Tag Archives: evil

“Storm on the Sea of Galilee” by Rembrandt (1633), stolen from Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum (1990) (PD)

“…I know you by name” (Ex. 33: 17).

If I had abandoned God, He had not abandoned me.

By His grace, the college I attended required theology classes among its core requirements.  I will never forget the professor who taught the majority of those classes.  Not only was I impressed by the faith of the biblical authors of whom he spoke, he at last took my questions about meaning seriously.

I still have one of the papers that professor graded.  On it he commented about my “religious irreligiosity.”  To my doubts about God, he responded:

“I hope that the uncertainty will be the gate to a richer level of life — but every horizon means death to the past, and that is hard.  Yet that is the price of growth.  You must trust in your own worth, and build from there.”

When I began to practice law, I became acutely aware of my limitations.  There was a church nearby one of the courthouses, and I would regularly stop in.  Sure that I had no right to ask, I would beg the Lord for courage, beseech Him to watch over my clients.  Praying for my clients became a habit.

Faith Restored

Still my faith wavered.  Then in 1999, a couple of evangelical friends suggested we have Sunday brunch following their church service.  I assumed the service would be harmless, so agreed.  My life has not been the same since.

The sermon was from the Book of Ruth, always a favorite of mine.  Ruth, a young widow, chooses not to abandon her, also, widowed mother-in-law.

Reduced to poverty, Ruth is permitted by a distant kinsman to gather the grain left in his fields.  He comes to love her.  It is from this story that we derive the beautiful lines:  “Wherever you go, I will go; and wherever you lodge, I will lodge.  Your people shall be my people; and your God, my God” (Ruth 1: 15-17).

It was one of the hymns that brought me to tears.  Entitled “He Knows My Name” the song went, in part:

“He knows my name.
He knows my every thought.
He sees each tear that falls,
And hears me when I call.

I have a Father.
He calls me His own.
He’ll never leave me,
No matter where I go.”

Suddenly, I was suffused in love; overwhelmed with the reality of Christ’s presence and the knowledge that He had been with me all the times I thought I had been forsaken and alone.  I felt cleansed and forgiven.

By the time the song ended, I was sobbing so hard I could not make it forward for the altar call.

We see God through the clouded lens of our experience.  Having been molested, I rejected what I saw as a harsh Father.  Life had distorted the lens.  But Christ from the cross said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they do” (Luke 23: 34).

Thankfully, I had the opportunity to forgive my father.

Storm

Initially, it was my mother we were concerned about.  In 1999, we were told by my mother’s internist that her condition was terminal.  My mother had developed mitral prolapse.  In light of the fact she was on blood thinners, surgery to replace the heart valve would not be possible.

For more than a year, we labored under that assumption, as my mother’s condition worsened.  My parents had lost the store when her heart first failed.

In trying to sort things out at the time, I dug through twenty years’ worth of Blue Cross records she had accumulated.  Paper was everywhere, except in the cabinet I have given her for that purpose.  In shoeboxes, under the couch, beneath seat cushions.  Evidence of her own scars.

When matters reached a head, I left my job in order spend time with Ma.  The doctor reversed himself.  Ma had a heart valve successfully installed.

I commuted for months from Pennsylvania to New York before, during, and after.  I spent hours on the turnpike weeping (having, also, ended a relationship with someone I loved at this time).

Somewhere in heaven there must be a silver lake of tears.

For a short period, it was necessary for me to stay at my parents’ house.  There were no hotels in the area at the time.  My sister was by now married and living on Staten Island, well over an hour away.  The moment to moment emergent conditions and New York City traffic did not make staying with her a realistic option.

The thought of being alone in the house with my father was unbearable.  The day I arrived, I sat parked in front of the house trembling, and could not bring myself to go in.

I drove up to the water; sat there for awhile, trying to compose myself.  I drove back to the house, but still could not go in.  I would be sleeping upstairs; my father, downstairs.  There were no locks, however, on the doors between us.

Finally, I determined, if he made an advance toward me, I would kill him.  I had no idea how.  But I was so distraught I could see no other option.  Thankfully, it never came to that.

Instead, my father’s health began to deteriorate.  He experienced a series of strokes and was briefly hospitalized.  I had by this point started another position.

Again, I commuted.  When he was released, his memory, balance, and impulse control could no longer be relied on.

My father had vehemently resisted discharge to a rehabilitation facility.  “Please, please, let me go home!”  Hoping to assist Ma (who was still, herself, recuperating from surgery), and fearful he might leave the stove on at the house or somehow injure himself, we arranged home care.

The practical nurse who arrived was an older woman.  When my father introduced us, he said, “This is my daughter, Annie.  Doesn’t she have a great figure?”  I felt mortified.  Flayed.  The nurse and I exchanged looks — hers, knowing; mine, that of a trapped animal.

My parents discharged her within two days.  They did not feel comfortable having a stranger in the house.  No amount of convincing could change their minds.

Confronting the Abuser

Though I returned home to Pennsylvania, I kept in close touch.  One phone call was pivotal.

I was in increasing distress during the call; kept trying to hold back, in light of my father’s now physical and mental limitations; kept trying to get off the phone.  The blood was pounding in my ears.

How exactly we got on the topic, I cannot say.  It was the sex scandal in the Roman Catholic Church, I think, that set him off.  My father’s mind had always ranged widely.

“Those priests were something, weren’t they?  Imagine hurting a child!”

“Mmm.”

“Animals.  They should all be shot!”

“They certainly caused a lot of harm.”

“We had priests at home in Hungary like that, too.  The old fat one ate like a pig.  Everyone knew he slept with his housekeeper.”

“Mmm.”

“You remember.  I told you.  Whenever we served at the mass, the young one would say, ‘No. No, that’s enough wine.  Just a drop.’  The old one would get pissed off, if we didn’t keep pouring.”

“Yes, you said.”

“What a shame you have to live so far away, honey.  I always imagined we would all live together under one roof.”

“I like it in Philadelphia, Pop.”

“And it’s a shame you never married.  A pretty girl like you.”

“Pop, I have to go run errands now.”

“You know, I have time on my hands these days.  I look back.  If we had only pushed you a little to that guy at the beach.  Maybe things would be different.”

“No, Pop.  They wouldn’t.”

“Come on, honey.  A little sex would have been good for you.”

“Please, stop, Daddy.  Let’s talk about something else.”

“I tried to teach you.  You were always so interested in sex as a little girl.”

“That’s a lie, Daddy.  You did to me what those priests did.  It influenced every relationship I had with a man.  It hurts me to this day!”

“But you wanted it.”

“No!  That’s another lie!!  You can tell yourself whatever you want.  But it’s a lie!”

“Does Margaret know?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t tell Mommy.  Please.  Whatever you do, don’t tell Mommy.”

As with my statement to the anesthesiologist, it was a plea, not a threat.

Heading back to New York the day my father was returned to the hospital, I was caught in an enormous traffic jam at the George Washington Bridge.  He had suffered a stroke at home in the early hours of the morning, been intubated, and taken away by ambulance.  I sat at the bridge, sobbing.

The doctors tried everything.  Fluid continued to build up in my father’s lungs.  He remained in the Intensive Care Unit.  The tube could not be removed without endangering his life.  Unable to communicate, my father became increasingly agitated, gesticulating in frustration.

Weeks went by before we remembered the health care proxy he had executed.  That he and my mother would actively pursue health care proxies had come as a surprise.  Neither my sister nor I had suggested the idea.  We agreed to it only at our parents’ insistence.

All of us knew how much my father feared hospitals and hated doctors.  It suddenly came to us that he had been making writing gestures, referring to the proxy.  Despite our best intentions, we had been ignoring his wishes.  The ICU confinement had been torture for him.

We consulted my father’s physicians about a prognosis.  Short of exploratory surgery (with risk of greater harm and very little hope for success), they had no more ideas.  We contacted and spoke at length with the ethicist on duty.  The ethicist met with my father and laid this all out for him.

In our presence, my father repeatedly confirmed that he wanted the breathing tube removed.  He was conscious and aware; nodded or shook his head at appropriate times.  Asked if he wanted to die, my father mournfully shrugged his shoulders—clearly unhappy at that prospect.   His intentions now, however, were clear.  Plans were made to remove the tube.

The evening the procedure was to take place, our family gathered in the ICU, outside my father’s cubicle.  Within earshot, not ten feet away, a group of physicians were discussing the case, and disparaging the decision.  I went ballistic.

“How long have you known this man?!  Do you have any idea how much love for him there is represented by the three of us?  Well over a hundred years!  Do you think you can match that?  Your arrogance is appalling.  How dare you!”

They backed off, visibly shaken by the madwoman.

When I was last alone with my father, he looked pleadingly at me and reached out his hand — the first two fingers extended; thumb, ring finger, and little finger curled under.

I was immediately certain what he meant.  I knew what he was asking, as clearly as if he had spoken aloud.  But I did not trust my judgment.  I could not risk hurting him, in that final moment.  So, I told him only that I loved him.

He died the next morning, having slipped into a restful sleep.  The nurse let us know she had rarely seen such a peaceful end.

“F” is for forgiveness.  It is the letter of the alphabet my father was attempting to form.

Waiting in a friend’s living room, some weeks later, I had time to contemplate the picture on her wall.  It was of a boat in a storm — suggesting that storm on the Sea of Galilee, when the Lord calmed the wind and the waters.  My storm had been raging so long.  I felt so battered; felt I had so little left to offer.

Softly, slowly, I felt an idea unfold.  Only the craft tested by storms do we know to be seaworthy.  Those new and brightly painted boats bobbing by the shore are untried.

Peace settled over me.

Generational Abuse

Since child molestation can be generational, I have asked myself whether my paternal grandfather ever molested one of his daughters.  I have my suspicions, but no actual proof.

There is mention in my father’s notebook of an uncle who seemed overly familiar with his own daughter.  That makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.  

What I believe happened is that my father imitated the actions of his father and/or uncle.  He took such behavior as his right, without any thought as to the impact on his victim.  I confess that this is sheer speculation on my part.  Child abuse victims can, as adults, see abuse where it does not exist.  So I may be wrong.

Was my father, himself, molested?  By a priest perhaps?  If so, he never said.  And my father was not one to remain silent about such a violation, if he had suffered it. 

Either way, I suspect the cramped physical conditions and enforced intimacy of my father’s childhood surroundings, together with the emotional unavailability of his own father, led to a situation of covert incest between my father and his mother.  She relied on her son too heavily and too early for emotional support.

World War I left its mark on my paternal grandfather.  World War II left its mark on my father.

His father’s harsh treatment diminished my father’s view of himself.  The war experience increased the weight of responsibility on my father’s shoulders, making him feel yet more vulnerable and small.  A boy in a man’s body.

Those same two factors combined to blunt my father’s sensitivity toward others.  He carried those scars forward.  My mother’s fragile emotional make-up set the stage for a repeat scenario.

Millions have endured war without becoming child molesters.  On the other hand, if my parents had not been deported, they would never even have met.

An Admission of Guilt

Did my father realize what he was doing was wrong?  Yes, without doubt.  Evil may find rationalizations.  All his denials aside, my father’s request that I not tell my mother was an admission of guilt.

Did my father molest additional children?  This is another question I cannot answer.  I think his actions were confined to the family setting.  I hope and pray they were.

The Existence of Evil

Evil exists in the world, even if the lines between right and wrong are today being blurred.  Any assertion that sexual contact between an adult and child can benefit the child is a despicable lie.  I can state that unequivocally.

Whatever our background, we are not a mere conglomeration of impulses.  We make choices.  And choices have consequences — for the victim and abuser, both.

There is a distinction under the law between rights and privileges.  Rights are entitlements.  Privileges — for instance, the privilege of living in vicinity to a school — can be revoked.  And they should be forfeit, even if an offender has otherwise served his or her time.

There can be no other course, if a society is to protect its weakest members.

Forgiveness for the Sake of the Victim

About a month after my father died, I dreamed of him.  I could see him standing outside the house, his face childlike and alight with wonder.

How can pedophilia ever be forgiven?  Forgiveness is not a feeling.  It is a deliberate decision to put something aside.  I have heard it described as an act of will, with a prayer attached.

Had I not been able to forgive my father, my scars would be even deeper than they are.  But I do not presume to grant all pedophiles a blanket pardon. 

God is amazing.  I can think of my father today with almost the love I felt for him as a child.  The sight of an older man on a bicycle without fail will bring a smile to my face.

Now an evangelical Christian, myself, I had the chance to co-found and lead a volunteer organization providing legal aid to the inner city poor.  I know the joy of mentoring underprivileged children.  I laugh as hard and often as I can.

The giant is no more, but a Japanese cherry tree stands just off my balcony.  I still love the wind in my hair.  I write on the desk we used to keep socks in.

Young or old, rich or poor, captive or free, priest or judge, physician or fisherman, the authors of the Bible all concluded that God is a good and holy God — doing so even in the face of suffering, as Job and the prophet, Jeremiah, testify.

It was Jeremiah, you may remember, who was thrown into the pit (Jer. 38: 6-7).  It was Jeremiah who cried out in despair, “Cursed be the day in which I was born!” (Jer. 20: 14).  Yet, it was Jeremiah who wrote to the captives in Babylon who felt they had been forsaken:

“Then you will call upon Me and go and pray to Me, and I will listen to you.  And you will seek Me and find Me, when you search for Me with all your heart” (Jer. 29: 12-13).

Job declared of God, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him” (Job 13: 15).

In suffering or loss, I simply follow in the footsteps of my Lord and Savior.  With a cloud of witnesses like my mother and grandmother as encouragement, how can I do otherwise?

Copyright © 2008 – Present Anna Waldherr.  All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-60247-890-9