Statue of an Athlete from Hadrian’s Villa (160 AD), Source British Museum, Author Carole Raddato of Frankfurt, Germany (CC BY-SA 2.0 Generic)
I might with the words of angels be able to reconstruct the landscape of my childhood; portray in all their complexity the most important people in my life, laying bare their hidden motives. Instead, I am left to grasp at straws, and wonder how the paths we take are determined [1].
In the end, we walk by faith, trusting that Providence has a purpose for our lives.
“There were giants on the earth in those days, and also afterward, when the sons of God came in to the daughters of men and they bore children to them” (Gen. 6: 4).
There is a public space in the northeast corner of the Bronx known as Pelham Bay Park. Irregular in shape, the park nestles against the less affluent (some would say forgotten) end of Long Island Sound, covering more than 2700 acres.
Unlike most urban parks, Pelham Bay does not consist largely of pavement. The park offers locals both grassy vistas and wooded areas. As the result of recent civic improvements, Pelham Bay is today reasonably well groomed. Due to budgetary constraints, however, the park was for many years left by the City of New York to fend for itself.
Pelham Bay represented wilderness to me as a girl. In my young mind, the park was vast and uncharted, holding an irresistible appeal. My father and I would drive to the park, and walk in the woods there. Once I learned to bike without supervision, Pelham Bay Park — some five or six miles from our home — was within my own range.
It was, in fact, at Pelham Bay that my father taught me how to ride a bike. As with most children, that moment is etched indelibly in my mind. The event took place in the paved lot behind what my father called “The Giant.”
The Giant was just that, the stone figure of an athlete approximately eighteen feet tall, farther elevated above the nearby park grounds by a small concrete stadium. This vantage afforded the Giant and those moved to climb the full height of the stadium a bird’s-eye-view of the surrounding countryside and a feeling of great, if temporary, self-satisfaction.
Though fond of the view, I rarely experienced that feeling since my father was always insistent on climbing to the Giant not by way of the steps provided, but by the concrete risers comprising the stadium seats.
“Keep up, Annie,” he would call. But this route posed a formidable challenge to my much shorter legs, requiring complete concentration and leaving me breathless by the time I finally reached the top.
My father seemed a giant to me as a child. He would dominate dinner conversation; his personality, fill a room. He could do no wrong. Anxious to please him, I routinely made the ascent at Pelham Bay, but regularly experienced the effort as a failure on my part.
Not so with bike riding, at least not on that first day. For several weeks beforehand, I had ridden the blue, two-wheeler with training wheels in place. That was entirely different from balancing precariously on the bike without training wheels as my father pushed it across the rutted parking lot from behind.
Nor did training wheels prepare me for the exhilaration of suddenly riding the bike forward at full speed, under my own power. In that moment — the wind in my hair — freedom was mine. Endless hours of joyful, if often solitary, exploration followed.
My father was known around the neighborhood because of his own bike. Whatever the weather or the season, my father rode that bike — in later years, usually with my mother trailing along behind him on foot. Devoted to my father, she would knit him vests and earmuffs to wear; make sure he changed his shirt.
There would be many later bike rides during which I lagged as far behind my father as I did when we climbed the Giant together, and were many races lost to him. Though I regretted my “obvious” inadequacy, I never begrudged my father the gratification he clearly derived from those races.
The time spent with him was enough.
—
[1] This book is autobiographical in nature. It is intended not only for the victims of sexual abuse, but all those who have grappled with questions of meaning. Situations and events are described and recounted as accurately as possible from my own memory and available sources. The names of those involved have been omitted or changed in the interest of privacy.
Copyright © 2008 – Present Anna Waldherr. All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60247-890-9
FOR MORE OF MY ARTICLES ON POVERTY, POLITICS, AND MATTERS OF CONSCIENCE CHECK OUT MY BLOG A LAWYER’S PRAYERS AT: https://alawyersprayers.com
ANNA WALDHERR A Voice Reclaimed, Surviving Child Abuse 
Fond and precious memories, Anna! Blessings!
Yes, children who are molested by a parent still love that parent.
And that in itself is amazing, but understandable. Thank you for sharing as you do. Blessings!
Thank you for taking the trouble to comment, Bruce. Mine has been a very ordinary life. I can only hope there is something worthwhile here for readers.
Thank you very much for this report, dear Anna. LG Marie
This is simply the story of my life, Marie. I wish it could be more eloquent. But I’ve done the best I can. My hope is that readers will find the story engaging and informative, despite my flaws.
With love,
A. ❤
I have come to believe Anna, that most of us as children looked at our fathers as giants. I know I certainly did. I remember his strength and ability to make or fix just about anything. I guess you could say he was my hero. In a perfect world those images would remain forever, untarnished by human frailty. Looking forward to reading more!!
Thank you so much for reading, Ron. As you say, children believe their fathers can do anything. It helps them to feel safe in the world. Tragically, for children abused by the very parents or guardians who ought to protect them, there is no such safety.
That is so true my friend. No child should ever have to face abuse, and when it comes from a parent it is especially grievous. Such abuse comes in many different forms, but all of them serve to destroy what was meant to be a relationship built upon love and trust.
Almost invariably, the experience of abuse (whatever form it takes) impacts a child’s view of God.
“Almost invariably, the experience of abuse (whatever form it takes) impacts a child’s view of God.”
I believe that domestic violence between parents does it too.
That certainly qualifies.
Parents imprint good or bad marks on the clay…
And, only the CREATOR, with His atomic/quantum engineering celestial, will be able to give new meaning to it impression in mind/soul.
“The word which came to Jeremiah from the LORD, saying,
Arise, and go down to the potter’s house, and there I will cause thee to hear my words.
Then I went down to the potter’s house, and, behold, he wrought a work on the wheels.
And the vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the potter: so he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to the potter to make it.
Then the word of the LORD came to me, saying,
O house of Israel, cannot I do with you as this potter? saith the LORD. Behold, as the clay is in the potter’s hand, so are ye in mine hand, O house of Israel.”
Jeremiah 18:1-6
For the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God.
James 1:20
Yes, of course. The enemy will always ways make sure to remind us that if God really did love us, then these things would have never happened to us.
I am reminded of a time when I had a terrible event happen to me that so devastated me that I actually took my Bible, opened it to Roman’s 8:28, and literally screamed at God saying “how in the world can what has happened to me be for my good? I don’t believe it”.
Believe it or not, two years later that same event led me to a place of victory I could have never imagined. Most importantly, it would have never happened had I not been placed in the situation I was.
All that to say I don’t know anything other than to place my trust in Him to bring me up and out. Blessings to you my dear friend.
I do believe it, Ron. God is so much larger than our circumstances. His ways are higher than ours (Isa. 55: 8-9). But He never forsakes us. May He continue to keep His hand on your life, my friend.
Your honesty in the hopes of helping survivors of childhood abuse has my everlasting admiration, Anna. I grapple with the same dichotomies of parent-child dynamics to this day, the pain, the adoration, the desire to “earn” love and its betrayal. How grateful I am that our Lord found us, and in His love, has taken us up in His arms, from which nothing can separate us! True Father, true Brother, true Friend. “For His banner over me is Love.”
Yes, it is Christ who sustains us, Dora, whatever we may have endured. ❤
a captivating piece, Anna. Masterful.
Thank you, Marilee. You make me blush.
Good! 🙂
Anna, thank you for sharing your story. This resonates with me, “My father seemed a giant to me as a child. He would dominate dinner conversation; his personality, fill a room. He could do no wrong.” That describes how I felt about and viewed my dad. I tried to please my dad too and I felt like it was never possible–never good enough. I still feel that way when I talk with him.
God bless you.
You have a tender soul, Manette. There will always be those who seek dominance here on earth, even over the loved ones they should shelter and protect. But our Lord promises the first shall be last, and the last first (Matt. 20: 16). I believe that.