WHEN I WAS 11 YEARS OLD, my grandfather molested me. As a naive kid, I didn't even know what the word sex meant, and I tended to be obedient to and respectful of my elders. So when this happened, I had no human skills with which to protect myself—to fight back, or run away, or even tell my parents. I locked myself in a bathroom, cried, and asked God what to do. I could not make sense of what had happened. I just knew it was terribly wrong and that God, who I knew to be all good, had no part in it.
The answer I got from my prayer was a heightened awareness that God would always love me—no matter what. I reasoned with all the basic truths about God's love and care for me that I had learned from my parents and in Sunday School until I calmed down.
Then, with all the wit and wisdom of an 11-year-old, I decided to forget about it. If I couldn't figure it out, and God was no part of it, I didn't need to carry it around. I steered clear of my grandfather, making sure never to be left alone with him again. He passed on two years later, and I proceeded into my teenage years.
