Courtesy of Marion Duckworth

The words "sexual abuse" were taboo at the end of the Great Depression, when I entered first grade. So I was completely unprepared when a sexual deviate managed to get me alone, coaxing me away from my paper dolls.

Between clean sheets and soft covers, he fondled me in a way that made me want to curl into myself, like bugs I saw in the yard. I was too frightened to scream, and no one would have heard me anyway.

Finally, he stopped. "Don't ever tell anyone," he demanded. I don't remember if he made threats, but they weren't necessary. I was too ashamed and terrified to talk about it.

I couldn't get past how repulsed the experience made me feel. All I wanted was to forget it happened, but the minutes I could only think of as "icky" played and replayed in my mind. Hidden beneath the covers, I had no visual memories of the event. But over and over, I felt his disgusting touch.

Years passed; the flashbacks lessened but never stopped. I was 21 and engaged before I spoke about the incident to anyone. My husband-to-be, I decided, had to know. John was livid with anger at the perpetrator and wanted to avenge me. I pleaded with him to let it go. The man was too old to hurt anyone else, I argued.

I hope I was right.

Secret shame
When we were in our early 30s, John and I put our faith in Jesus Christ. Over the next several years, God began to give me a new sense of worth. Instead of hiding my imperfections in the shadows, I was able to expose myself to the light. But the molestation was a secret I continued to keep in the dark.

By the time our three children were born, pedophilia was front-page news. Children were taught never to let anyone touch them inappropriately. Parents showed their sons and daughters what body parts were private.

At the same time, Madison Avenue used sex to captivate and titillate. So I found myself blindsided by memories of that horrible time beneath the covers. Like a knife stab, I relived the horror of that paper doll afternoon.

One ordinary day in midlife, John and I stopped at a drug store that sold everything from Band-Aids to perfume. I was browsing the shampoo aisle and he was standing at a display of magazines.

"Come here," he called to me. "I want to show you something."

When I stood beside him, he pointed to a magazine with a lurid, sexy cover and shook his head. "It's unbelievable what they can put out for anyone to see—even kids."

	"Not once through the years had I asked God to heal that memory. It hadn't occurred to me that He would do such a thing."—Marion Duckworth

I glanced at the cover, then quickly away, nodding my agreement. John had no idea the magazine would trigger a flashback, because I'd never found the courage to talk to him—or anyone—about them. I scurried to another part of the store, hoping to distract myself.

While I pretended to contemplate Noxema, the Holy Spirit spoke shocking words to my mind. "You'll never relive these feelings again."

The message rang with authority; I didn't doubt it was God's voice. I decided I'd know for sure this was a genuine miracle if the feelings never returned.

They never did.

Not once through the years had I asked God to heal that memory. It hadn't occurred to me that He would do such a thing. I was too ashamed to talk about it to a Christian counselor—much less to a holy God. So I simply tried—unsuccessfully—to suppress it.

From that day forward, whenever I was exposed to some image of sleaze, I reminded myself with profound gratitude of what didn't happen. There was no flashback. Just sorrow over sin and a prayer for God's intercession in our broken world.

Sharing the secret
Although God did heal me of the recurring feelings, the memory of the incident remained. Soon, I was to discover that God would use that memory to heal others.

With the painful flashbacks gone, I was ready to talk about my experience at retreats and seminars as well as in private conversations. Timidly, women told me that they'd been sexually exploited and wanted to know how they could be healed from the pain that hadn't gone away.

Realizing that not everyone would experience my miracle of instantaneous healing (albeit after many years), I advised them, "Don't allow shame to keep you in hiding, the way I did. We have nothing to be ashamed of." Often I quoted Paul's words: "He helps us in all our troubles, so that we are able to help others" (2 Cor. 1:4, tev). We prayed together, and I urged them to seek professional Christian counseling.

Recently, God put my healing to the test when a friend brought a man I'll call "Joe" to meet me. Joe had been recently released from prison. We sat in my living room talking about Jesus, whom he'd come to know while incarcerated, about his search for a job, about the music he wrote. During the evening, he revealed the crime that put him behind bars: pedophilia.

For a brief moment, I wanted to curl into myself like a bug. But after a few breaths, I realized there was no need. I was experiencing no personal pain, only initial shock and horror over the awfulness of this particular sin. So I listened to the story of his own childhood abuse.

Ours is a hugging household, so when these two stood to leave, I embraced my friend, then moved to Joe. His arms hung woodenly at his sides; he wore a look of uncertainty. I stood in front of him hesitating a fraction of a second. Then I smiled and put my arms around this reborn child of the King. "I'm so glad you came," I said. "Visit us again soon."

He did. Once he even brought me a dessert he'd made. The sweetest times, however, were when we joined hands and prayed to the Lord, whose wounds heal us all.

Marion Duckworth is the author of 16 books and hundreds of articles. She has traveled widely as a Bible teacher, seminar and retreat speaker and volunteers as a lay counselor. Marion makes her home in Vancouver, Washington.

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