I’ve been trying to explain to my friends what it’s like to be unexpectedly freed from the bishop’s long public silence. It’s as if I’d been paraplegic for six years and suddenly started feeling sensation in my legs; as if I’d lived six years with cancer and suddenly went into remission; as if a loved one had been missing for six years and was suddenly found. These metaphors aren’t quite right, but they give a notion of how big this change is. My world is different now. Finally I have a defense against malicious hearsay — but I have more than that. I have the beginning of welcome. On Tuesday night, several people went out of their way to greet me. One offered an apology, two crossed the room to greet me, and one wrapped me in such abundant warmth that I never felt the fear I had expected. The welcome may not have been universal, but it was enough and then some.
My outer world has changed, but it will take longer to rebuild my inner. For six years I’ve built my life around the fact of silencing and shunning. Some of my adaptations — like finding home in a new church — are permanent. But others can be changed. I can learn to release the sense of exile and begin to accept the hand of friendship.
I have more to say about Tuesday night’s meeting, but first I need to acknowledge that these events aren’t about me. I am only free because “Kevin” harmed three women badly enough to lose his ordained ministry. I cannot celebrate while these women and their families suffer. So today I offer these words to the three who found the courage to come forward, speak truth, and demand justice.
I don’t know who you are. You each have a name, a face, and unique roles in your family and church and community, and I know none of those things. I don’t know what kind of pain led you to seek Kevin’s help. I don’t know how he violated your trust, nor what you risked to come forward against him.
But I know that you suffer. I know how brave you are. I can imagine how special and safe he made you feel (safe — the irony!!) I can imagine the crippling burden of the secret you had to carry; the heartbreak of losing friends when you began to share your story; the heavy cost of enduring the church’s process.
Did the three of you come forward together? If not, I pray you are together now. For survivors, sisterhood (and brotherhood) is solace and strength. I pray you already knew that you weren’t the first, that you aren’t suffering a new shock reading these words. I always expected I’d learn about other women like me; I just thought they’d be in Kevin’s past. It breaks my heart that they — you — were in his future.
Now, we are all part of his past. God willing, there will never be another.
Sisters, I am praying for you. If it feels right to you, you are welcome to get in touch. You can find my email here. If that feels too close to home, I understand. I hope you have people in your lives who can help you heal, and that you’ll consider contacting The Hope of Survivors. They have wonderful resources and volunteer counselors to help you begin to move forward.
God bless you as you walk the path of healing. Perhaps one day we will be in each other’s lives. Until then, may you walk in God’s protection.