I’d like to stay anonymous as I share my story because of the sensitive nature of the topic.

I grew up in a very typical, Midwestern, Christian home. My parents worked nine-to-five jobs, and my sister and I went to an average public school in Wisconsin. We went to the same church as the rest of our neighborhood every Sunday. I was on the girls’ cross country team, did well in school, and stayed away from drugs, alcohol, and boys.
My parents, however, grew up in abusive households, particularly my dad. His parents regularly used extreme corporal punishment, and it didn’t stop until he left for college and moved out of their home. Per the vicious cycle of abuse, me and my sister were exposed to similar behavior from both parents.

As a kid, it was pretty easy to emotionally deal with it when it wasn’t actually happening- I thought that this was how all parents were. I didn’t have any broken bones. Bruises and welts were covered by jeans, and no one asked any questions- nothing to make me think something was wrong. I thought everyone’s home life was the same as mine.

The abuse stopped when I was sixteen. I guess my parents just assumed I was too old for it. I was good at avoiding doing the things that made it flare up. It wasn’t until half-way through my sophomore year of high school that I realized what had happened wasn’t normal. With this knowledge, I really started to spiral downward.

I had been a fairly passive Christian until then, attending church and sometimes skipping youth group because I was tired from cross country practice, or to hang out with friends. I hadn’t acknowledged God for any of the good things that had been sent my way, but I “believed” in Him because the rest of my church did. I remember feeling a lot of frustration and anger as I began to understand my childhood. I directed it at my parents, and then myself, and then at God. I was mad at my parents, I was mad at myself for not being good enough to prevent it, and I was mad at God for letting it happen. A lot of this frustration came out through alcohol abuse and self harm as I finished high school.

As I started college, I didn’t have any connection with God or my parents. I was still so angry. I was leaving class one day in November of my freshman year when a girl approached me and invited me to Cru for that night. I didn’t really know her, and I really don’t know why she stopped to talk to me. I was hesitant, but agreed. I attended that week, and the next, and continued to go for the rest of the year. I was amazed at the nature of God that I had been shown both through the community and weekly teachings.

The gospel is often described as the ultimate love story- but for me, it has always been a story of forgiveness- God’s capacity for love when we always wrong Him. I had thought that forgiving my parents would be letting the abuse win and that forgiving God would be accepting defeat.

It was hard to learn how to forgive. I was really stubborn at first. Even if I could forgive my parents, I found it difficult to reconcile with myself. I didn’t like the person I had turned into- angry, misguided, and completely unapproachable even to people who just wanted to help. In high school, I had often found myself sinning just to spite God. I reached out to my dad, who I’d never had a relationship with while I was in school. He told me that after me and my sister moved out, he and my mom had begun to attend church regularly again. He told me God had shown him both remorse and acceptance, and he apologized.

Through strengthening my relationship with God, I was able to begin again with my parents- a clean slate, because we had all been transformed through Him. Four years later, I feel like my family is whole again. What God has taught me is that His forgiveness is the only thing I will ever need to endure any hardship. It is the only thing that can remove pain, and it is the only thing that will make me feel like I am accepted and whole. God’s forgiveness is not a weakness, but a strength He has given to us so we can bravely face ourselves.