Letter from Lydia Linn

Dearest sisters,

My friend accidentally brushed his hand against my thigh the other day as we were walking together. A couple years ago, I wouldn’t think twice about this. It was an awkward moment for the two of us, forced to walk closer together as someone passed us on the sidewalk. A mere accident that lasted not even a second.

But between you and me, this moment was hard for me. It sent my heart racing and my blood began to pulse; I felt myself become small as all of my interior warning flags were dyed red with fear. Everything in me was screaming to get out and hide from the perceived danger. I had been here before. I had lived through this scenario. An innocent, accidental touch can and will turn into more if I don’t run now.

I took a deep breath and continued to walk beside him.

You see sisters, I was sexually abused for months.

When I first started processing my abuse, my relationships with the men in my life suffered. I shuttered every time I had to hug one of them. My anxieties and fears sent me into panic attacks every time one of them asked to get together. I couldn’t even make eye contact with them. Eventually, I completely stopped spending time with them and shut them out from my life.

My relationship with God suffered too. If all men were bad, that means that God my Father and Jesus my brother were bad too. I stopped going to Mass. I stopped attending different church gatherings. I didn’t invest in my faith or entertain deep theological thoughts or conversations. My prayer life, which had been consistent for almost three years, became nonexistent. Eventually, I completely stopped spending time with Him and shut Him out of my life.

During this time in my life, I actively avoided all people, especially men. The only handful of people who I allowed into my brokenness were women. And one of my women started to encourage me to talk to our priest. She insisted he would give advice and reassurance that would be helpful. Although I was trying to avoid men (and God), I decided to go visit him and see if he had anything to say.

I crept into his office, met his gaze, and instantly started to sob. I no longer saw a priest sitting in front of me, but rather my Heavenly Father waiting for His beloved daughter to return. In a way, I felt like the hemorrhaging woman, unclean and filled with self-doubt, convinced that she is unlovable, then only to be made worthy by Jesus Christ’s mercy. If her story ended with a return to society, maybe mine could too.

In between heaves of tears and gasps, I told my priest what happened. He listened the entire time, nodding slightly every once in a while. At the end of my epic tragedy, silence plagued us. I had cried out everything that was in me and I sat in utter defeat at the recollection of my reality. He slowly sat up, leaned forward, and tenderly spoke into my heart, “I am sorry.”

I stared at him in disbelief. If a man is able to have compassion for me, do you think that God could have compassion on me as well? I let this question live in my head for months, afraid to find the answer.

Months later, I went to adoration. It was a big jump from where I had been earlier, but it was Advent, and I started to feel a longing in my heart for Jesus. I sat alone in a pew far away from the altar, staring at Jesus, feeling empty and mad and frustrated and confused and overcome and defeated and sad and disappointed and discouraged. And in the midst of my lament, Jesus’ voice gently rolled into existence.

Come closer.

Absolutely not. If You think I am going to get closer to you, You’re so wrong.

Come closer.

But Jesus, if I come closer, everyone will see me. This church is crowded with strangers.

Come closer.

I stood up slowly. Reluctantly, I moved one foot in front of the other as I continued to question God and Jesus and their goodness. But I drew closer. All at once, I was at the foot of the altar, physically close to Jesus’ feet but spiritually distant from His heart. Music started playing in the background, softly at first, then grew into a gentle reminder of why I was in that church to begin with.

The singer cried out to God in complete and utter worship “Wide-eyed and mystified, may we be just like a child, staring at the beauty of our King.” He continued to serenade the Lord and I continued to lament.

“May we never lose our wonder. “‘Cause you are beautiful in all of Your ways.”

Wait. He’s beautiful in all of His ways? Even in the ways that have tempted me to leave Him? And He wants us to adore Him and be filled with wonder?

Yes. Yes this is true. It must be. It has to be. My heart began to sing as awe and wonder captivated me and took hold of my prayer. God has to be good. He is good. And He has healed me. Every day I get out of bed and choose happiness, God’s healing is at work. Every time I look outside my window and see nature, God’s healing is at work. Every time my friend walks with me through my pain, God’s healing is at work.

And because God’s healing power is abundant, He sometimes heals you through the thing that hurt you. As I started to fall back in love with God, I started letting men back into my life, and they healed me too. Every time a man I trust hugs me and I allow him to, God’s healing is at work. Every time a man I trust looks at my eyes and not my body, God’s healing is at work. Every time I show him a piece of my heart, and he chooses to hold it tenderly, God’s healing is at work.

So sisters, I have learned a couple of things throughout my journey back towards the Light.

First, I have learned that after living in the dark for months, it takes your eyes time to adjust to the light. And that adjustment period hurts. It hurts a lot. If there’s anything that my therapist has taught me, it’s that healing isn’t linear, and just because you take one step back one day, it doesn’t mean that the rest of your healing is discredited.

I have also learned that God wants to heal you. God doesn’t call you to live a miserable life, but an abundant one. And like I said before, sometimes God will heal you through the very thing that hurt you. This is a good thing. He is so incredibly powerful that He can breathe new life into all of the dry bones.

Most importantly though sisters, I have learned that God is worthy of praise. He is wonderful and marvelous and glorious and merciful and unrelenting. Yes, abuse of another is evil, and the trauma can feel impossible- and yet God is still good. He is so, so good. And because of this simple fact, He is worthy of all your adoration and wonder. Allow yourself to be captivated by your Creator.

So here I sit. My chair is a welcome oasis. Rain is gently hitting the roof. The day is quiet and young. The ice in my coffee is slowly disappearing. I am sharing the living room with two men -two friends- who are quietly reciting the rosary as they sit on the couch beside me. And I am content. It took me a lot to get to the place where I am, to be able to sit in a room alongside men and not worry about my safety. But don’t be fooled, dear sisters. I still have moments when memories haunt my sleep and anxiety spoils my day. But I have learned that God’s healing is always at work. Even when it doesn’t seem like it.

If you are stumbling in the dark right now and looking for the well-traveled path towards healing, allow yourself to be guided. And enjoy the company of your fellow travelers, because there’s a lot of them.

Thank you for allowing me to be vulnerable with you,

Lydia

Photo of Rachel Harkins Ullmann

About the Writer: Lydia is from the beautiful state of Minnesota. While she didn’t grow up in a practicing Catholic family, she was able to find God later in life through a series of events. Lydia is currently serving as a missionary with NET Ministries where she grows in relationship with God, and walks with others as they do the same. As an incredibly passionate woman, Lydia also pursues photography in an attempt to connect the secular world with the loving embrace of the Father.