Chapter Thirteen

Bondage Breakers

Two weeks ago, while in Kentucky, I saw the deacon of the church sitting in the front pew, and as usual, my heart skipped a beat. This man brings up strong feelings—feelings I push right back down because I can’t do anything with them. We can’t talk about the real issue. I’ve tried, only to be rejected. So, there is nothing left to do. Or is there? That’s when it hit me. I decided in that moment that I needed to tell him three words:

I forgive you.

The deacon got up from his seat and addressed the church with the morning exhortation. In all my times back to Monticello, I had not seen him do this before. I had received the communion plate from him, and I had exchanged polite greetings, but not since the courtroom over thirty years ago had I heard him address a crowd.

He started speaking on the breaking of bondage. He quoted from a well-known author. He spoke of the spiritual battles in our minds. He spoke of how Jesus sets captives free and binds up the brokenhearted. He spoke on how repentance is what enables victims to submit to God. He spoke eloquently—so much so that by the time he was done, I questioned whether I had really broken through the bondage of shame like I thought I had. I have the freedom, don’t I? Or am I still a prisoner?

And I also thought, How dare he?

It struck me as ironic, almost cruel, that the man who defended my rapist—and won—was now teaching me about breaking bondage. It felt as if he were winning again.

He finished speaking and returned to his seat, right in front of me. Worship began, and I held it together as I sang How Great is Our God and He Loves Me. Something stirred in my heart, and I knew this was not the place to let it all come out—it wasn’t going to be pretty. I composed myself and continued on with church.

As the pastor taught, I watched the deacon in front of me. He listened, took notes in his Bible, and wrote page after page. And I was confused. How can this man, who so clearly knows the Lord, have done that to me?

After the service, with my heart racing, I approached him.

“Excuse me, Mr. Phillips?”

“Howdy, how are you today?” he said, matter-of-factly.

“I’m okay, thank you. Um…I wanted to say…” His eyes pierced mine. “Who is the author of that book you quoted from?”

“Oh yes, that was Neil T. Anderson. Great book,” he said, very lawyer-like, winning again.

“Thank you, Mr. Phillips,” I replied, my own voice a little too enthusiastic.

And just like that, I walked away, feeling like a coward. I couldn’t say the words. Was it fear? No. What was it?

Without knowing it then, I can now see that I pushed it all away before I even made it to my car. I continued on with my trip and didn’t think about it again—until yesterday.

Driving along, something gnawed at me. “What is it, Lord? What is causing such unrest in my soul?”

Forgive him, I heard.

“I have. I just didn’t say it. I chickened out, that’s all. He intimidates me. He has the power, and I don’t. He’s the lawyer, and I’m just a girl. I didn’t say the words out loud…But I do forgive him.”

Forgive him.

“I have!”

For what? He asked.

For what? I hadn’t thought about the specifics. All I had ever seen was the injustice. Remember how I said it wasn’t going to be pretty when it broke? Well, it wasn’t. The pushed-down, festering emotions hit like a tidal wave. The anger spewed out. I realized I was still holding on to a deep bitterness toward this man.

I had carried a deep well of blame…of victimization.

When I looked at Mr. Phillips, I saw two things: the whore he made me out to be, and the victim of that wrong accusation. He was wrong about me back then, but he had convinced at least one of the twelve jurors to believe his version of who I was—including me, for many years. When I stopped telling myself I was a whore, I told myself I was a victim.

I’ve since had healing in those areas, but the root of bitterness stayed buried. Driving down I-40, I finally named it, released the anger, and allowed myself to feel the hurt.

I thought I had forgiven him—because that’s what I was supposed to do as a Christian. But I hadn’t forgiven him, not really. I hadn’t even known what I was forgiving. So I spoke the offenses out loud to God, each one. I gave Him the accusations, the shame, the false names I had lived under. I gave up the fight for fairness, the need for it to be right.

And the truth is, Mr. Phillips spoke the truth that morning. Bondage can be broken. Repentance is the process of submitting to God. Maybe he has had his own walk of repentance. Maybe that book helped him so much that he wanted to share it with his church family. I’ll never know why he spoke that day, and I’ll never know many other things that only he could answer. I have wanted to meet with him before, because he is the only other living person who can fill in the holes of my memory. And I resent that he probably remembers more than I do.

It’s confusing, being part of that church family, to share space with someone who hurt me so deeply—and yet also plays a part in my healing.

Yesterday in the car, when the ugliness erupted, I shouted to God:

“He took my mother away from me! He took my confidence! He took my voice! He took my life!…How do I forget all that?”

You don’t, I heard. And instantly, I remembered the image I had taken earlier that day—Jesus kneeling in front of the cross, holding a child in His hand.

You don’t have to forget. You give it to Me to hold.

And so, I began the process of true forgiveness right then and there. I don’t know if it’s finished or if it will rise again. But I do know this: my part is to keep putting it in His hands.