A Quiver-Full Woman's Work is Never Done

Wake up, she's just getting started

Five years ago this week, three days before our stepfather’s funeral after his sudden death, I was in Florida at my mother’s and got a phone call with news that would have ripple effects for hundreds and hundreds of people.

I was told that Child Protective Services had begun an investigation into accusations of child sexual abuse against my older brother.

I am going to be vague on details because the survivors deserve some shred of the little privacy they have left, but the accusations were true, they were horrendous, and the negligence by those tasked to care for my brother, his wife, their children, and the hundreds of children who attended church with them were shocking.

In short, his pastors had known about the abuse for several years previous, had not reported it to authorities, put an untold amount of responsibility on the shoulders of my sister-in-law while telling or implying to her it was not her sin to confess to others, continued to give my brother access to the hundreds of children who attended the school/church (he had a key to the building), would later defend him to authorities, and more. Many of the details are public although many at the church still defend the actions of the leaders who said they “sought the spirit,” sought wisdom from others, stand by their process, and more.

Five years ago on the phone with my brother, I demanded he tell me exactly what he had done. After he did, I said, “What you have done is sinful, abhorrent, harmful, and will have ripple effects for the rest of these children’s lives and their future families, the rest of your family’s life, the rest of the church and their lives, and the community of which you’re a part. You thought what you did was wrong, but secret. You have no idea the ripples of harm you have caused.”

I was right. The ripples have been unending.

He is solely responsible for his harm, full stop. He is not, however, solely responsible for the systems in which he found himself and the culture that perpetuated the events that happened before and after it, and therefore sent those ripples out farther than they ever needed to go.

For four days I held onto this information amidst funeral plans, telling only my husband, one of my brothers and his wife, and a friend who was also in town for the funeral. We were gutted but did not want our mom to carry this in addition to what she was already grieving. She knew something was amiss but we waited until after the funeral was over to tell her (she shares this herself in this news article).

In the midst of that conversation, she was devastated and shocked, but she said something that floored me.

She said, “Well, this isn’t the first time.”