A Survivors Guide to Childhood Abuse
Posted: Tuesday, January 31, 2012
by Ken McCreless
RMS1437
Greetings Fellow Travelers …
I have been blessed in that God has allowed me to see past the veil that some folks don’t even know exists. I have been witness to the amazing power of God. I have seen firsthand how the name of Jesus can drive back evil.
The following story may break your heart, but it will also give hope where there may not have been any before.
Whether you believe in God or not, He does exist. He is real.
My Testimony
Starting at an early age, I spent a lot of time with my father. He was a preacher. We would go to churches on Sunday morning so he could give talks for an organization called T.A.N.E., Texas Alcohol and Narcotics Education. They offered materials and such to help people learn about addiction and how to get free from it. The churches would take up an offering to help the cause.
Many times we would go to places like downtown San Antonio and he would preach while I handed out tracts. There was a period of time when he and I would go to a nursing home on Sunday morning and conduct a service for the residents. I can still remember a gentleman who never failed to attend, even though he was a “hard-shell Episcopalian.” My father had me give the message one morning, actually. Up until then, I had no idea that you could be so nervous and yet not die.
My father used to take me to work also. He would have KDRY radio on as we ran his laundry route. Sometimes he would talk to folks along the way, such as this lady who I’ll never forget. She looked like Cicely Tyson in “Fried Green Tomatoes.” One day she came out of her house and saw me sitting in the truck. She pointed to me and shouted “He’s got the mark! He’s got the mark of the preacher!” I was scared to death! I never thought of this as being a sign, but I think my father did. I knew God had a place for me. I knew God. Period.
I don’t remember the first time I got saved, but I know I was pretty young. It was a few years later when I got “saved” the second time. During his sermon, a preacher stated that if you could not remember the exact time and date that you were saved then you were NOT saved. I knew I was. There was no doubt. Still, I was young and allowed myself to doubt. So, I went down front during the invitation and got saved again; and, of course, baptized again.
Now, you might think that someone who was saved twice would feel doubly so. No, I felt like the second one was a farce, and likely a source of aggravation for God. This feeling was infinitely compounded by something that had begun around that time.
When I was 4 or 5, my family moved from what I considered to be paradise, a house sitting on several acres in the country, surrounded by woods, to a small neighborhood – both several miles outside the San Antonio city limits. The house next to ours was occupied by someone who would rapidly become a good friend to my family. This person would also become my murderer.
He was a loner, a civilian employee of Kelly Air Force Base. I spent a lot of time with him, even going out of town to Six Flags in Dallas (there was no Fiesta Texas then), Astroworld, fishing, movies, zoo, you name it. Things happened, things that should never happen to a child, or anyone else for that matter. I won’t burden you with details.
I could sense a growing feeling of injury and injustice, but the mind of a child will always rationalize. It went on for about 3years until one day I realized what was happening and decided to tell my father. Most of my childhood is safely tucked away, obscure and irretrievable, but, I remember this event as if it happened this morning.
My father and I loved to work in our garden together. My aunt had bought the empty lot next to ours and allowed my father to use it as he wished. We had a thriving garden there the day I decided to tell my father what was going on. He didn’t say a word.
The neighbor saw us out there and, for some reason, decided to come over and talk to us. He had never done this before, and never did it again.
I was nervous, thinking there would be a fight, or at least an extremely tense confrontation. There was neither. My father never even lifted his eyes from his work, and did not say a word. At that moment, I knew how it felt to be slaughtered, like a cow rendered for meat. For all intents and purposes, I was dead. I closed down inside, suddenly thrust into absolute certainty that the abuse was indeed my fault, and that I should be ashamed for thinking it was wrong and especially for saying anything negative about the nice neighbor who helped our family out. My father never mentioned it. My mother never mentioned it. The abuse continued for another 4 years.
The ministry continued as well. I had many close moments with my Lord Jesus Christ. When I was with my father I felt secure in my relationship with God. When I was with the neighbor, I felt thrown away like so much refuse. Not trash, but more like a broken toy; a defective product- used goods. Still, I knew I was saved, and that I would go to be with Jesus when I died.
My parents did not get along at all. There many vicious fights. Spending so much time with my father only made things worse between my mother and I. One night, she had my older brother, a strapping teenager at the time, throw my father and I out of the house. We spent the night sleeping on the floor of someone’s garage.
The next morning my father told me he saw “beings” walking around us, trying to scare us. Standing next to us, between us and the beings, were, what my father called, angels. He said they had no wings and no halos. They were big, strong men who stood with their backs to us, one on each side. The beings told them they only wanted to scare us, but were stopped from doing so with the words “they’ve had enough.”
We stayed in San Antonio for a few months, then moved back home. Things picked up right where they left off.
We eventually moved to Corpus Christi. Our first place was the second floor of an old nursing home that had been converted into the Good Samaritan Rescue Mission. It was definitely weird, but at least I had my choice of rooms. I could even change rooms nightly if I chose!
And guess who helped us move? That’s right- my murderer, or I should say, attempted murderer, since God had saved me in every way possible.
Several months after we had moved, he came down for a visit. My mother wanted to visit some friends and so she and I decided to ride back with him. I was sitting in the front seat and my mother was in the back seat when we started to back out of the driveway. Something rose up inside of me and said “Not anymore!” I said I did not want to go. My mother got out of the back seat, then into the front seat where I had been sitting and they took off. I felt as light as air!
The very first thing I did was write him a letter saying what he had been doing was wrong and would never happen again. I mailed it right away. I can’t remember how my mother got back to Corpus Christi, but she got after me for sending that letter and hurting his feelings. I could not have cared less. I was free.
There’s something funny about being freed after so many years of confinement. You don’t know how to live. My father, as much as I loved him, could not or would not step in and help me. I was soon plunged into confusion. Even worse, since I had been told, at the ripe old age of 5, that America would be taken over and that I would be forced to watch my father’s throat be slashed shortly before I was killed myself, I had no sense of any future opportunities. Like I said, I knew I would go to heaven when I died. I just did not know what role God could possibly have for me on this earth. I helped my father with his ministry. The confusion I carried over why my parents would allow this to happen became entangled with why God would allow this to happen. It wasn’t too long before I came to the conclusion that I was simply a useless appendage that could easily be removed with no consequence. Many times I prayed for God to take my life, since there was nothing for me to do here.
Worse yet was the incredible shame I carried. I never felt good enough, never felt worthy of God’s love. Of course, I wasn’t. No one is. He loves us because He loves us. It’s that simple. Still, I felt dirty.
Over the years I tried to talk to ministers about this. Every one of them told me basically the same thing- that I needed Jesus.
I can understand this. I might have said the same thing. After all, Jesus takes our burdens away, right? Then how could I still be carrying this one?
It’s simple, really. The shame had been so thoroughly ingrained into my psyche that, to me at least, it was a natural part of me. My mind knew it was a problem, but at the same time knew it couldn’t be a problem, because, if it was a problem, then it needed to be dealt with and turned over to God. If it were turned over to God, then there would be nothing left of me. I knew that God could make something from nothing. But God had allowed me to be made into this, so why would He want to change what He had made? After all, God does not make mistakes, right?
Such was my progression of thought, from one extreme to another. Watching the news reports from Viet Nam and hearing that these things would be happening in our neighborhood, thinking I would not reach the age of 10, knowing the deep, intense love of God followed by the abject abandonment of sexual abuse, reaching out to an emotionally distant mother and a distracted father, all were materials with which my life was constructed.
Psalm 139:14 says “I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: Marvelous are Your works, And that my soul knows very well.”
Romans 8:28 “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.”
It’s tough to think that we as humans with our flaws and such can be made to accomplish the will of a loving God, but that is exactly the case.
It’s during the times that I look to Jesus that I have peace. It’s during the times that I try to make sense of my life without looking to Jesus that things get complicated. It’s just that simple. Not easy- simple.
It’s during the times I focus on this world that I begin to feel small and helpless. This makes me feel scared and angry. This makes me look away from my Savior. This gets me into trouble.
It’s during the times that I look to Jesus that I pray often, study the bible, seek God’s face for every decision and rest in His love and will for my life that I am calm, strong and sense a purpose for my life that was appointed to me by God long before I was even born.
Remember Isaiah 61:3, “beauty for ashes?”
I know that God cares for me. I know that, during the abuse, as I lay there crying, that Jesus was crying as well. That as I struggled to make it to the dawn that God could see my future, as in Jeremiah 29:11:
“For I know the thoughts that I think towards you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.”
Jesus said “I am with you always, even to the end of the world.” (Mat. 28:20)
And finally …
A tree grows tall and strong, gets hit by lightning and burns down completely, cools, sits under pressure and heat for a while, then cools again. It probably thinks that at this point it is done and finished, and then it gets taken out of its comfortable place and filed, cut, polished, shaped and deployed.
Such is the life of a diamond.
I have been blessed in that God has allowed me to see past the veil that some folks don’t even know exists. I have been witness to the amazing power of God. I have seen firsthand how the name of Jesus can drive back evil.
The following story may break your heart, but it will also give hope where there may not have been any before.
My Testimony
Starting at an early age, I spent a lot of time with my father. He was a preacher. We would go to churches on Sunday morning so he could give talks for an organization called T.A.N.E., Texas Alcohol and Narcotics Education. They offered materials and such to help people learn about addiction and how to get free from it. The churches would take up an offering to help the cause.
Many times we would go to places like downtown San Antonio and he would preach while I handed out tracts. There was a period of time when he and I would go to a nursing home on Sunday morning and conduct a service for the residents. I can still remember a gentleman who never failed to attend, even though he was a “hard-shell Episcopalian.” My father had me give the message one morning, actually. Up until then, I had no idea that you could be so nervous and yet not die.
My father used to take me to work also. He would have KDRY radio on as we ran his laundry route. Sometimes he would talk to folks along the way, such as this lady who I’ll never forget. She looked like Cicely Tyson in “Fried Green Tomatoes.” One day she came out of her house and saw me sitting in the truck. She pointed to me and shouted “He’s got the mark! He’s got the mark of the preacher!” I was scared to death! I never thought of this as being a sign, but I think my father did. I knew God had a place for me. I knew God. Period.
I don’t remember the first time I got saved, but I know I was pretty young. It was a few years later when I got “saved” the second time. During his sermon, a preacher stated that if you could not remember the exact time and date that you were saved then you were NOT saved. I knew I was. There was no doubt. Still, I was young and allowed myself to doubt. So, I went down front during the invitation and got saved again; and, of course, baptized again.
Now, you might think that someone who was saved twice would feel doubly so. No, I felt like the second one was a farce, and likely a source of aggravation for God. This feeling was infinitely compounded by something that had begun around that time.
When I was 4 or 5, my family moved from what I considered to be paradise, a house sitting on several acres in the country, surrounded by woods, to a small neighborhood – both several miles outside the San Antonio city limits. The house next to ours was occupied by someone who would rapidly become a good friend to my family. This person would also become my murderer.
He was a loner, a civilian employee of Kelly Air Force Base. I spent a lot of time with him, even going out of town to Six Flags in Dallas (there was no Fiesta Texas then), Astroworld, fishing, movies, zoo, you name it. Things happened, things that should never happen to a child, or anyone else for that matter. I won’t burden you with details.
I could sense a growing feeling of injury and injustice, but the mind of a child will always rationalize. It went on for about 3years until one day I realized what was happening and decided to tell my father. Most of my childhood is safely tucked away, obscure and irretrievable, but, I remember this event as if it happened this morning.
My father and I loved to work in our garden together. My aunt had bought the empty lot next to ours and allowed my father to use it as he wished. We had a thriving garden there the day I decided to tell my father what was going on. He didn’t say a word.
The neighbor saw us out there and, for some reason, decided to come over and talk to us. He had never done this before, and never did it again.
I was nervous, thinking there would be a fight, or at least an extremely tense confrontation. There was neither. My father never even lifted his eyes from his work, and did not say a word. At that moment, I knew how it felt to be slaughtered, like a cow rendered for meat. For all intents and purposes, I was dead. I closed down inside, suddenly thrust into absolute certainty that the abuse was indeed my fault, and that I should be ashamed for thinking it was wrong and especially for saying anything negative about the nice neighbor who helped our family out. My father never mentioned it. My mother never mentioned it. The abuse continued for another 4 years.
The ministry continued as well. I had many close moments with my Lord Jesus Christ. When I was with my father I felt secure in my relationship with God. When I was with the neighbor, I felt thrown away like so much refuse. Not trash, but more like a broken toy; a defective product- used goods. Still, I knew I was saved, and that I would go to be with Jesus when I died.
My parents did not get along at all. There many vicious fights. Spending so much time with my father only made things worse between my mother and I. One night, she had my older brother, a strapping teenager at the time, throw my father and I out of the house. We spent the night sleeping on the floor of someone’s garage.
The next morning my father told me he saw “beings” walking around us, trying to scare us. Standing next to us, between us and the beings, were, what my father called, angels. He said they had no wings and no halos. They were big, strong men who stood with their backs to us, one on each side. The beings told them they only wanted to scare us, but were stopped from doing so with the words “they’ve had enough.”
We stayed in San Antonio for a few months, then moved back home. Things picked up right where they left off.
We eventually moved to Corpus Christi. Our first place was the second floor of an old nursing home that had been converted into the Good Samaritan Rescue Mission. It was definitely weird, but at least I had my choice of rooms. I could even change rooms nightly if I chose!
And guess who helped us move? That’s right- my murderer, or I should say, attempted murderer, since God had saved me in every way possible.
Several months after we had moved, he came down for a visit. My mother wanted to visit some friends and so she and I decided to ride back with him. I was sitting in the front seat and my mother was in the back seat when we started to back out of the driveway. Something rose up inside of me and said “Not anymore!” I said I did not want to go. My mother got out of the back seat, then into the front seat where I had been sitting and they took off. I felt as light as air!
The very first thing I did was write him a letter saying what he had been doing was wrong and would never happen again. I mailed it right away. I can’t remember how my mother got back to Corpus Christi, but she got after me for sending that letter and hurting his feelings. I could not have cared less. I was free.
There’s something funny about being freed after so many years of confinement. You don’t know how to live. My father, as much as I loved him, could not or would not step in and help me. I was soon plunged into confusion. Even worse, since I had been told, at the ripe old age of 5, that America would be taken over and that I would be forced to watch my father’s throat be slashed shortly before I was killed myself, I had no sense of any future opportunities. Like I said, I knew I would go to heaven when I died. I just did not know what role God could possibly have for me on this earth. I helped my father with his ministry. The confusion I carried over why my parents would allow this to happen became entangled with why God would allow this to happen. It wasn’t too long before I came to the conclusion that I was simply a useless appendage that could easily be removed with no consequence. Many times I prayed for God to take my life, since there was nothing for me to do here.
Worse yet was the incredible shame I carried. I never felt good enough, never felt worthy of God’s love. Of course, I wasn’t. No one is. He loves us because He loves us. It’s that simple. Still, I felt dirty.
Over the years I tried to talk to ministers about this. Every one of them told me basically the same thing- that I needed Jesus.
I can understand this. I might have said the same thing. After all, Jesus takes our burdens away, right? Then how could I still be carrying this one?
It’s simple, really. The shame had been so thoroughly ingrained into my psyche that, to me at least, it was a natural part of me. My mind knew it was a problem, but at the same time knew it couldn’t be a problem, because, if it was a problem, then it needed to be dealt with and turned over to God. If it were turned over to God, then there would be nothing left of me. I knew that God could make something from nothing. But God had allowed me to be made into this, so why would He want to change what He had made? After all, God does not make mistakes, right?
Such was my progression of thought, from one extreme to another. Watching the news reports from Viet Nam and hearing that these things would be happening in our neighborhood, thinking I would not reach the age of 10, knowing the deep, intense love of God followed by the abject abandonment of sexual abuse, reaching out to an emotionally distant mother and a distracted father, all were materials with which my life was constructed.
Psalm 139:14 says “I will praise You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: Marvelous are Your works, And that my soul knows very well.”
Romans 8:28 “And we know that all things work together for good to those who love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.”
It’s tough to think that we as humans with our flaws and such can be made to accomplish the will of a loving God, but that is exactly the case.
It’s during the times that I look to Jesus that I have peace. It’s during the times that I try to make sense of my life without looking to Jesus that things get complicated. It’s just that simple. Not easy- simple.
It’s during the times I focus on this world that I begin to feel small and helpless. This makes me feel scared and angry. This makes me look away from my Savior. This gets me into trouble.
It’s during the times that I look to Jesus that I pray often, study the bible, seek God’s face for every decision and rest in His love and will for my life that I am calm, strong and sense a purpose for my life that was appointed to me by God long before I was even born.
Remember Isaiah 61:3, “beauty for ashes?”
I know that God cares for me. I know that, during the abuse, as I lay there crying, that Jesus was crying as well. That as I struggled to make it to the dawn that God could see my future, as in Jeremiah 29:11:
“For I know the thoughts that I think towards you, says the LORD, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.”
Jesus said “I am with you always, even to the end of the world.” (Mat. 28:20)
And finally …
A tree grows tall and strong, gets hit by lightning and burns down completely, cools, sits under pressure and heat for a while, then cools again. It probably thinks that at this point it is done and finished, and then it gets taken out of its comfortable place and filed, cut, polished, shaped and deployed.
Such is the life of a diamond.
Ken McCreless is just a guy who loves to write, and was born to do so. He is a freelance writer with several projects ongoing, including books and magazines. A huge fan of both irony and history, Ken has dedicated his life and his writing to serve the Lord Jesus Christ.
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Top-level comments on this article: (5 total)Jesus is able and I am so glad He drew you close and set you free - WOW. May His hand be upon you in a continuing mighty way and His liberating anointing. AMENAmen! Thank you, Marijo. I am thankful that He brought such wonderful writers into my life. I am so blessed!
Ken, I know your story from the interview I did with you. My book is so close to completion but I have not been able to force myself to the manuscript--about 100 pages left--I'll get it done, Have you come to an answer as to why your father froze, denied or ran from what you told him?
As for God being that haven, that ability for, or with you, it is obvious to me you have found a strength many do not have--the key is keeping on course with that true power/strength/God--it's easy to stray and try to go it alone. Going alone is always half ass--those who have gone full bore know that. Anyway, keep on helping those who were like you and are lost-you can be a light for em.I've been looking for an announcement for your book!
No, Steve, I have no answer. I have a few theories, of course, but I doubt he even knew. I have forgiven him.
I shutter to think of all those victims milling around the earth with this pain. God has indeed brought me through.
Thank you, Steve. I am looking forward to reading your book!
Ken,
So sad and disgusting, yet such a testimony to God's ability to redeem the worst of situations. I'm glad you survived it. The world is richer because you did. And I didn't detect an ounce of hatred or desire for revenge which I also see as supernatural. Thanks for sharing your journey. SteveHey Steve, How are you?
Hatred and revenge won't bring anything but more heartache. Jesus is my focus.
I really appreciate your taking the time to read and comment. It means a lot.
This is a heart-tugging, yet revelation-filled testimony! Thank you for sharing it with us Ken.Thank you, Ronyae. It's good to "see" you again!same here, Ken!
A work of the heart and mind and soul. Abuse is where torture begins and hell on earth are personified. Truly a wonderful service for all who read!
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