About the battle: surprising truth about life after #metoo and #churchtoo


I’ve wanted to write this post for a while now.

I’ve turned words in my head and started and stopped and prayed and not prayed and prayed some more.

The news cycle has been inundated for months now with cases of sexual abuse from all corners of the country…USA gymnastics, Hollywood and Harvey Weinstein, Andy Savage, the pastor who molested a girl in his youth group, and so many others.

Stories of sexual abuse are everywhere.

But you know what?

Sexual abuse has always been everywhere.

We’re just hearing about it more now.

For a survivor like me, this watershed moment is a blessing and a curse. It’s a blessing to know fellow survivors are feeling brave enough to speak their truth and seek help and healing. Glory be, it’s a blessing!

But it’s a curse, because every story makes me feel raw and sick and paralyzed with anger and fear all over again.

More often than not, I admit that I’ve wanted to do what Randall Margraves did.The father of not one, but three, of the gymnasts molested by Larry Nassar in the USA Gymnastics case, he charged Nassar in the middle of the courtroom.

Like Margraves, I want 10 minuets.

Five minutes.

One minute alone with each of the people who abused me, and those who enabled them, too. (Sadly, there were several.)

I want to storm their perfectly ordered worlds, where they’ve hidden the secret of what they’ve done to me (and likely to others, too, according to statistics) from everyone.

I want to find a way around the statute of limitations that prevent me from filing law suits and making their lives the hell that they’ve made mine.

I want to write revealing blog posts and victim statements of my own.

I want to make them hurt as bad as I’ve hurt. 

I want them to feel the heinous things I’ve felt and will feel for the rest of my life. (These unending aftereffects are not the result of my own inability to forgive or heal, as I’ve been accused of before. On the contrary, and as science has recently confirmed, like an amputation, some scars never, ever fade this side of Heaven).

That’s what I want.


Like a child having a tantrum, I push and swing and kick and bite at the One who knows better than me…

…the One who wraps His arms around me and rocks my heart and whispers to me to be still…He’s got this…He’ll take care of them.

And He’ll take care of me.

See, we live in a world where the idea of vengeance lends itself to a the false promise of rescuing us from our broken hearts and brokenness.

Hear me out.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t file law suits where law suits are due. I’m not saying we shouldn’t prosecute sexual abusers to the fullest extent of the law. And I’m not saying anyone who has done so in a church should ever be restored to ministry.

Far from it. 

What I am saying is that as survivors, most of us won’t have the opportunity to charge our abusers in a court of law, and for that reason and in general, we need to give the paybacks to the Lord.

As I’ve struggled these last few months, I’ve re-discovered the promises in Psalms 34 & 35 which remind me only the Lord can truly rescue…not only that, He DOES. The Lord is the one who rescues and doles out justice. The Lord is the one who protects and who promises all things secret will be revealed. Nothing hidden will stay that way. Indeed, He already knows it all.

He is the one who rescues.

He is the one who heals.

And He wants to do the same for you, and for the gymnasts, and for the actresses, and for every girl who has ever faced an Andy Savage, or the people who allowed his unconscionable return to ministry, as well as the congregation who applauded his weak apology.

Can I be honest for a minute?

Fretting over feeling helpless against those sick abusers who have robbed me and others, when He promises vengeance to those who steal from the innocent…well, it’s a constant battle for me. Chronic PTSD and the overwhelming tendency for my brain to be in fight-or-flight mode (one of the permanent aftereffects of abuse now proven by medical science) make me want to fight and lash out first, and think about my actions later.

But the Lord wants the opposite.

He wants me to come to Him first.

He wants me to put down my fists and to stop my flailing and my daydreams of having my own day in court, because only He can ever truly deliver me. Only He can ever truly make them pay. Only by forcing myself out of fight-or-flight mode and stepping aside to let the Lord fight for me can I be free.

Staying stuck in a posture of vengeance allows them to steal from me–from us–all over again. And what they stole the first time around was quite enough.

Maybe your fight isn’t abuse recovery or PTSD. Maybe you have another battle you’re trying to fight.

Trust me when I say the Lord wants you to let Him fight your battle. (2 Chronicles 20:15; Psalm 46:10).

He wants to rescue each of us…

…but we have to let Him.

What battle do you need to give to him today? What waters are you struggling to keep your head above? Reach out to His outstretched hands. Hold on to Him.

Let go of the fight that was never meant to be yours, dear one.

Will you let Him fight for you today?


My novel, How Sweet the Sound, is a contemporary re-telling of the story of Tamar in 2 Samuel 13, quite possibly the earliest recorded “me too.” More than that, it’s a story of hope and healing and forgiveness.

How Sweet the Sound is my word-prayer for every survivor. 

Would you consider giving one to someone who needs it today?

Click here to purchase from your favorite bookseller today.

Pray for abuse survivors.

I can’t watch the news or follow social media right now. Times like these are too much for a survivor. Times like these are too much for a lot of people. 

And so I retreat, to the old, godly way. 

Not because I’ve surrendered. 



I am stronger than that. 

But because I know that on the Lord’s path I am free. 


Join me in praying for abuse survivors? So many are triggered and hurting right now. But as I hoped to portray in my novel, How Sweet the Sound, we can trade hurt for hope. 

Our God is an Isaiah 61 God who creates beauty from ashes and redeems and restores. 

Pray survivors rise above these days to know this truth! 


On writing: What I could write and why I don’t.

For as long as I can remember, I could write. And not just write, but write well.

When I decided to write books for publication, I surprised some folks.


“Do you really want to be known as something eone who writes about sexual abuse?” (A pastor asked me that one.)


“Why can’t you write stories like ___(insert favorite Christian romance genre writer here)___.” (A relative asked me that.)


I’ve fielded countless other similar questions since then. Still, my novels (with all gratefulness and glory to Him) sell well enough that I have a fourth one coming out in 2018, and a re-release of the said sexual abuse story in less than two months, September 1 to be exact.

The people who asked those questions above were right. Kind of. To be sure, my novels are meant to entertain. Each has threads of romance, intrigue, and even a little mystery in them. But those things aren’t ultimately what propels the characters, or me to write them.

I’m well aware that I don’t write what I “should” write–at least not in the eyes of others. I write the stories I argue with God about until I’m 100% certain that’s what He wants me to write. I write as a reluctant introvert and as someone who could write genre romance or Hallmark-esque stories, but I’m not called to write those. Some writers are, and that’s spectacular for them. Truly. Readers want and need and buy those books. They sell well. But whenever I’ve tried to write something more like so-and-so or less personally honest or less edgy or whatever descriptives/labels you’d like to use, I just can’t. My mind goes blank. Either that, or what comes out is a linguistically shameful blob of nonsense. (Just ask my beloved editors.)

Nevertheless, if a lifetime of Bible stories have taught me anything, it’s this: Most people won’t understand the work of someone who is listening to or following the Lord.

That doesn’t stop me from struggling with what I feel called to write. It’s downright scary to put stories out there I know are going to ruffle some feathers.

Gratefully, what I write and why made a little more sense to me when my pastor spoke this weekend about Proverbs 24:10-12. Here it is in The Message version:

“If you fall to pieces in a crisis,
there wasn’t much to you in the first place.
Rescue the perishing;
don’t hesitate to step in and help.
If you say, “Hey, that’s none of my business,”
will that get you off the hook?
Someone is watching you closely, you know—
Someone not impressed with weak excuses.”


See, I was perishing once. Still am, if I’m honest. Back when I wrote my first novel, How Sweet the Sound, I was perishing under the weight of having been sexually abused for over 10 years as a child and I had questions…BIG questions…for a God I grew up believing could stop such evil, and yet it had happened to me. I learned there were hundreds of thousands of others who had suffered the same way, so I couldn’t say sexual abuse wasn’t any of my business. Sexual abuse was all about my business. And when I argued with God about why it all happened, well…

How Sweet the Sound was born.

How Sweet the Sound is an unlikely novel about an unlikely family in Southern Alabama torn apart by the same fate I suffered. I wrote and wrote and re-wrote and re-wrote, until not only did I have a book about it, but I had a book of hope. And that’s the key to my stories right there.

I wrote a book of hard and a book of hope.

Whether or not it ever makes a best-seller list makes no difference, especially in light of Proverbs 24:10-12.

What makes a difference are the tens of hundreds of notes and handshakes and nods from others who’ve been sexually abused and say to me, “Me too. Thank you.”

Me too.

Thank you.

What they thank me for is not a book as much as for the hope the characters in that story found in the midst of their perishing circumstances.

Each one of my books is like that. How Sweet the Sound is about not turning my head to and finding hope in the midst of sexual abuse. Then Sings My Soul is about not turning my head to the plight of the aging and elderly. Lead Me Home is about not turning my head to the plight of small churches and small communities and overlooked people in our midst. And my fourth book (title TBD), releasing in 2018, is about not turning my head to the plight of the unborn, the plight of birth mothers, and the plight of those in the midst of the opiod epidemic that’s happening right smack in the middle of each of our back yards.

The sexually abused, the aging, small folks, and the unborn and birth mothers…all of them have two very real things in common:

1) People turn their heads to them.

2) They’re all desperate for hope in the midst of perishing situations.

Because when you’ve got nothing, hope means everything.

(((which just might be a direct quote from my upcoming 2018 novel)))

Could there be any greater reason to write–or to read, for that matter–than that?


Hope in the midst of struggle. In the midst of terror. In the midst of grief. In the midst of abuse. In the midst of even death.

If one person picks up one of my books and finds that, well then I’ve done my job.

Recently I finished reading Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. (He was a writer who, in his time was often misunderstood and ridiculed and chastised. I’m smitten!) So many things moved me about that story, in particular the parallels between the hopelessness of the dust bowl era and migrants searching for survival in California, and the hopelessness of America’s current small towns and the poor and marginalized within them. These words in particular brought me to tears (and do again even as I type them):

“Where does courage come from? Where does the terrible faith come from?…The people in flight from the terror behind–strange things happen to them, some bitterly cruel and some so beautiful that the faith is refired forever.” ~John Steinbeck

I’ve seen a lot of bitter cruelty first hand, whether personally, or in the eyes of friends in Ukraine where abortion is seen as simple birth control, or on the faces of an aging hospital patient who never has visitors, or at the bedside or graveside of someone riddled by the effects of an opiate addiction.

Some may say my faith is terrible, and in many ways I’m sure is. I doubt. I wrestle. I sin. And I sin again. I have often prayed the prayer, “Oh Lord, help me overcome my unbelief.”

But in and because of all of that, my faith is refired forever.

The perishing are my business.

Therefore my writing will never be off the hook.

Someone’s watching, after all.

Someone’s watching.



Stay tuned for details about my novel, How Sweet the Sound, releasing September 1 with a brand new cover and a chapter from my brand new 2018 novel.

Also, Lead Me Home is on sale for e-readers across all your favorite platforms. Click here for options: http://ebookdeals.net/