I grew up in a Christian family in a city in Middle America. We attended church every Sunday and in between. I had a dad, mom, and a brother (another one came along somewhat latter). We took family vacations, went to the amusement park for my birthday...typical American stuff. Except one thing which, I can only hope, is not so typical. I am an incest survivor. Thanks, dad.


I don't know when it started. Probably before I could even have memories. My mom told me how my dad would tie my hands to the sides of my crib, supposedly to keep me from sucking my thumb. I don't remember that, but I can't help but wonder what else might have been the reason.


I was fortunate, I guess. I was never raped, at least that I know of. It was just an insidious thing, sometimes made to look like special time with daddy. "Don't tell mommy," he'd say. "She wouldn't understand and she'd feel bad." Yeah..guess so. Did she guess; did she know? I think so, but she never did anything to protect me.


When I was older with children and grandchildren of my own and my dad had passed away years ago, we had a talk one day, my mom and I. She brought it up. She asked. And I said yes, it did happen. She asked why I never told her. Geez, mom. Don't play innocent with me. I'm sure you were in denial, but don't make it seem like I'm the one who should have let you know about this. I was a child, for goodness sake. So that conversation wasn't very productive.


So why do I blog about this? Because I know there are those out there who have gone through the same experience, more or less. And the only way I can find to make any good come from something bad in my life, is to let others know that someone understands, that someone has been there, too. Keeping silent only protects those who deserve no protection. Tell someone. Seek counseling. Let the healing begin. And most of all, know you are loved...by God...just as you are...His precious child.