Hear Me: Justice and Mercy

The desert and the parched land will be glad; the wilderness will rejoice and blossom. Like the crocus, it will burst into bloom; it will rejoice greatly and shout for joy.The glory of Lebanon will be given to it, the splendor of Carmel and Sharon; they will see the glory of the Lord, the splendor of our God.Strengthen the feeble hands, steady the knees that give way; say to those with fearful hearts, “Be strong, do not fear; your God will come, he will come with vengeance; with divine retribution he will come to save you.” [Isaiah 35:1-4]

Isaiah 35 has been one of my favorite chapters in the Bible since I was in high school. I have always liked the visual narrative. Life after rain. Joy after victory. Be strong my child, do not fear—your God will come. He will come justly. Don’t fear, He has heard your cry. And He will save you. 

Rereading over these verses are a much needed balm to my soul. Because lately, I haven’t felt heard. And that makes me feel so empty and sometimes even angry. Which is not a great place for a mom of two to be. When I first started writing this post, I wanted to focus on verses in the Bible that talked about being heard. There was quite the selection, but the one that stood out to me the most was the story of Hagar in Genesis 21. Truthfully, I have never really thought much about her story. She was always a “background” character. But this time I actually paid attention to the details tucked away in the background. 

When the water in the skin was gone, she put the boy under one of the bushes. 

Then she went off and sat down about a bowshot away, for she thought, “I cannot 

watch the boy die.” And as she sat there, she began to sob. [Genesis 21:15-16]

She sat down and cried. And not just any kind of cry, but gut-wrenching sobbing—I think mothers in particular understand this kind of emotion. It is the kind of cry where our hearts are breaking and there is nothing more that we can do to fix our situation. When you stop and think about it, all the major life changes that happened to Hagar were completely out of her control. She was Sarah’s Egyptian maidservant. She was expected to obey, even when the things asked of her went outside her duties as a maidservant. Both Sarah and Abraham knew about God’s promise for them to have a son. But they hadn’t really listened to what He had said. They were looking at all the ways that promise was sure to fail. Which is why Hagar became the mother of Ishmael, because Sarah was desperate for a son.  Ishmael was 14 years old by the time Sarah gave birth to Isaac. And by the time Sarah weaned Isaac, Hagar and Ishmael had worn out their welcome. And Sarah wanted them gone. Abraham obliged his wife and sent Hagar and Ishmael away into the wilderness . . . to die. 

Which is why we find Hagar crying in the wilderness. She was lost, in the dry and windy land. And completely alone. Abraham had cast them aside and everything that had been a part of their lives had been ripped away. The provisions that Abraham had sent with them had been used up and Hagar was forced to face the reality that she could not provide for her son. 

That hit me hard. Because failure is a feeling that us mothers feel a lot. And it doesn’t matter if it isn’t true or not, because it feels true in the moment. Hagar was sent on a journey that she didn’t ask to be a part of. And I relate to that, because I didn’t sign up for this particular journey either. It was thrust upon my family. And I’m not talking about the pandemic and how it has altered our lives. No, this particular storm was building around us long before COVID-19 was on our radar. And it hit with a sabotaging blow, one minute we were part of the family, the next, we were cast into the wilderness. No mercy, no justice. 

This is what I have realized, all of us have felt as Hagar did . . . lost and without hope. We’ve needed a compass to navigate the wilderness that we have found ourselves in. We’ve needed Jesus. We've needed His mercy and His justice. And while that might seem like a no brainer to some, when you are in the midst of the valley of despair, it is difficult to remember that He is there beside you. Especially when those claiming to be his disciples treat you and your situation indifferently. Forcing you from the fold with their words and actions. 

I have spent so much of this journey angry and in tears. Pushed aside by the leaders of our church and constantly reminded that I am to blame for what happened to my daughter. I feel unheard. I feel lost. I feel alone. I find myself staring out at the desert. The ground is parched and I am weary. Must I do more Lord? 

I see your anguish 

I know now what it means to not have justice

It means that the wound never fully heals 

That sorrow and anguish combine

That outsiders will never really understand

Not until they stand in your shoes

And feel your grief

Mama, I see you

I feel your grief

Your anger

You are not alone in this walk

I’m here too

Writing is a salve to my wounds. I must write. This post centers around my daughter, my precious little girl, who has had so much taken from her. But it also encompasses the darker side of our church and how ill-equipped it is to handle these kinds of situations. And it all began with a tantrum. 

There is no rage like that of a four year old who is mad at mama. It was justified. She had cleaned her room, in all of thirty seconds, and it was exactly how she wanted it. No help needed. Except that I helped her tidy up. I sat on her bed and cuddled her while she cried. I listened to her as she explained that everything was how she wanted it—even though it was impossible to reach her closet, her art table, or her stuffed animal cupboard. The mess from the week made the room unrestful. Her room was no longer a safe haven, but a cluttered chaotic mess. 

We need our safe havens. Especially now when so much of our normal has been disrupted. My daughter and I are both Highly Sensitive Persons (HSP/HSC). Clutter is a big deal. As are crowds, sudden noises, bright lights, big emotions, and being left out. Ever since our daughter was a baby, we have tried to make our family and friends aware of her sensitivities. We encourage dialog and talk with her through those feelings. We help her to feel heard.

To my beautiful daughter, little sweet-pea, Mama sees you.

I see your strengths

I see your laughter

I see your creativity 

I see your love

I see your tears 

I feel your anguish

Little girlie, please let me hold you. 

The ground is hard. The glare from the sun reminds me of my thirst. The journey has been difficult. The heartache, unbearable. I look towards Hagar and see her anguish. What is left but to give up? Neither of us are able to protect our children from the harshness of the environment around us. Is God even here? Has He heard our cries of anguish? Will He rescue us? Does mercy and justice even exist?

But God heard the boy crying, and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven, 

“Hagar, what’s wrong? Do not be afraid! God has heard the boy crying as he lies there. 

Go to him and comfort him, for I will make a great nation from his descendants.” [Genesis 21:17-18, NLT]

Comfort him. And I will take care of the rest. Love, God.

Comfort him. That’s it. Strong mama, comfort your child for I (God) will take care of the rest. You see, when our world was rocked to its core at the end of January, I forgot to let God do the fighting. I tried to do it all, without His help. Sit back God, I've got this. After all, I had connections inside the church, I was sure that justice would happen in a matter of weeks.  And I had no idea what I was up against. The church wasn't interested in justice or mercy. They were in damage control mode—which is the equivalent of ramming a steamroller through a boulder in attempts to make smooth pavement. Not very practical, very dangerous, and incredibly damaging to those in its path. I was hit by that steamroller. Broken and spiritually wounded, God found me. Not that He had ever lost sight of me, but I had lost sight of Him.

When I look at Hagar and her story, I see myself. I relate to her struggles in the wilderness and have found a kindred spirit in how those in authority treated her. Though she didn’t know it at the time, she was the mother of a great warrior. And while I don’t know if my daughter will be a fighter of justice and mercy, I do want her to know that I have fought hard for her. Even when the majority of those around me have encouraged me to stop. Giving up hasn't ever been an option. 

You see, I live in a very tight knit Christian community. Everyone knows everyone. They’ve got connections and know all the “right” people. This is where I grew up. It is where I went to school. It is where I returned after college. It is where I met my husband and where we put down our roots. In some ways, it makes our situation a whole lot harder, because instead of going up against complete strangers, we are having to stand up to the saints in our church. And not a lot of people want to ruffle those feathers. But those are the feathers that need to be ruffled. 

Our story is long and it touches on a topic that is difficult to talk about, let alone write about. No mother wants her daughter to be a part of the #MeToo movement. I certainly didn’t, but it wasn’t up to me to decide that. My daughter is five. She loves Paw Patrol, Blippi, tractors, and the color purple. She has a smile that lights up the room and has so much energy. She loves spending time with her favorite people, especially her besties. But all of those wonderful things about my daughter didn’t spare her from being sexually assaulted at school. She was four.

And just like that, our world changed.

Except that I didn’t know that it had. Because I wasn’t listening when she needed me to. 

She tried to tell me with great big emotions. 

She tried to tell us by freaking out when Papa left for work.

She tried to tell me by using the unkind words that the boys had yelled at her.

She tried to tell us by lashing out verbally and physically. 

But we weren’t listening to what she was saying. We reacted to what we saw as negative behavior. We never thought to question that something was wrong at school. All her daily preschool reports were positive. She never told any of the teachers at school about the abuse. She didn’t fight back against her attackers because she wanted prize box and you don’t get prize box if you scream or hit other students. But under the surface, she was barely holding it together. 

And it breaks my heart every single time that I think about it. I wish that I could go back to December. I wish that instead of punishing my daughter for her erratic behavior, that I had pulled her aside and talked to her about why she no longer wanted to go to school. Why it was that she didn’t want her papa to go to work in the morning. Who it was that started calling her those unkind names at school. Oh how I wish that I had been present that month, instead of wrapped up in church projects and other “important” responsibilities. Preoccupied, I shoved my daughter aside, unaware that she had been violated. The guilt that I have been carrying is slowly suffocating me.

But, in the midst of the anguish and guilt, I am thankful. I am so thankful that my daughter’s little besties had the courage to tell their mama that something bad had happened to them at school. And that their mama, Sara*, confided in me, so that I knew to ask. We have been on this journey together for months. It has been a long, gut-wrenching journey, and we still haven’t gotten justice for our girls. We might never get justice for our girls. But we are determined that there will be change. Even if we have to contact every single parent at that school and tell them what happened. Change is going to take place. Because doing nothing is unacceptable.

 

Unfortunately, not doing enough was considered acceptable by the school and church leadership. It has been over eight months since Sara and I first learned what happened to our girls. And so much has and hasn’t happened. So many roadblocks. So many tears have been cried. I can't even put into words the hurt that we have experienced these past eight months as we pushed for change. And try as I might, I can’t write the following without the pain, anger, and disappointment showing. So be forewarned, the paragraphs that follow were just as difficult to write as they are to read.

 

With the gut wrenching knowledge that our girls had been violated, Sara and I sprung into action. We reported what our girls had told us not only to the school, but also to Child Protective Services and the Police. From there the school started it’s own investigation into the matter, but as the weeks passed, it became abundantly clear that no one really believed our daughters. Nor did they know how to handle two separate cases of child on child sexual abuse. It was overwhelming. And probably incredibly daunting. But our girls gave them detailed information. It would be messy, but if they took the time and looked beyond damage control, the truth would be found.  At the time, I assumed that the church cared about our children. I operated under the assumption that there were protocols in place to handle incidents of child on child sexual abuse. And that the leaders in our church would be committed to following those protocols. But I was wrong. There might have been protocols in place, but those were not the priorities that took over the integrity of the investigation.

 

The first priority was to establish if the assaults took place, through the use of hallways video surveillance. While simultaneously ignoring all other evidence, including the testimonies from our daughters’. The second priority was to protect the boys and their families from these “false” accusations. (We assume that had more to do with who the parents were and how influential they were within our community.) And the third priority was to protect the reputation of the church, even if that meant abandoning the victims and their families. Our daughters were not the priority. And as the weeks went by, we learned that they had never been the priority.

 

By the end of the second week, doors had begun to close in rapid succession. With every phone call I made, I was repeatedly told that before anything could be done, video evidence had to be found—they needed real facts first. And I could tell that those telling me this, believed every word that they said. The problem was that they were wrong. They didn’t need video footage to address two separate incidents of sexual abuse and bullying. But by believing that it was necessary, they created an escape. For if no footage was ever found (due to accidental deletion or refusal to "see" the evidence), nothing had to be done. The school and the church could essentially walk away. 

By week three, Sara and I were barely holding it together. I tried my best to be the support that Sara needed. She didn’t have anyone else. And she was new to Christianity. Attending church was equally difficult, but I continued to slog through my responsibilities. Hoping that someone would notice the great burden that I carried and would join me in the trenches. But few knew the extent of what had happened and I was far too emotionally exhausted to confide in those around me. 

No video evidence was ever "found", which meant no action was required by the school. It took four weeks for the school to accomplish nothing. Those weeks dragged by. Schedules had been disrupted and our girls had been traumatized. During those four difficult weeks, Sara and I un-enrolled our daughters from the school, we took our daughters to see their pediatricians, we talked with friends and acquaintances who either were or had been social workers, teachers, superintendents, counselors, or principals. And we learned through various bits and pieces from those familiar with these kinds of situations that the school and the church had not handled things well. Which made us feel even more emotionally exhausted and overwhelmed.

 

But what I longed for the most was to feel heard. The people who needed to listen, were not paying attention to what had been said. There was no accountability. No due diligence. Instead we were told: “Our thoughts and prayers are with you in this difficult time.” I absolutely hate that phrase, because it gives a false sense of accomplishment, as if by saying it, we are actually doing something helpful for the person in need of our well wishes and prayers. Thinking about someone is not the same as doing your best to make sure they’re okay. Sara and I were not okay.

 

We needed the support of those from within the school. We needed the support from our community. We needed to know that no matter the outcome, we would not be abandoned. But we were abandoned. 

Over the course of the next five months, I spent hours on the phone: I called the Superintendent of Education multiple times. I met with our pastor. I reached out to others via email who held offices within our church leadership. And while most of them sympathized with our plight, no one was willing to push for the school to talk to the boys responsible for the bullying and assaults, let alone inform their parents about the questionable behavior of their sons. Even now, almost 9 months later, those parents are still in the dark. Which, if you think about it, is unacceptable. Those boys are likely victims of some form of abuse. They are much too young to be interested in sex and are likely being groomed by an adult or older peer to believe that being touched in such a way is normal. These kids are 6-8 year olds. As a parent, wouldn't you want to know that your son was touching girls inappropriately at school? I would, I would want to know the minute it happened. I would also want to know who told them that it was acceptable and why they thought it would be fun to try. A lot of people don't get why I keep fighting for change, after all, my daughter is safe. They don't seem to grasp that the kids that did this to her are not. 

Mid March brought about nation-wide shutdowns as our states scrambled to slow down the spread of covid-19. The only silver lining to the chaos that ensued, was knowing that all schools, whether public or private, were shut down for at least two weeks. Which meant that those boys couldn’t be at school either. Of course, those two weeks turned into over five months. I know that for many, the closure of the schools and businesses brought about hardships for families. It made the remainder of the school year difficult and was tough on our kids. But seeing this particular school shut down was a relief to both Sara and I. Not that we held a grudge against the teachers, but since the behavior was never dealt with, it was only a matter of time before another child was traumatized by these boys. 

As spring turned to summer, I continued my efforts to reach out to those within our church who held positions of power. At this point, I could not stop, not with what was at stake. The more I reached out, the less heard I felt, and the more blame I received. Even after one particularly scathing letter, where I was bullied for even thinking of questioning church leadership, I still could not stop fighting for what was right. And believe me, that letter did some irreversible damage to my emotional and spiritual health. After that letter, I wanted to stop fighting, I wanted to throw in the towel and tell God that I had had enough and to give this particular burden to someone else. I had obviously failed to make any headway, what was the use of continuing to fight for mercy and justice? How could I make a difference?

When I want to give up, I remember that even though Jesus knew that He would be crucified by the very people that He sought to help. He didn't give up, He was determined to give them a glimpse of what His kingdom would be like. Even though He knew that these same people would later hurt Him, Jesus still gave them His mercy—He showed compassion and gave us examples of how mercy and justice work together. 

In the book of Luke, Jesus told his disciples a parable about a widow and an unjust judge. That widow was determined. She was going to get justice from her adversary. And that judge was going to listen, whether he wanted to or not. We find the story here:

Then Jesus told his disciples a parable to show them that they should always pray and not give up. He said: “In a certain town there was a judge who neither feared God nor cared what people thought. And there was a widow in that town who kept coming to him with the plea, ‘Grant me justice against my adversary.’“For some time he refused. But finally he said to himself, ‘Even though I don’t fear God or care what people think, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will see that she gets justice, so that she won’t eventually come and attack me!’”And the Lord said, “Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God bring about justice for his chosen ones, who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off? I tell you, he will see that they get justice, and quickly. However, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on the earth?” [Luke 18:1-8]

I want to be like that woman. I want to have the courage to keep fighting, even when no one will listen and my church has turned against me. I want to be brave enough to keep fighting, even when the silence from those around me is deafening. I want to seek justice, even when I know that the system is broken. 

That is why eight months later I am still talking about this. That is why I feel sick when I learn that my daughter’s former school is now at max capacity and nothing has been done to protect our children from the abuse within. That is why I’m writing. I want change. I want someone within our church to stand up and take accountability for what has happened. I want someone within the political confines of our local churches to step up and push against the complacency that has engulfed our church leaders when confronted with child on child abuse. These leaders are not following the teachings of Jesus. Nor do they value our children.

 

I think that the underlying problem in our society, especially the Christian side, is that we have taught ourselves that the best course of action when we see injustice is to not speak up. Because if nothing is "wrong", then we don't have to stand up for anything. And if we don't have to stand up, we can continue to sit and be comfortable. But I believe that we can all agree that sitting and doing nothing is not the right course of action. 

So mama’s seeking justice for their children. 

I see you

We are in this together

Our paths are different

But together we will fight

For our children

For their lives

For change

For this to never happen again. 

___

*Not her real name