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I grew up on farms in the 1950s and 1960s, fortunate to have lived in an era when children were safe on the public roads and we truly knew and trusted our neighbors. But behind the charming facade of new kittens in the barn, hand-sewn cotton dresses and Mama winning the 1963 Pillsbury Baking contest, our family hid a terrible secret. Dad beat Mama. Over the years, the violence had become a way of life for us. Mama was embarrassed and ashamed. My siblings and I knew instinctively that most families were not like ours, and we went to great lengths to keep our ugly secret hidden. Mama changed from a pretty young wife and mother into a bony, stoop-shouldered woman with a haunted look in her eyes. I became a stubborn, hate-filled teenager with a foul mouth, quick to strike out, both physically and verbally, against my father. Then I learned that God wants us to forgive those who hurt us. After all the pain, the bruises and the fear, after all the broken glass and smashed furniture and the blood, how does one even take the first step toward healing? Did it matter that Dad cared not one bit? Did it matter that he never once apologized, that he felt no remorse? Did it matter long after his death, when we were still suffering the repercussions of years of rage? To God, it mattered very much. This is Mama's story. And mine. We each walked very different paths to come to the point of forgiveness. Neither path was right or wrong; each of us found our way, and ultimately reached the same goal. My deepest hope is that the story of our struggles and tears will help to level the way for another who has suffered the same trials. Romans 8:28 And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.

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