBC’s Ethics and Religious Liberties Commission (ERLC), called to apologize and asked what I wanted them to do. I said I wanted them to open up my case and others to make sure any sexual abuse or misconduct that was criminal was reported to authorities and to make sure there were no other victims during Aderholt’s tenure overseas. Platt went over his public statement to make sure it addressed everything I wished and that night, released it. The following day, SBC president J.D. Greear, who was also aware of the incident, announced the SBC was launching a sexual abuse study group which was funded $250,000 in September.

I wanted to issue this update to address questions I’ve received since all this happened.

• Mr. Aderholt will be facing the Tarrant County grand jury very soon–within the next few weeks from what I understand. I am meeting with the ADA and prosecutor for this case this week. If he is indicted, he will have the chance to enter his plea (guilty/not guilty/etc.)
• I emailed the IMB to get an update and received a reply from the current interim president, Clyde Meador. Mr. Meador was aware of my abuse in 2007 and was one of the people I spoke to from the IMB about it back then. He said I should expect to hear from the third party investigators (I do not know who this group is) in fall. I have yet to hear from them.
• I have not been contacted by anybody in the SBC about the sexual abuse study group and from what I have been able to see in my brief glances on social media, it appears relatively obscure as far as any actionable details.
• There have been a few public panels put on by the ERLC and other SBC entities, but unfortunately, I have not seen any true action taking place that is any different than before.
• I do not see anything new that helps prevent abuse, that is looking into past credible abuse, or that is offering support to known survivors of abuse within the SBC. At a minimum, I absolutely think there should be a fund to help survivors receive trauma-informed therapeutic help.
• I’ve decided I need to do what I can to help other survivors. I’m writing and self-publishing a book called Healing Together: A Guide for Helping Sexual Abuse Survivors that will be out as soon as I can get it done. I am hoping by the end of the year at the latest. Following me on social media is probably the best way to find out about it if you’re interested. (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram)

It may appear the SBC has a mountain of a task to climb and in many ways it does; that’s what happens when you allow crime and sin to dirty up under your rugs for so long.

At the same time, it’s really not that difficult.

How? They could be in contact with survivors to by writing a short email or a dialing up a quick phone call. Any words of, “How are you? How can we pray? How is your family?” from the powers-that-be who have made promises to reconcile these wounds would actually make a huge difference, at least to me.

I have communicated my personal wishes and clearly stated that hearing nothing from the SBC would be painful. In a majority of the places where I stated this, those requests have gone unanswered. And as I predicted, the silence is painful. They know and yet they do not act.

I was hopeful this summer when these big statements were made. That hope, however, has been tempered by silence and relative inaction. In my case, instead of closing the gap of mistrust caused by the SBC, it continues to widen…maybe a bit more slowly now, but the stitches are being torn apart and the wound is still raw and open.

Lest you think I’m sitting in a puddle of tears, not all is in despair: I am most encouraged and supported by local authorities and law and order. Constant contact, support, sincere inquiries into wellbeing, victim support services, face-to-face meetings, “we want to make this right for you and here is how we are doing it,” and people keeping promises make the criminal side of this ordeal a bit more bearable. Also, a HUGE amount of support from online–other survivors, pastors I don’t know, and people I have met along the way–has also been a great source of encouragement.

Nursing school is going well and we are excited to be in our new home for the holidays, ending what seems to be a constant stream of moving and rentals. Charlotte is 2 1/2 and it’s a fun and crazy age that has us laughing and crying and sometimes visits to urgent care for big bumps on heads. Tim’s work has been incredibly supportive in giving him time off to even financially assisting with some medical bills. Even a VPs Tim’s company of 10K+ employees pulled me aside once to ask how this case is going and how we are doing—he saw it in the local paper here. I was amazed he put the awkwardness away and asked, “how are you?” and it spoke life into my heart.

That’s all I have for now. Don’t give up asking for what is owed. Don’t hesitate to report your abuse. Ask for help. And don’t give up hope, but at the same time, learn not to expect it from the places you think it should come from, like the church.

That’s what I’m learning (again) anyway.

[edit: Need to add this to my post: there are 2 leaders who’ve been constant & supportive of me in this situation: Ed Stetzer and Dr. Russell Moore. I understand many people have many different feelings about lots of issues surrounding them, but they have both been very supportive. Worth noting. I also know they hosted 2 of the panels I have mentioned that I’m happy for, but don’t think they (the panels) do much. However, I want to give credit where credit is due and we have been grateful for their prayers and support on many occasion.]

As we get closer to the release of Healing Together: A Guide for Helping Sexual Abuse Survivors, I thought I’d share some practical steps I’ve found to be helpful as I’ve spent the last year and a half healing through the revival of complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD) that bulldozed me after reporting my childhood clergy sexual abuse (you can read my story here, here, here, and here, and my victim impact statement I read to Mark Aderholt, the man who abused me, at his sentencing just a couple of months ago.

Trauma affects us in every way: physically, mentally, spiritually, emotionally, and relationally. Over the next few days, I’ll be posting some practical steps survivors can take to help begin healing in every area of life.

Why Healing Is Overwhelming

I’ve broken these down into those five areas, and I’m intentionally labeling them each as individual “selves,” i.e, physical self, emotional self, etcetera. Yes, trauma damages a person holistically, in every system, but so frequently survivors, as a subconscious survival mechanism, disassociate and compartmentalize these various parts of who we are. Part of recovery is integrating them back together.

If we’re not in touch with our whole “self” yet, trying to heal a little in every area all at once can get messy and confusing and we can feel defeated. Have you ever woke up on a particularly motivated day and thought, “Alright. This is it. I’m going to do it. I’m going to do it all and do it now. I’m tired of being tired all the time.”

Maybe you started eating healthy, made that counseling appointment, signed up for that book club and to run that 5k. You told your boss you can work more hours, you bought a planner, made a vision board, and reorganized your pantry.

We try to do all these things at once so we can feel like our pre-trauma selves. But, let’s say your mental health isn’t doing so great so as you take on all these engaging tasks, your mind gets exhausted and overwhelmed. It’s a quick way to burn out (and when I burn out, it’s easy to ruminate on what a failure I perceive myself to be).

I think the key is going slow, evaluate what areas we’re most affected in, affirming that it’s okay to be exactly where you are, and use our strengths as we take one. step. at. a. time. This will help us strengthen our weaker selves so we have the margin to continue healing and functioning in everyday life.

Today, we’re going to talk about our physical self.

In Healing Together, I write:

The body of a survivor suffers great harm. It was the body that was violated first. In any case, another person took what God created for his good and his glory and tarnished it with evil. God does not hold the survivor responsible for what happened to their body, and he sees him or her as pure. He grieves over the pain that was caused.

To survive the abuse physically and emotionally, survivors
often disassociate or disconnect from sensations in their bodies.
For survivors, being mindful and present in our bodies after
abuse has occurred is a difficult task and can cause anxiety.

Reconnecting with our bodies requires a lot of hard work, and
usually professional help.

Anne Marie Miller, Healing Together: A Guide for Supporting Sexual Abuse Survivors

Three things I have found tremendously helpful as I’ve tried to learn how to care for my physical self are:

• Drink water. All the time. Pee twenty times a day. This is so important for your blood pH and electrolyte balance. I don’t like water. Find a way that you can tolerate if you’re like me. Drink, drink, drink. If I fill up my to-go coffee thermos before bed and keep it on my bathroom counter, it reminds me to guzzle down a couple of cups of water first thing in the morning, and then I use the thermos for my coffee before heading out the door.
  
• Feed my gut nutritious food, and not feel like a failure when I eat the 682 calorie chocolate chip cookie at Panera.
  
  (I’m not going to lie to you, so let’s get the elephant out first. I LOVE COOKIES. I love them more than most things in my life. They are my biggest dopamine providers. Panera has an almost 700 calorie cookie that is meant to be shared. I have eaten two of them in one sitting. Obviously, I know this should not be the norm and thankfully, I intentionally do not go to Panera often because I know that I will regret my choices.)
  
  I try and live by the 80/20 rule. 80% of my food is whole food (as close to the original way it was made), is plant-based (I am 100% vegetarian meaning no fish, white meat, red meat, any meat), and is colorful. Eat every color of the rainbow in your food every day. Lately, I’ve been trying to find organic items that I can reasonably afford, and avoiding any built-in seasonings (extra preservatives and sodium) or extra ingredients (especially things with the word “isolate” in them). I find when I eat this way, I feel amazing and actually crave more nutritious food.
  
  Notice that I didn’t say “good” food or “bad” food here. Food does not have an intrinsic moral value. The key is eating nutritious food. It requires more time, more effort, more planning, more cooking, and I understand that all those things are hard to even want to do when everything else in our body is telling us to celebrate when we get out of bed and shower some days (which is also totally okay and you have permission to do).
  
  Here, I’ve found there is a paradoxical effect. The more time I take with grocery shopping, with reading the ingredients, with washing and prepping healthy things on Sunday evening (FWIW: that’s my worship service; you cannot immerse yourself in the colors and smells of God’s creation without being enamored. I am more grateful in my spirit when cutting up fresh cilantro than trying to “pray” the way I was taught growing up). I find I have more time during the week to eat, enjoy, have healthy options (less regret), and that gives me space to walk in my week knowing my family and I will be fed, and my physical self that needs healing is taking in food that is meant to flood my blood with vitamins and nutrients which heal damaged cells, keep my gut healthy and my immunity strong (usually not the case when we’re our system is producing extra of the stress hormone cortisol). I have more energy. I just feel better.

Some of the foods and beverages I’ve fallen in love with in this season are:

• multicolored carrots
• multicolored cauliflower
• radishes
• all the berries, apples, peaches, bananas (never go anywhere without a banana), cucumbers, sweet peppers, grapes (cotton candy grapes anybody?)
• strawberry Caprese salads (baby kale, strawberries, spinach, mozzarella cheese freshly torn, basil, tomatoes, loaded with flax and chia seeds and nuts with a little balsamic glaze on the side).
• oatmeal with fresh or baked fruit and loads of cinnamon
• columbian coffee with oat milk creamer
• using veggie or lentil pasta (green lentil is the best) and mashed up chickpeas for the “meat” vibe in spaghetti sauce
• mixed, whole grain rice stir-fried with whatever veggies I have chopped up, and baked tofu (it’s not gross, I promise)
• heaps of fresh fruit and vegetables cut up and ready to eat in the fridge and on the counter
• steamable plain veggies: super cheap, super easy, super good for you
• one of my easiest go-to meals is microwaved brown rice topped with microwaved broccoli with whatever beans and sometimes microwaved sweet potato chunks. 10 minutes or so, $4-$5, and gives us at least 3-5 servings.
• 92% dark chocolate in the freezer
• mashed avocado with hard-boiled egg (I recommend these if you occasionally eat egg since they’re more humane than most) on whole-grain toast (bonus if you can find one with seeds. My favorite is a Texas brand
• Kombucha and other teas
• Some of my 20% foods are Kashi’s Go Love chocolate granola, Morning Star Popcorn “chicken,” various meat-free pizzas (Amy’s cheese or one with a cauliflower crust), pad Thai with vegan Thai sauce, and quesadillas (made with whole wheat tortillas, vegetarian black refried beans, a teeny tiny sprinkle of cheese, microwaved and then grilled in a pan, topped with corn, sliced sweet peppers, guac, and plain almond milk yogurt in lieu of sour cream).

• One other physical practice I’ve been slowly integrating is moving more. I don’t want to call it “exercise” because “exercise” conjures up pictures of gyms and people running outside and sweating and I am not that girl. I have tried to be that girl. I am not that girl.
  
  Introverted me who is extremely uncomfortable exercising in front of people (a trait common amongst sexual abuse survivors) found that intentionally waking up early before my family (all the experts are right: the more you do it, the more you want to), doing yoga all by myself and watching the sun rise is immensely therapeutic. Yes, that means sometimes I’m awake at 5:15 am but it has been worth it. Amazon Prime, as well as YouTube, have free yoga programs from beginner all the way to expert and some integrate HIIT training and others are gentle and modified for people with injuries. You can always do yoga later, or some days not at all. At night, after our daughter is in bed, I take the dogs out for 20-30 minutes walking around in the quiet evening (pepper spray in hand because of hypervigilance).
  
  I try to do both of these things at least five times a week. I find I want to do them more. It’s the weirdest thing. Also, some days my body or mind says I need to get more rest, maybe not wake up early at all, forego the official “work out” and I’m learning to respect what I need for each day without judgment.
  
  I’ve had to remind myself none of this is meant for weight loss. It’s not a way to drop a dress size before your cousin’s wedding or the holidays. If I look at it as taking very small steps to take care of me, the pressure is off. Go at your own pace. Do what’s reasonable for you. Eat 50/50. Eat a vegetable. Walk once a week. Run a marathon. Do whatever is right for you at this moment and don’t take on someone else’s journey as your own.

Unexpected Gifts

What’s surprised me with doing this over the last few months is how much I have slowed down and take time to find beauty around me. I have been awed by little flowers, immersed in the flavor of a blackberry, felt the tingle in my mouth from a kombucha, melted in a hot cup of perfectly balanced creamy coffee, saved frogs and lizards from their demise as potential dog treats on walks, and learned about what stars are shining bright on my walks.

I hope somehow these ideas that I’ve adopted into my daily habits can somehow be helpful to you. Everyone is different. Everyone needs different things. Let this list be a starting point for you. Maybe it can give you some ideas to adopt in a way that is right for your healing.

Find something your body needs, give your body that thing and celebrate that you are becoming healthier with each cucumber, each attempt at downward-facing dog, or drinking that extra cup of water today.

As my counselor says: You got this.

Next up is Part 2: Mental Health.