Deep Wounds

Deep wounds.  No matter how much time passes or work is done in therapy, some wounds don’t fully heal; for they run deep, penetrated into bone.  They still hurt when touched. 

I have childhood trauma from an experience where the pastor (PG) aka “the butcher” of our church played my dad like a fiddle every time there was an opportunity to dig his meat hooks in further.  My Dad’s dad died from cancer in 1979.  At every peak emotional experience, the reverend would exploit the vulnerability.  Wreck the moment by telling my father how much he is loved by god and too bad he wasn’t there to experience this.  They’d cry.  They’d hug.  They sang kumb-by-ya.  Over time the manipulation became the push of a button to activate emotional trauma where closure hadn’t been fully reconciled. 

My mom was a hoarder.  The house always looked like a literal war zone.  Jump to a time when my dad was at work. I was about 10 years old.  The reverend came to church with one of his friends to show him an elaborate electric train layout my dad had since he was a small boy.  My mom refused entry.  PG essentially ignored my mom’s boundary and barged in right past her.  My mom was crying.  My sister was crying.  I was crying.  And this monster went to the playroom and showed the train off like it was his.  I don’t know if my dad ever knew what happened.  If he did, he never did anything about it because he was ‘hooked.’

When I was a teenager going through confirmation, PG always wanted acolytes and crucifers for the morning service.  He would recruit someone from Sunday School to do it.  Sometimes a week in advance so the names could be printed in the bulletin.  If there was no one, he’d lean on the parents.  My dad was an easy target.  Next thing you know I was roped-in to doing it more than I wanted.  I was furious.  Every time I turned around I was stuck dawning a robe and being PGs puppet.  My Dad was too weak to honor my boundary because he was hooked.  By the butcher.

Eventually allegations of an associate pastor groping women surfaced and PG was ousted from the church for not taking appropriate action.  He was paterno’d except it was women instead of young boys.  The controlling synod fired PG and a restraining order was fired.  A dear family friend was taken out for collateral damage.  It’s par for the course when PG was using people to serve his needs instead of serving God. 

My Mom died and we had a funeral service at a parlor.  A close family friend who is still close friends with PG was assisting with funeral as was his wife.  While planning, I told everyone in the room if PG made an appearance at the funeral, I would deny him entry unleashing all the fury, anger and hurt I’ve carried since I was a child.  No one gets to celebrate my Mom when they abused her.  NO ONE.

A situation came up where my wound was pressed with a branding iron.  The emotion, anger, resentment, hurt and disappointment over the monster rose from deep within with the fury of an internal stalled out hurricane.  My dad wanted to show me video of PG working a funeral.  I was flaming angry.  My emotions devouring my ability to respond rationally.  I was bent for 18 hours.  Discombobulated.  A rage held at boiling point.  Eventually the intensity subsided.  I phoned my Dad and asked him what his intent was to have me watch the funeral.  He didn’t even know the lady being mourned.  He wanted to show me a song sung; I Only Imagine by MercyMe.  Sung by a choral master at a Lutheran church.  It was like watching a cracker break dance.  It was awful. 

I then told my Dad I was upset because he knows the wounds I carry from being abused by a person in power.  I told my Dad if PG was sitting across the table from me, it would take every bit of restraint for me not to reach across the table and strangle him with by bare hands.   My Dad apologized.  I appreciated his acknowledgement of the lapse in judgement.  He said he would be more diligent about not poking my deep wound.

Then I told my Dad that if PG is now going to be active and/or participating in worship services that he would have to make other arrangements to be transported.  I am no longer willing to open those wounds or have anything to do with PG.  I apologized.  He said he understood. 

It felt good to reconcile my feelings and let my Dad know I was hurt.  Surprised a 40-year-old wound hurts even more today than it did when it happened.  I guess that’s what happened when it wasn’t just hurt.  It was hurt with trauma.  Feel good I was able to have the conversation to share the hurt with my dad and the profound effect seeing PG again had on me.  Glad I waited and didn’t say something that would have damaged our relationship and hurt him.  Restraint.  Process.  Response.  Sharing.  Forgiveness.  Some of that happened today.  There’s still work to do.  It may only be resolved when either PG or my Dad cross the time space dimension and we all go our separate ways.

Deep wounds don't always stop hurting. Sometimes healing is learning which hands are allowed to touch them.