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An Open Letter About Weathering the Domestic Violence Storm

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He is Still Enough | An Open Letter About Weathering the Domestic Violence Storm.

It will be 2 years this May, and the storm still doesn’t end.

Domestic violence, even in its aftermath, is like being in a hurricane. A never-ending hurricane.

The pain, the fear, the uncertainty — it hasn’t ended for me, and probably never will. I still grieve, every single day.

Domestic violence with children involved? A tsunami. Nothing in its path is left standing. The home and its inhabitants rendered unrecognizable. Their sense of direction altered. The compass is left continually spinning out of control.

All landmarks that were once familiar carry their own weighted sense of sadness. The landscape will never be the same. It never ends.

Yet, He is still enough. He is good, and He is able.

Almost two years ago, I felt afraid and alone. I needed to talk to someone. Praying she wouldn’t ask for details, yet fearing the impending storm, I called a good friend early in the morning.

She heard it — immediately. She knew something was wrong. She knew me.
She asked. I broke.

I was pregnant. Alone. Scared. Their father? Incarcerated for domestic violence. Strict “no contact” orders were in place — for two years.

“He was incarcerated for domestic violence. I don’t know what to do. I’m really scared. What do you think I should do?” I told her. Sometimes the silence before the storm is the most terrifying sound.

I half expected her to give me an escape plan – an evacuation route – that I could follow. My world was flooding around me, and not one raindrop had yet fallen. Surely she would help me come up with a plan. Surely she would reassure me that this happens…that I could weather this. That there was some place safe to go.
“You have to tell God He is enough,” she said. “Right now. In this very moment.”
Did she hear what I had just said?

“I…I can’t,” I told her. “I don’t know that,” I admitted in shame. “I don’t. I can’t lie.”
“Then tell Him that. Tell Him to show you that He is still enough,” she said without hesitation.

The winds picked up. I was thrown. The storm had truly begun.

How could she? How could she ask me that in a time like this?

I desperately needed an anchor. I needed something to hold onto. There was nothing. Nothing but Him. Everything else I had to hold onto had been tied to the wrong place. It hadn’t held. That anchor, and everything with it, was gone. That person I held onto was gone, but the storm remained. How would I weather this alone?

I hung up shortly after, storm raging inside me, and awkwardly got to my knees. And for a few brave seconds, I was completely honest.

“Show me!” I wept bitterly. “You are going to have to show me that you are still enough.”

And He did. He showed me. Over, and over, and over. He continues to show me. He is still enough.

You see, sweet friend, He doesn’t need you to know He is still enough. He needs you to be honest with Him when you aren’t sure if He is.

Fast forward a year and a half to the same home. To the home destroyed by a storm. To the home with a mother who still cries daily, a little girl who never forgets and a baby who has no idea the storm that was raging when she was born.

The home with a mother who is prayerfully standing against bitterness and anger. A mother who falls into His arms on a nightly basis, mind swimming with to-do lists, goals, anxiety and dreams of her future.

He is still enough.

When the bills he left you with are looming and the savings are dwindling. He is still enough.

When your grief is still so great it causes physical pain and hot, hot tears. He is still enough.

When your daughter wakes up in the middle of the night, afraid, and you have no one to help you calm her down. He is still enough.

When you’re so sick that you can barely care for your own self, yet have to care for others. He is still enough.

When you are all so angry you take it out on each other and then apologize, falling into a crying heap. He is still enough.

When you look at the pictures. The pictures where you both look like babies, and you remember that your imperfect and crazy love was real — and bore fruit, beautiful fruit. He is still enough.

When a man who saw the real you says he loves you but then backs away. He is still enough.

When your friend posts a “perfect” family picture which makes your heart fracture into a million tiny pieces. He is still enough.

When you realize that he is still with her. HER. The woman who thinks she has found her “happily ever after” with a violent man. He is still enough.

When you realize she knew, yet welcomed him into her bed, home and heart — recklessly and selfishly. He is still enough.

When you wonder if you will ever be known, appreciated and loved unconditionally.

Or be a wife to the wonderful, God-fearing man you have dreamed of for so long.
Or have the courage to live out your passion and fearlessly pursue your dreams.
Or inspire other women to fall before Him for their stormy few seconds of courage.

He is still enough.

Her, He will say.

The woman who fought for her children’s safety during the storm.
The woman who is giving her baby girls every bit of truth that she has.
The woman who is still dreaming despite practicality calling loudly.
The woman who SURVIVED, albeit battered, and who is now anchored to steadfast places.
The woman who knows that happy endings always begin with truth and honesty, and are fueled by love — not recklessness or selfishness.
The woman whose courage and honesty ushered in the full measure of my provision.
The woman who is still weathering the storm and its aftermath — and will forever.

“She is enough because she is mine,” He will say.


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