No One Told Me...

Preface

I first wrote this blog back in July 2019 under the title His Song. But recently, a few things have happened that nudged me to revisit, update, and even rename it. What was once His Song is now No One Told Me.

The first nudge came just a few days ago. While looking through my blog stats, I noticed that someone had chosen to read His Song. Curious, I went back and reread it myself. In it, I had mentioned listening to Dr. James Dobson’s program, Focus on the Family. The very next day, I read that Dr. Dobson had passed away on August 21st. That felt like too much of a coincidence—after not thinking about him or that program in years, suddenly he was back on my radar the day before I saw the news.

The second nudge came from a post my cousin recently shared on Facebook. She posted a National Geographic article about how, during pregnancy, a baby’s cells migrate into the mother’s bloodstream and then return to the baby—something called fetal-maternal microchimerism (and so much more on the mother and fetus interaction). I had never heard of this before, but reading about it suddenly explained so much about the deep, lifelong bond between mother and child. I’ll include that post at the end of this blog—I think you’ll find it just as meaningful as I did.

Thirdly, I had recently spent some time reading old journals, and when I read this blog again, I discovered that I had mis-remembered a couple of details. So, I felt like I needed to correct those errors. 

Finally, I realized that in 2022, I experienced another healing moment that completed the second half of what began for me back in 2009. It felt like a full circle moment, one that deserved to be shared here.

So, with all these new insights and promptings, I knew it was time to refresh, rename, and repost this blog—now called No One Told Me.

                                                                                                                 

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

​This is going to be a different kind of blog for me. Honestly, I would rather not write this one because I don’t like making waves, ruffling feathers, creating controversy, or bringing attention to myself. But for some reason, it keeps pressing on my heart that I need to share it. So, I’ll be obedient and see what the Lord does with it.

When I first wrote this blog, in 2019, my oldest granddaughter turned 15, which is such an important age on many levels. My testimony is not something I could ever share with a young child—it’s more like PG-rated. But with this birthday, I felt she was old enough to read and understand it. So, I went ahead and sent it to her and my oldest grandson. They had heard bits and pieces of my story before, but most of what is in my testimony they had never heard.

Sending it to them made me think about my past again, and about the things I did when I was young—which brings me to the point of this blog.

One of the things I share in my testimony is that in 1977, at the age of 17, I had an abortion. I had run away from home at 16, living on my own and making some poor choices. At the time, I was staying in a long-term hotel room with my boyfriend and working the night shift at a small restaurant within walking distance, since I didn’t have a car.

When I first got pregnant, I thought I had mono because I was constantly sick and feeling miserable. One of my regular customers, who was a nurse, suggested that I get a pregnancy test. She was also the one who helped, guided, and directed me, and ultimately made it possible for me to get the abortion. Afterwards, she even let me move in with her for a little while as I recovered.

​“Pro-Life” and “Pro-Choice” debates seem to filter in and out of the media depending on election issues or law changes or reversals. But I have given this topic a lot of thought. I believe that we are all both pro-choice and pro-life—we just make different choices and choose different lives. We can choose to be abstinent, to use birth control, or not. And when faced with an unplanned pregnancy, we can either choose our own current life style or the baby’s life. Either way, we are making choices and choosing a life.

​I understand that most people have already picked a “camp” they support on this issue. My intention is not to change anyone’s mind or to judge anyone for their choices, but simply to share my story. Everyone is on their own journey, and I’ve learned to respect that. My job is to love people wherever they are, not to judge or condemn them. With that said, my hope and prayer is that my story will resonate with you—especially if you’ve walked a similar path—and that it might make a difference for you or someone you know.

Even though I am now a Christian and lean more toward the “pro-life” side, I have to say I still understand the pro-choice mindset—because that’s where I was when I made my “choice.” At 17, I was not a Christian, I had run away from home at 16, and I had no place of my own. I had absolutely no way to care for a child. It was a really scary place to be.

If I had chosen to keep the baby, my life would have changed drastically, and I wasn’t ready for that, nor did I desire that kind of change. To be brutally honest, the thought of having a child at that time felt like an unworkable “inconvenience.” Because I didn’t know the Lord then, I was able to “dehumanize” the baby, which made it easier for me to go through with the abortion.

Another ​brutally honest truth: deep down, there was still a part of me that knew it was a baby and not just tissue. I just couldn’t allow myself to dwell on that, because if I did, I wouldn’t have had the courage to go through with terminating the pregnancy. So I shut my mind down completely ( picture me holding my ears, closing my eyes, and saying, “la-la-la-la-la” ) so I wouldn’t have to think about it.

​There are two distinct times in my life when I thought to myself, “Why didn’t anyone tell me I would feel this way?”

The first was regarding the abortion (the second I will share at the end of the blog). I had never heard anyone talk about the emotional impact that follows. As women, I believe we are “wired” to have babies and to nurture and care for our children. To abort that process goes completely against our natural design, so it stands to reason that we will inevitably go through a grieving process—whether we want to or not.

It doesn’t necessarily happen right away. In my case, it was years before I began to face and experience the pain. So... why don’t we talk about it more? I don’t remember hearing anyone mention the “aftermath emotional pain”… or maybe I didn’t look hard enough, or I intentionally avoided and ignored it. I’m not sure. Granted, there are probably women who don’t go through what I went through. But if I did, chances are pretty good that there are others who have gone through it, will go through it, or are going through it right now. That’s why I’m sharing. Maybe you haven’t heard about it either.

But this is my story. I made my choice, and I live with the consequences of that choice. My hope and prayer is that my story will help someone—even if it’s only one person, it will be worth it.

My journey has involved several phases of realizations and emotional healing. I was married for ten years before I could even talk about it with my husband. The first phase came around 1990. I was working-out in my garage while listening to a program called Focus on the Family. That day, they played an audio version of a story called Tilly.

The story was about a woman who had an abortion and, through a series of miraculous circumstances, met her daughter, Tilly, in heaven. The grace and healing that transpired in that story became the tool God used to open the door in my own heart—the one I had kept shut for so many years.

My workout ended with me collapsing on the floor in a heap of sobs, finally acknowledging and releasing some of the emotions I had buried for so long. Through Tilly, I realized that I would one day meet my child. And I wondered: Would he ask why? Why wasn’t he wanted? Why wasn’t he loved? Would he even want to meet me? Would he be hurt and angry? Would he forgive me? Could I forgive myself?

But most importantly, through that story, I felt God telling me that I was forgiven by Him—and that my child was with Him.

(Here is a link to this same story, only about 8 minutes long: Storytelling of Tilly by Frank Peretti - NITOC 2014).

The second phase of healing came in 1996. The Lord was working on me again and prompted me to read some of my old journals. In the process, I came across the one that documented the abortion. That stirred my heart and got me thinking about it again.

I began to write a poem.  I knew in my heart the child was a boy, so I titled the poem “His Song.” Writing this helped me process my emotional journey a little more. With many tears, it took me deeper, allowing me to put into words the things that had lived in my heart and mind through the years—the story of a lost child (both me and my child), and my longings and musings about what he might have been if I had made a different choice.

 Here is the poem I wrote:

“HIS SONG”

This is a story of a girl you may know,

who made some wrong choices

and didn’t know where to go.

She is lost and confused, and very much afraid,

because, in a moment of passion,

a new life was made.

She was young and had run away from home,

Though surrounded by friends,

she still felt very alone.

Her life and future were ever before her,

but for the life growing inside her,

It’s future was very unsure.

(chorus)

If only she had known the truth,

If only someone had shared,

this story may have had a different ending,

and a life may have been spared.

She was told she wouldn’t feel any pain.

That it was simple and easy,

no big deal, your whole life to gain.

Just go to sleep,

Tomorrow is a new day.

But her life would never be the same.

There is nothing that you can do to hide,

the knowledge is down deep inside.

You can’t run from what you did,

no lies, drugs, or alcohol can keep it hid.

Sometimes she wonders who he would be.

She calculates the time gone by,

to figure out how old he’d be.

Would he like baseball, football, soccer, or skiing?

Would he like art, drama, music and singing?

She missed the chance to look in his eyes,

to kiss his face,

to hold him tight.

To comfort him when he cried.

(chorus)

This road we walk can be full of pain,

heartaches, fear and shame.

But through the life,

death and love of Christ,

we have so much more to gain.

This story has a happy ending

because Jesus has set her free.

He has forgiven all her sins

and gave her eternity!!

Now her child and her will finally meet,

and she will wonder no more,

about what he looks like, or who he is, like she did before.

(chorus a little changed)

So, if you get a chance share the truth,

and show someone you care.

You may have a chance to change a story,

and a life you may spare.

by Linda Daniels  1996

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well." Psalm 139:13-14

Part one of the third phase came in ​January of 200​9. Tom and I were having a conversation with one of his friends and ​​the Lord opened a door for me to share the story of my abortion. This opened a door for​ a deeper and richer conversation then we would have had otherwise.​ 

The next day, I shared this conversation with a friend and she mentioned that her daughter attended a Byzantine Church that holds retreats for women who have had abortions. She said that during these retreats each woman goes through a process of naming the child and then they have a memorial service for them. When she said this, the emotion welled up inside me and got stuck in my throat​. I knew right then and there—that was what I needed to do.

This was the hardest step of all. You see, it had been easier for me to go through with the abortion when I could convince myself it was just a nameless piece of tissue. But giving him a name made him real. It solidified the reality of what I had done.

I didn’t attend the retreat, but I knew I needed to take those principles and apply them myself. I ​s​pent some time with the Lord, asking Him what to name my child. ​I wanted to include ​my children in all of this so​ I called my daughter and I told her what the Lord had been doing with me in this area and told her that I wanted to include her in the naming process. The first thing she said was, “his name is Joshua….” She said it so confidently​! She ​said she didn’t know why but that was the name she thought of when she thought of him​. I ​s​tarted crying again because it felt so right. My son now ha​s a name. 

I wrote in my journal back then;

​"Every time I say his name I start to cry… it seems to be sinking deeper into my heart now a little at a time. I am even seeing my family as bigger by one more member now, a family of five instead of four. Today I pictured seeing him in heaven and actually calling him by name when I embraced him… then I realized that until I did this, I wouldn’t have had a name to greet him with!! Oh my, how sad that would have been!!​"

Joshua became real and alive in my heart—and in eternity.​ Joshua means “salvation” or “he saves” and it is also a form of Jesus’ name​. The Lord has saved us both and is now bringing us together through my healing.​ 

Phase two of this step, the memorial service, happened in 2022

A friend of mine, who had had two abortions, shared with me that she found an organization (Hand of Hope Partners) that helped women deal with post-abortion grief and trauma. She went through a Bible Study with them and at the end of the study they offered a Memorial Service for the child, or children, and my friend invited me to her service. I was so honored and KNEW that God had me there for a reason. 

There were many special and beautiful aspects of this service that made this such a precious time for both of us. At one point, early on, my friend handed me something that was wrapped in a Kleenex. When I opened it up I saw a tiny, little ceramic embryo, a perfectly formed baby, that fit in the palm of my hand… I couldn't help but weep when I saw it. This little baby represented Joshua.

 

I held him through the rest of the service and included him in the ceremony. This was my friend's, and her baby's service, but Joshua and I were invited, by her, to join in on the opportunity for closure. I wept a lot. 

In God's amazing mercy and grace, He allowed me to be apart of this service so that I could peel back yet another layer of healing in this chapter of my life.

I believe each of these steps were vital for me in my journey to know God and walking through my emotional healing. With each experience, I thought I was done—​But God keeps surprising me. It turns out there was so much more healing needed than I ever realized.

There are many layers to this “onion.” And because of His great love for me, the Lord continues to go as deep as I will allow Him. Even now, through the process of sharing this story with you, I feel Him going deeper still. More emotions have been stirred up, and I’ve shed even more tears in the telling. But now, the tears are of amazement and joy with what the Lord continues to do in my life.

You may be asking right about now, “So… what is your point?!” And that’s a good question.

Earlier, I mentioned that I had never really heard anyone talk about what happens after an abortion—the emotional trauma that follows. That’s why I’m sharing my story. I’ve been dealing with the consequences of my choice for 48 years now. Everyone’s story is different—some experience a deeper sense of grief than others—but I believe we are all affected by it to one degree or another.

The bottom line is this: there is a cost, no matter what you choose to do. It doesn’t end with the abortion. There is a cost in keeping the child, and a cost in aborting the child. Both carry lifelong consequences, though they look different and affect us in different ways.

So the bigger question becomes: Which cost are you willing to pay? The struggle and difficulty of raising a child? The process of adoption? Or the weight of terminating a pregnancy? Each of us will experience these costs in different ways and degrees. But I believe we can make better decisions when we are better informed about the cost of each possible choice.

I can’t speak to the adoption process, but I encourage anyone facing that decision to look into it beforehand so you can make an informed choice. Another area I can’t fully speak into is pregnancy as a result of rape. I have, however, heard amazing story's of women who chose to keep their child after a rape—and how that child became a tremendous blessing in their life. 

As I said in the beginning, I don’t want to ruffle feathers or offend anyone. My prayer is that my story will help someone—either in their journey of healing, or in making an informed decision. And if you have already made your choice, as I did, my prayer is that you will find peace, forgiveness, and a deeper healing than you ever thought possible through my story and the love of God.

Father, I thank You for this journey and for caring about every little detail in my life—as well as the big ones. I pray that You would bless this blog and anoint it with Your love, grace, and forgiveness, so that others will see You in new and wonderful ways. Thank You for taking such good care of Joshua and for the healing process You have orchestrated—for my good and Your glory. With much love, Your daughter, Linda :)

Additional information:

The second time I had the thought “Why didn’t anyone tell me that I would feel this way!” was when my daughter got married. I sat in the chair during her wedding ceremony, completely undone by a wave of emotion I never saw coming. It wasn’t sadness, exactly—it was more like the realization that I was letting go of a precious treasure I had held close for 19 years and entrusting her to someone else. That lump in my throat was so big I thought I might sob out loud in front of everyone! No one told me about that feeling either.

And here is my cousin's Facebook post she shared from National Geographic:  

National Geographic  · 

Wonderful World

“​When pregnant, the ​cells of the baby migrate into the mothers bloodstream and then circle back into the baby, it’s called “fetal-maternal microchimerism”.⁠

For 41 weeks, the cells circulate and merge backwards and forwards, and after the baby is born, many of these cells stay in the mother’s body, leaving a permanent imprint in the mothers tissues, bones, brain, and skin, and often stay there for decades. Every single child a mother has afterwards will leave a similar imprint on her body, too.

Even if a pregnancy doesn't go to full term or if you have an abortion, these cells still migrate into your bloodstream.

Research has shown that if a mother's heart is injured, fetal cells will rush to the site of the injury and change into different types of cells that specialize in mending the heart.

The baby helps repair the mother, while the mother builds the baby.

How cool is that?

This is often why certain illnesses vanish while pregnant.

It’s incredible how mothers bodies protect the baby at all costs, and the baby protects & rebuilds the mother back - so that the baby can develop safely and survive.

Think about crazy cravings for a moment. What was the mother deficient in that the baby made them crave?

Studies have also shown cells from a fetus in a mothers brain 18 years after she gave birth. How amazing is that?”

If you’re a mom you know how you can intuitively feel your child even when they are not there….Well, now there is scientific proof that moms carry them for years and years even after they have given birth to them.

I find this to be so very beautiful.

Broken Love

“When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” Matthew 9:36

This blog was inspired by a Father’s Day letter Tom wrote to his dad. Instead of sending store-bought greeting cards, Tom has always chosen to write personal letters to his parents—heartfelt notes filled with pictures and touching words to celebrate birthdays, Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day. His words often moved his mom to tears—grateful, joyful tears.

In this most recent Father’s Day note, Tom reflected on how, when we’re young, we often see our dads as superheroes—able to do anything and everything. But as we grow older, we begin to realize they’re just regular people.

In Tom’s case, he now sees his dad as a true hero—not because he was perfect, but because he accomplished so much in life without a manual, doing the best he could. He failed at times, succeeded at others, but never gave up. Here is an excerpt from his letter:

“A hero isn’t a guy from Krypton with limitless strength or some super genius who is born with intelligence, it is the everyday guy who somehow overcomes the obstacles in his life. The “Hall of Heroes” (he referenced the time he had with his dad at the Football Hall of Fame) was filled with men like that, men who found ways to succeed.”

As Tom and I talked about his letter the next day, I couldn’t help but think about my mom. She wasn’t necessarily a hero in my eyes—she was, truthfully, one of the most broken people I’ve ever known. And yet, despite that, she accomplished some pretty incredible feats of normalcy: she did life, held down jobs, put herself through school, and raised two daughters. No, she wouldn’t have won a “Best Mother” award—but considering what she endured as both a child and an adult, she succeeded in ways that still surprise me. Things most people would consider just part of everyday life were so much more difficult for her. In that regard, she really was a Superwoman.

She was molested by her father from the age of about 5 or 6 until she left home at 15. She got pregnant and then married, mostly because she was desperate to get out of the house. She lost that first child, but went on to have my sister at 16 and me at 17. After I was born, she left her husband and, somehow—just a girl of 18—set out to raise us on her own… ish. She put herself through cosmetology school and became a hairdresser, while working as a go-go dancer at night. I say she raised us by herself, but in truth, she leaned heavily on family members and babysitters to help care for us. There were even a few people who offered to adopt us, but she refused to give us up. She wanted to keep being our mom.

 “When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick.” Matthew 14:14

That was her “good” side. On the flip side, because of her trauma, she lived with DID (Dissociative Identity Disorder) and had about four or five different personalities. She struggled with alcoholism and dabbled in drugs. After she passed, I read one of her journals and, after reading about the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder, she wrote that it described her perfectly—and she wondered if that’s what she had. Because of the abuse she’d endured, she only understood love through sex. There were many men in her life as she was always in search of “the right one.” Her relationships always began full of promise but inevitably ended in disaster, time after time, doing more and more damage to her already-fragile self.

When I was a teenager, she attempted suicide at least three times that I know of. I mourned her death—sometimes even hoped for it—just so she could finally be free from her misery. I lost count of how many times I grieved her while she was still alive. I left home at 16 because life had become so chaotic. The constant drama of anger, fighting, alcohol, and pain was too much. I felt I had a better chance of surviving on my own than staying in that environment.

As a young adult, I still longed for her acceptance and approval—but I never really felt like I got it. I’ve always been a people-pleaser, an approval-seeker, and all I wanted was to make her happy. But she was impossible to please and never seemed happy with me. My sister and I used to joke—though it wasn’t very funny—that we took turns being on what we called her “black list.” If we didn’t behave exactly the way she wanted, we were on the list.

At one point in my life, I completely lost it. I had once again been hit with her disapproval, and after I hung up the phone, something in me snapped. I started screaming and flailing on the bed like I was being attacked by a monster—pounding the pillows and mattress with all my might. Tom came running into the room, trying to figure out what was happening, and found me a sobbing, ugly mess. Eventually, I calmed down. I thought I’d feel better afterward—like maybe I’d released something—but instead, I was surprised to feel nothing at all. Just empty. Numb.

Shortly after that, I gave my life to the Lord, married Tom, had kids, and eventually moved to North Carolina to help start a church. Whenever we traveled back to California to visit Tom’s family, I always tried to carve out time to see my own. On one of those visits, I called my mom to let her know I was in town and asked if we could meet at the bottom of the mountain—she lived up in Crestline, in the San Bernardino mountains. But she acted like it was the biggest inconvenience I could have possibly asked and flat-out refused. I had just flown across the country and was ready to drive two hours to see her, but she couldn’t be bothered to go twenty minutes out of her way to see me.

I felt an emotional switch flip inside me. Unlike before, this wasn’t an outward explosion—it was a quiet, internal shift. I heard the Lord gently remind me that I didn’t need my mom’s acceptance or approval. He told me I already had His unconditional love and approval—and that was all that truly mattered. I believe that “switch” was God’s mercy for me. From that point on, I shut my mom off emotionally. Later, when she started calling repeatedly in drunken rages, I cut her off completely. It was my son who finally answered the nonstop ringing phone and yelled at her to stop calling. She eventually did—and I didn’t speak to her for three years.

“Jesus had compassion on them and touched their eyes. Immediately they received their sight and followed him.” Matthew 20:34

 By this time, she was on state disability because her trauma had manifested physically as rheumatoid arthritis. After a lifetime of smoking, she also had COPD. Emotionally, she couldn’t even pretend to function in the world as a “normal” person anymore. So, the state assigned her a caretaker named Cecilia, who was available as needed to make sure she took her medication, ate properly, and managed daily life.

Fast forward to the end of those three years of silence on my part—God gave me a gift. Those years allowed me to focus on my own healing, and by then, I was in a much better place. In October 2003, Tom’s parents called him, asking where my mom lived because they’d heard about the terrible fires in Crestline and were worried about her. That prompted me to reach out to my sister and aunt, who were also in the area, to find out what was going on. Neither answered their phones due to the mandatory evacuation. So, I took a deep breath, hoping my mom wouldn’t pick up either—but she did. It was like we had just talked yesterday; everything between us felt normal. She told me how bad the fires were and how she refused to evacuate because she didn’t want to leave her home. That phone call opened the door for many more conversations to come.

The gift God gave me was that my mom shared how Cecilia, her caretaker, had led her to the Lord—and how she finally found the man she had been searching for her whole life: Jesus Christ. I sat down and wept tears of amazement, gratitude, and joy. After that, we shared many meaningful phone calls, asked each other for forgiveness, and I truly felt we both found closure. The smoke and ash from the fire worsened her COPD, and she passed away seven months later, on May 16, 2004, at age 61. But God used that fire to bring me the gift of reconciliation and peace. Only God. If I hadn’t called, I would have missed that precious gift of those last months of connection.

After she passed, I remember driving down the mountain after taking care of her things when the song “I Can Only Imagine” by MercyMe came on the radio. I wept again—but this time, they were tears of awe and release—as I pictured her dancing before Jesus, finally free from pain, finally at peace, safe in His arms. I didn’t grieve her loss; I had done that too many times before. Instead, I felt the joy of her salvation—the peace and freedom I had always hoped she would find.

Of course, this is the “Reader’s Digest” version— just a glimpse of some key moments so you can understand the next part of my story.

When Tom and I were talking about his father, I felt a nudge from God to write this blog. This isn’t something I would randomly choose to share on my own. I’ve told these stories to very few people in my life. Even now, I find myself wondering why God is prompting me to do this—but I’m choosing to trust Him and be obedient.

“Jesus called his disciples to him and said, "I have compassion for these people; they have already been with me three days and have nothing to eat..." Matthew 15:32

Before I go any further, I want to preface this next part by saying that, throughout my Christian walk, I’ve often prayed that God would help me see people the way He does—to look past outward behavior and see their hearts through His eyes, with love, compassion, and grace. I certainly haven’t gotten it right every time, but I do believe God answered that prayer when it came to my mom.

The stories I’m about to share won’t be easy—for me to write, or possibly for you to read. So before I continue, I want to gently remind you that this is my story—my testimony and my journey. I don’t expect anyone else to have the same experience or path. God works with each of us so uniquely and personally. But my prayer is that, through sharing this, you might find hope, healing, or even freedom—for yourself or for someone you care about.

This first story took place when Tom and I were working as innkeepers at the bed and breakfast— in 2011, (I found my original journal entry if you have the time and interest: Linda's Journal - July 17, 2011). We were having a conversation about emotionally broken people. Tom said something that really struck me: “It’s hard to know how broken people are, because they look so normal on the outside. And because they look normal, we expect them to act normal.” Then he added, “Like your mom—she looked perfectly normal, but she was truly a broken soul.”

Then he asked, “What if people looked as broken on the outside as they are on the inside?”

And in that moment, God lifted me up in the Spirit and dropped me into a vision;

In the vision, I was standing in the kitchen doorway at the Inn, looking down at my mom—only now, she appeared as broken on the outside as she had always been on the inside. She was crumpled on the floor in front of me, a puddle of torn flesh and shattered bones. Her head rested on top of this broken mass, eyes pleading, and her arms—from elbows to fingertips—were reaching up toward me, like she was trying to hug me.

Then I saw myself. I was standing there with my hands on my hips, glaring down at her with anger and disdain. In my heart, I was stubbornly insisting that she “be like everyone else”—that she stand up and hug me like a normal person.

When the Lord showed me my own heart—full of anger, pride, and arrogance— I was immediately humbled to my core. When I realized what I had unknowingly been doing, my heart ached. I was overwhelmed with compassion for my mom.

In the vision, I dropped to my knees, wrapped my arms around her, and finally accepted the broken love she had tried to give me—love I had missed my whole life. I began to sob, both in the vision and in real life. Even now, as I recall that moment, the emotion still brings me to tears.

God gave me the gift of seeing her through His eyes—with His understanding and compassion. And in that moment, He gave me the ability to accept my mom’s broken love.

“Filled with compassion, Jesus reached out his hand and touched the man. "I am willing," he said. "Be clean!" Mark 1:41

That experience was truly life-changing for me. I had no idea how much anger I had been carrying in my heart my whole life. But in that moment, the anger was released, and I was finally free! I felt more joy and happiness than I ever had before. Tom even says I became a different person—more playful and sillier than he’d ever seen me before. Only God can bring that kind of freedom.

As a side note, I did not feel guilt, shame, or condemnation for my inability to see my mom that way before. Instead, I felt incredibly blessed that God loved me enough to reveal what was in my heart and free me from the bondage of the anger, hurt and pain.

 Now, on to the next story. As you can probably imagine, being raised by someone so deeply broken, I couldn’t avoid becoming broken myself. I wasn’t a “bad” person, but I was incredibly needy—constantly searching for acceptance and approval. That longing led me into promiscuity at a young age. I had my first sexual experience at 14, and by the time I was 18, I had been with over 30 partners (yes, I actually kept track for some reason).

But then, at 18, I met Tom. And I haven’t been with anyone else in the 46 years since. That, too, is nothing short of a miraculous gift from God!

I was born in 1960 and was a teenager in the 70’s and my mom and stepfather were caught up in the free love, hippy era and when I was about 12, they talked about teaching my sister and I how to have sex, by being our first ones. I really didn’t think twice about it, not really knowing at the time what that meant and how inappropriate it was! They also wanted to be the first ones to get us high, saying they would prefer us to be at home getting high than out somewhere else with strangers that might take advantage of us… Yep, they actually thought, and said that! And then did it!! I was about 12 or 13 when they gave me my first joint!

And the other scenario happened when I was 15 (1975). My sister was not with us at the time as she had run away from home when she was 14 and was placed in Juvenile Hall and then in foster care. Instead, it was my step brother. My parents did not know at the time that I had already had my first sexual experience so they proceeded like I hadn’t. We all got high and then went into the bedroom, mom with my step bother, and me with my step dad.

Afterwards, I went into my room and crawled to bed, kind of dazed and confused, wondering what just happened. And then, unexpectedly, my mom came into my room and proceeded to have sex with me. I was surprised and still in shock. I didn’t protest, I just laid there and tried to wrap my mind around what was happening. I didn’t feel any pleasure… I didn’t feel anything, emotionally or physically. I was completely shut down, maybe even dissociated. Then she left and we never once spoke about that night or what she did.

“Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

It took decades before I could even tell my husband. I could talk about all the men from my past, but I could never bring myself to talk about that night. Just thinking about it filled me with shame and embarrassment. The last thing I wanted was talk about it or to tell someone.

In 2001, I began having fits of unexpected, uncontrollable sobbing. I had no idea where the emotion was coming from. Sometimes, I’d be at work and have to retreat to the bathroom because I couldn’t hold back the tears. I was so confused—I didn’t understand what was happening inside me. Eventually, I decided to see a therapist. And it was during that time that I was finally able to share that story with someone for the first time.

My therapist helped me process what had happened and I came to understand that my mother truly was incapable of being a mom—incapable of nurturing me in a healthy way—because she was so deeply broken herself.

But I think what helped me most was simply talking about it. Getting it out into the open allowed healing to finally begin.

The next step in my healing came about seven or eight years ago. I was working with a woman in the Life Coaching ministry, and we were going through various workbooks together. I always say that I haven’t “arrived” in my healing, but I’ll lock arms with the women God brings to me, and we’ll walk the journey together.

After we completed one workbook, she suggested another resource for us to explore: The Twelve Steps of Adult Children workbook (for Adult Children of Alcoholics). God used that book in a profound way to help me see that experience in a healing way. One of the exercises asked about traumatic experiences, and I listed that time with my mom as one of mine.

Up until that point, I had never gone back and looked at that night in any real detail. But when the Lord gently brought me back to it, I was amazed by something I had never noticed before.

As I recalled that night, it struck me how different she was toward me—more gentle, complimentary, and kinder than I had ever known her to be. This was not the mom I had always known. She had never treated me with such love and tenderness before. I was truly dumbfounded.

Then the Lord reminded me that, because her own father had molested her so young and for so long, she simply didn’t know how to show love any other way. This was the first time she was able to express how much she loved me—in the only way she knew how. Wow. That realization was incredibly revelatory. Once again, God helped me see my mom through His eyes, and understand the broken love she had for me. It was yet another layer of healing and compassion.

Again, this is my healing journey. I’m not condoning what she did, but rather sharing how my amazing Lord has given me insight, healing, and freedom from the trauma and abuse I experienced. She showed me love in the only way she knew how. It was broken love—but it was the only love she had, and she risked doing something extreme to show me how much she loved me.

Broken love is a reality, and we all have it —whether from our families, relationships, or even from ourselves. Maybe her love seemed more broken than most, but through God’s perfect love, healing is possible. My journey has shown me that no matter how deep the wounds, His grace can transform brokenness into beauty, anger into compassion, and pain into peace.

I pray that you will invite God to heal and restore you and that you will trade in your broken love for His perfect Love. His love is patient, kind, and powerful enough to make all things new.

“He did not need man's testimony about man, for he knew what was in a man.” John 2:25

Here are some closing questions;

• Have you ever prayed to see people through the eyes of Christ?
• Is there someone in your life you need to see with His compassion, grace, and mercy?
• Could it be that you need to see yourself through His eyes of compassion?

Father, thank You for the revelations You have given me and for those moments of clarity and compassion that only You can provide. I pray that my testimony will inspire someone else to trust You with their heart—so they, too, can receive Your perfect, healing, transforming love.