Is it Time to Come Out of the Closet?

I stumbled, fell and cried out but my brother shied away

And I found myself alone in silence, wishing he would stay.

He quickly turned the corner, as if he hadn't realized,

I'd turned and looked to him in pain, with pleading tear-filled eyes.

 

I saw my brother stumble so I quickly looked away.

I'll ask him how he's doing on perhaps a better day.

I heard my brother crying but I quickly realized

He'd not be wanting me to see the tears that filled his eyes.

 

So we're just keeping distance till again it all seems right

And saying a little prayer or two before turning in at night.

No reason now to get involved, there's nothing much to say

Both blind; both fine; both better off this way.

 

-- Thom Hunter

 

Carry each other's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. -- Galatians 6:2

 

"Imagine, if you will," comes the Rod Serling voice, "A church in the middle of a very ordinary town, with stained glass windows, cushioned pews and friendly faces at the door.  We've arrived on a very ordinary Wednesday night, just in time for the pre-prayer-service meal.  Elaine sits in her usual place in the middle of a long table, in the middle of the fellowship hall . . . in the middle of it all."

"Did you hear about  . . . . ?" said Elaine, her voice trailing off a bit as she lowers it, looks side-to-side, and begins to share the news with those in hearing range.  Her fork is poised in the air over a plate of ham, sweet-potatoes, peas and carrots and a buttered piece of bread.  Elaine is one of the best of the best when it comes to church gossip and ears quickly bend her way.

"Elaine, you're just like a dog returning to its vomit, I see," says the pastor in a calm and steady voice as he approaches her table.

Elaine stops, puts down her fork, squirms in her seat a bit, gathers her plate and purse and moves on down to another table.

"Well . . . I never!" she says.  "Did you hear what he said to me?  You will never believe."

Again, the voice interrupts:  "Elaine, you gossip because you think it is fun, but you're just like a dog returning to its vomit."

Elaine, now in shock, sits, ponders, sets her fork gently down beside her plate and says "You're right, Pastor.  I confess to the sin of gossip and I ask for your forgiveness and help in repentance."

"Sorry, Elaine," he answers.  "This has gone on too long. You've confessed before and here you are, at it again.  I don't think it is possible for you to ever stop gossiping.  And, while I say this completely out of love for you, I think it's best for all of us if you just leave and not come back. We'll vote on it Sunday night, but basically, I think the tribe has spoken."

So Elaine puts out her torch, which means in this case, stifles her tongue, and leaves immediately.  Life goes on, post-Elaine.

Obviously, this is a greatly-exaggerated account.  Sin is more subtle; response more nuanced. The Elaines among us are not that blatant in their sin; the pastors not that direct in dealing with it; the church members not that silent an audience.  But, in real life, there is a great deal of confusion about how to deal with sin among the believers, particularly when the sin seems to have so firm a grip and especially when that sin is something that we can not easily dissect or dig down to the root cause. We see it flourish and, like a weed among the flowers, we want to pluck it out.

Of course the pastor does not intervene and Elaine is not removed.  She finishes her pie and her story with a flourish, confident that her words will be repeated by others, giving her a sense of belonging she can't seem to find any other way.  She keeps on top of all the latest because she needs to be needed and knows no other way. Her sin is gossip; her fear is loneliness.  We should start with her fear.

Andy gets antsy about halfway through the prayer meeting, looks at his watch and yawns.  The pastor noticed Andy was pretty bleary-eyed already when he came into the church, but Andy just explained that he'd been glued to his computer all afternoon, trying to get a big project done. Andy was anxious to get home and finish the project in his home office:  feasting on XXX pornography over the Internet.

Like a dog returning to its vomit?  Perhaps.  Extending a season of fun? Maybe. More likely feeding a secret addiction that has wrapped itself so tightly around Andy that most of life has now been squeezed from him and he is bound to meaningless images and fantasies that strip him of any dignity and slowly drain from him all the sensitivity he once had toward his wife and children. 

Lindsey is 17.  As usual, she has worn her favorite long-sleeved turtle-neck pull-over to church and sits in a silent, pouty position at the far end of a back-of-the-room pew.  She is listening in, but looking down as she rubs her arms and twists her hands, fighting back tears, but smiling weakly whenever she's approached.

"Are you okay, honey?" a sweet voice asks.

"I'm fine," she answers, mustering her familiar weak smile, her bangs hanging over her dark eyes.

"Well, of course you are, sweetheart," comes the reply.  "And God loves you just the way you are."

Lindsey will cut herself in the bathroom when she gets back home, inflicting another physical scar for the pain she feels inside and can't reveal.  And then she'll give her mom and dad a peck on the cheek and lay in bed wishing for sleep, longing for peace.

Terrance skipped church altogether on this Wednesday night and is walking along the trails of the city park a few blocks from his home as the sun slowly dips behind the trees.  He collapses on a wooden bench and puts his head in his folded arm, looking every bit the part of a breathless runner who has pushed himself to the limit and needs to rest.  He is at his limit.  He hates himself because he is not like the other boys at his high school and he doesn't know why and he's afraid to ask himself or anyone else.  The dark descends like a comfortable blanket, hiding him.  He wants to cry. 

"If I'm gay, I may as well just kill myself before my Dad does."

Prayers are wrapping up in the comfy sanctuary.  All the pending surgeries have been covered. Missions have been blessed.  Traveling mercies extended.  All have confessed their weekly falling short, and everyone is ready for a little free time in front of the TV.  The DVRs are getting full and need relief.

Elaine and Andy and Lindsey and Terrance are sinners, awash in their own shame, hardened by the indifference of the Christians around them, those who are to be known by their love.  All four need surgery.  They're all a mission.  They're traveling . . . and they really need some mercy.  Their lives are playing out like the scripted dramas everyone is rushing home to submerge themselves in . . . but they're real.  And they're Christians . . . and God does indeed love them just as they are.  But if He loves them too much to leave them there, why don't we? If he can acknowledge their sin and respond with His grace, why can't we? If He can look straight into their hearts, why are we looking over their heads?

Maybe they should come out of their closets?  Elaine should just confess that she's a sad, lonely and empty woman who wants attention so badly she will spin tales for it.  Andy should just come clean and tell everyone that instead of having real relationships, he slips himself into naked fantasies, in vulgar opposition to the life he models in his deacon role.  Lindsey should explain that she is punishing herself at 17 because at 16 she gave her body away to a 19-year-old who said he loved all of her . . . and then left her to go love all of someone else.  And Terrance?  Terrance should share about his self-hatred, acknowledge the sense of rejection that triggers his misguided search for his masculine identity through improper same-sex interaction and his concerns about an eroding resistance to temptation.

Unsaved?  Not Terrance.  Not Lindsey . . . or Andy or Elaine.  Precious ones, never alone in their sin, but accompanied by a Savior who knows Elaine could spread blessings instead of gossip, that Andy could live and love in reality, deleting the addictive fantasies that have claimed his mind, that Lindsey could forgive herself and wash away the mistakes of her past, that Terrance could see himself as God sees Him, instead of seeing himself as the broken one with no choice but to submit to the world's definitions.

Christians all, but guarding secrets in what should be the most loving and healing environment on earth, the church.  These four represent so many Christians who struggle in secret with the things of this world, surrounded by people who should be safe and welcoming, known by their love, pouring out forgiveness, willing and able to hear the confessions, extending grace, offering a shoulder for comfort, a hand for support, a word of encouragement and a pledge of accountability through the walk of repentance. While he should be hearing "come on out," the sinner in the secret closet sees himself more like the spider who tiptoes through the space below the door only to find someone waiting with a broom and a dustpan on the other side.

For most sinners, the fear of what will happen if they emerge from the closet is greater than the fear of the sin locked inside there with them. In my decades-long struggle with homosexuality, habitual cover-up had a greater hold on me in some ways than did my habitual sin. The what-might-happen seemed more threatening than the what-was. I would do almost anything to keep from being discovered . . . and eventually I convinced myself that exposure of my sin would harm more people than the practice of it. Suffering through the struggle in silence was better than the risk of real-time retribution. In time, all of it -- the secrecy and the revelation resulted in an avalanche of epic proportions and seemingly uncountable victims.  There was no longer enough room in my closet for all the junk I accumulated. It was spilling out the door, leaving a trail of sinful crumbs down the hall. 

Maybe we should all come out of our closets?  We who accepted the sacrifice of Jesus so we would not die in our sins.  We who praise Him for His love and hoard our own, as if He could not provide it amply to extend to others.  We who mutter "there but for the grace of God go I" and then stand by and watch others go there.  We who crave mercy but are too distracted to share it.  We who are so clean, washed as white as snow, startled into silence by the stains of others.  Snug in our eternal life, we watch others die around us.  We who walk in the light, but quench it in our closets of comfort.

Do we, for some reason, think our callousness about the ravaging toll sin takes on our brothers and sisters somehow shows us to be strong . . . because we are unwavering in our righteousness . . . and our determination to keep our hands clean?

God knows what the Elaines and the Lindseys and the Andys and the Terrances are going through, how they got there, and when and if they are going to get through it and beyond it. And He also already knows how He will use their struggle for His glory and to accomplish His will. Maybe they're not so happy about the journey on which He has allowed them to embark, but he knows how long the tunnel is and who can help them make it through. He also knows already whether you are going to respond or reject. He knows whether you will venture out of your safe closet to help them clean up theirs.

If "they," the observant non-believers -- whoever they are and we really should want to know -- are to know us by our love, then we may never be known.  Not if we cannot bring ourselves to embrace the broken ones that Christ has placed within easy reach:  the Elaines, Andys, Lindseys and Terrances that pull themselves together enough to come into this place in hope there will be more than peas and prayers.

We can only blame it on culture for so long . . . and then we need to unfold our shoulders and bear the load.  We need to stop giving in, declaring hopelessness, wagging our heads with faces curved by condemning grimaces, removing the sins that might taint us by driving the bearer from our midst.

In truth, some Christians do reflect the love of God and display His grace . . . but they need some reinforcements. The ever-increasing wounded who can only be healed through the love of Christ, shared without restraint by the redeemed.

As imperfect as our church may be, these sinners will not find something better beyond our walls. They do not wash away sins "out there," they celebrate them and proclaim them as identity, taking pride. If we see our brothers sinning, but dismiss even the slightest hint of a true desire to repent and fold our arms in front of us in  in defense instead of wrapping our arms around their shoulders, it is we who have surrendered, not they.  Will it be warmer out there around the fire of distorted acceptance?  Shall we just wish them "god speed," and give them no reason to even continue to believe there is a God . . . who lives inside us?

Come out of the closet.  Andy's pornography addiction will not defile you when you make a plan to call him up and check on him and set up some time to get together for healthy distraction.  Lindsey's past looseness will not topple you from your purity when you listen to her cry and tell her that not only does God love her, but you do too . . . and that you will stay by her side as she walks out of her past. You will not become gay by standing with Terrance as he searches for the person God created him to be and walk with him through the trials and struggles of seeking wholeness. You won't lose your reputation by loving Elaine and listening to the truthful needs of her heart as she shifts to sharing blessings. Your love might be one she shares.

Jesus was a gentle savior who reached out his hands to those in pain, who knew the secrets of the strugglers and did not turn away, who stooped down to lift up, who risked his own reputation to help others build a new one. He knew how to love . . . and He told us to be like Him. 

We're so often not.  Maybe that's why we're in the closet.

In His pain, he freed us all.  In our pain, we bind others up in theirs.  Unable to share our own failings, we hide them behind our holiness and increase the intensity others feel by comparison. In the light of our inflated righteousness, their wretched sinfulness retains a greater grip on them as they strive to keep it from being seen. In the discomfort of our own cover-ups, we overcompensate in pointing at others when their covers are pulled back. We didn't want to know . . . but well . . . now that we do . . . we've go to do . . . something.

But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. -- Galatians 5:22-23 

In our closets, we store the fruit -- love, joy, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control -- that would nourish the broken souls that wander around the door.

God must surely wonder how we can be so blessed and so bereft of sharing it.  The abundance is unimaginable, but we bury it instead of investing it. Do we for some reason believe He can't handle all of this?

Some are in closets of cloistered Christianity.  Others are in closets of condemnation. Whichever closet you are in, there is no reason to be there.  Not with overflowing grace, unlimited forgiveness, boundless mercy, unfathomable love, enduring healing, eternal peace.

Please come out.  Someone stands at your door and knocks. 

Give Elaine something to really talk about.

 

(Do you need encouragement in dealing with your struggle? E-mail me at th2950@yahoo.com. Also, please consider purchasing a copy of "Who Told You You Were Naked?" or "Surviving Sexual Brokenness." I think the insight and the experience s I write about in my books will help you.)

 

Joy Anyway

 

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. – Luke 2:10-14

 

Don’t we wish we had been there on that night?

        With them.

        Hearing directly from an angel, straight out of heaven.

        Having all fear set aside.

        Being the first to hear good tidings.

        Experiencing great joy.

But we are here.

        Sometimes very alone and unsure.

        Wishing for a good-news-angel instead of a newsman on the TV.

        Having our fears compounded.

        Longing for good tidings.

        Searching for joy. 

The shadows of Newtown and Sandy Hook eclipse the brightest lights of countless trees this Christmas time. The silent nights ahead for those who have kissed their little ones and loved ones for one last time take the color out of Christmas present and to come, leaving comfort only in Christmas past for families so in need of an angel. We are reminded that evil avoids no opportunity and honors no holiday.

Yet . . . the angel said the new-brought joy was for all people. Even as he spoke, the angel knew that on that silent night, cries of despair and weepings of sorrow were also likely heard in Bethlehem. And as sure as one was born, others were dying.

It is difficult to live in a world where joy and grief run parallel; where good and evil co-exist . . . life and death . . . the hearse on its way to the cemetery sitting at the same light as the young couple on the way to the maternity ward, both waiting on green.

It’s a broken world that spits and sputters into dimness, yet sparks and ignites into brightness at the same time.  

He didn’t come just to fix the world; He came to save it.

And you.

And me.

Indeed, good tidings of great joy.

…..
 

(And now I’m going to share what I shared last year at this same time. I remain hopeful that perhaps next year, some great measure of joy in my life will add to my personal Christmas story.)

Christmas comes as close as anything can to suspending reality; though sometimes life is just too real for any wrapping to give it glitter. Somehow life takes us far too quickly from squirming in our beds in footy pajamas, one eye open, pledging to go sleepless and catch Santa in the act . . . to sitting cross-legged in sweatpants on the living room floor, both eyes bleary, yearning for sleep, fumbling in the act of being Santa . . . to rising for breakfast and a peaceful quiet morning with just our one true love again, Santa just a memory.  The meaningful misery of Christmas mingles with the joy to become the memories which become treasures which last far beyond gifts.  In the meantime, our "little ones" become big ones and beget new little ones. 

I will spend more time this Christmas, like other recent ones, feasting on old memories than I will in making new ones. Like that one last gift we search for when the space beneath the tree is bare, reconciliation and restoration with my children still eludes me. So I will treasure the gift of hope and remember what is worth hoping for.

I remember one Christmas when our fourth son, Patrick -- he in the footed pajamas -- clearly confused about Christmas, ignored the gifts and toddled around the clutter clutching a banana he pulled from his stocking.  Unable to open it and unable to get help from his wild-eyed older brothers or his blurry-eyed parents, Patrick sat down upon a package, chewed a hole through the peeling and sucked out the banana as best he could.  Today, Patrick is a police officer with three children – Layni, Hadley and Tate – and a fourth on the way.

I remember a "very tight" Christmas -- remember a lot of those, actually -- when it became obvious to me that the presents we had to put beneath the tree for our five children just didn't balance out.  It was almost 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve and all I could find open was a 7-11, which had a special display of baseball trading cards with an album book. I bought those for Russell and the balance was better achieved.  He loved baseball cards, and we still have them here, stored in a cabinet.  Russell is married now, a leader in the Abolish Human Abortion movement, and has a daughter, Melian. 

I remember struggling to put together toys and bicycles with dawn fast approaching and hopelessness emerging, knowing that if my oldest son, Zach, would just stumble down the stairs with a nod and wink, he could put all those things together in the wink of an eye.  But I couldn't wake him.  I needed to be the best Dad I could be, almost all thumbs, but with a heart that wanted to give what I could give.  Zach is all grown-up now, married with a son, Ty, and two daughters, Rylee and Avery . . . and he's a contractor.  He really can build anything. 

I remember Donovan, the middle son, the hard-to-buy-for son, who never seemed to really need or want much, but was always happy with what he got.  I feel a bit of guilt that it wasn't harder to put his gifts beneath the tree and wonder if they were just right.  He was a giver himself.  Donovan, a former Army Ranger and now a police officer, has moved from protecting us all in Iraq and Afghanistan to protect his wife and two little ones, Samuel and Addison, which is probably what he always wanted. 

I remember my only daughter -- Lauren -- being a blast to shop for at Christmas.  I could wander the mall and find music boxes, plastic high heels, dolls and stuffed animals, and later perfumes and bracelets and trendy things . . . and even occasional pink.  Most of all I remember how badly she wanted a set of Quints, tiny dolls all dressed alike and so girly. They were also so tiny they got lost in the Christmas wrapping on Christmas morning and never showed their tiny little plastic faces again.  I hurt about that for a long time.  No longer the little girl down the hall, Lauren traveled the world, lingered long in China and now helps manage a mental hospital where she is, no doubt, one of the cheeriest people any of the patients will see this Christmas.  

I was myself a little one once. One of four in our family.  I remember a lot of Christmases. One stands out because it contained all the emotions and angst of which we are capable . . . and proved love to be the greatest of them all.  We were living in a very cheap apartment in Lewisville, Texas, falling just a mile or two short of making ends meet.  My mother was supporting us as best she could, a stepfather out there somewhere but no longer of consequence, my real Dad only a short distance away in Fort Worth, but immeasurably distant from us as far as Christmas was concerned.

We needed a tree.  Whether there would ever be presents placed beneath it was one of those bridges my Mother said she would cross later.  We had no tree and that needed to be remedied above all.  One evening, after working all day, my mother took the three of us -- my brother was living elsewhere at the time -- across the parking lot and down the alley to the grocery store, where she oohed and aahed over the scrawny trees leaning against the brick wall, ones rejected by all the other shoppers who had bought the best ones earlier.  She found a $7 bargain, proclaiming that it fit within a budget we probably didn't have.  We dragged it home, set it in the stand, pulled out the boxes of precious decorations, ate sugar cookies and decorated it to the hilt, drowning it in icicles.  We stood back and surveyed our handiwork . . . and the tree took a quick bow . . . all the way to the floor.

We were shocked . . . but she was Mother, undaunted.  She stood it up, readjusted the stand, salvaged the decorations and ran a string around the tree, thumb tacking it to the walls.  We sat back on the couch, hot chocolate in hand, and -- smiles turning to shrieks -- observed the tree as it did a slow motion dive-bomb back to the floor.

Our heads in our hands, we watched as Mother stood it up, peeled back the cheap carpet to reveal a hardwood floor beneath, took out a hammer and nails and nailed the stand right to the floor.   Wow . . . Mom!  Only a bit later, our hands covered with the stickiness of ribbon candy, we could hear the skritch as the small nails slowly slid free from the old wood of the floor.  Tipping at first, the tree gently, like a too-gaudy ballerina, took a half twist, broke free and resumed its reclining position.

This time Mother wept.  But only for a moment.  Within seconds, the lights were unplugged, her hands were around the trunk in a strangling motion, the front door was open and she was heading down the alley, dragging the evergreen ballerina behind her.  We ran behind in horror, believing out lives to be as much in shambles as the shattered ornaments now tossed about in the parking lot.  Someone is gonna' see.  We followed the trail of icicles, yelling at our Mother to stop. "It doesn't matter.  We don't need a tree!"

She answered without stopping.

"We need a tree . . . and we will have a tree."

And we did have a tree.  She dragged it right through the front doors of the grocery store, where she was spared having to offer any explanation at all.  Her tears were overwhelming.  She couldn't talk, and the manager of the store really didn't want her to anyway. The presence of coatless and barefoot kids behind her, our heads dropping almost to our knees, didn't exactly diminish the drama.

The good people at the grocery store replaced our tree with one that had an actual straight trunk and that certainly cost more than $7.  They gave us replacement decorations and plenty of icicles and even candy, which we ate around our new and truly beautiful tree, standing on its own.

I don't really remember what I got for Christmas that year.  Well, at least, what I got under the tree.  But I do remember realizing that love can sure overcome a lot, pretty much everything, in fact.  And I knew that my mother loved me beyond any humiliation.  I still count on that to be true.

My mother would be the first to tell you that no matter what is going on in your life, you can find joy. 

Anyway.

Actually, I really don't remember many of the gifts I've received for Christmas through the years, though I loved them at the time.  But I do remember the Christmases themselves and the people in my life that made them memorable. Sometimes memories suffice, girded by hope.

Some of us just fumble through life causing harm here and there, creating our own chaos and hurt.  But we also give and get a lot of love and sometimes we bring calm and healing.  We remember the chaos and the calm, the hurt and the healing and as they wrestle within us, we become something different, and perhaps much better, through the process.  But, it is a process, and, as wonderful as Christmas is, the day of peace is often just a bridge over which we cross into the continued work of healing.

Even beneath the enveloping joy of the ever-present presence of the Savior, Christmas can be a tough time of year for some, a balancing act between cheer and fear as they reflect for just a moment on what life might have been if it had mapped itself a little differently, with fewer obstacles and errant turns. While we join with others in the “what-is-its?” of Christmas morning, shaking packages before we open, we also have our share of “what-ifs?” to deal with. It’s just a part of the package. The broken one.

I am prepared for a tinge of sadness with the sunrise next Tuesday morn. But I am ready for joy . . . anyway.

I bring you tidings of great joy. For unto you (the broken) was born that day, a Savior.  

May God’s true and abiding love for you make this Christmas truly joyful.

God Bless,

Thom

(Thom Hunter is the author of Those Not-So-Still Small Voices, SurvivingSexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do, and Who Told You You Were Naked?,  available through Amazon and Barnes & Noble, in print and e-reader versions for the Kindle, Nook or other reader.)

From an Inner Tantrum to an Outward Sigh

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. -- John 14:27

"It takes time."

Of all the words meant to express comfort and hope, these have always been and still are my least favorite, to the point of my almost never using them when people's lives crumble in the many ways in which they do.

Still . . . some things do . . . take time. Often, perhaps, even more than we imagine we will have, although, in the truest scope of time, we have no less time now than we ever had. Still, accepting the fact that some things may only reconcile somewhere in the vastness of eternity is not as easy or as comforting as we may think when we tell someone first that "it takes time" and then follow up with "if not in this life then in the next." The eternal one . . . which is actually this one already if you are in Christ. Time is then, without end. Wouldn't it be nice if our patience for change and restoration could align with that timeline?

I started "Signs of a Struggle" about three-and-a-half years ago, fueled by an inner tantrum, an odd mix of selfish expression and selfless desperation. I wanted my heart to be heard and my pain to be released and I especially wanted -- desperately -- some way to communicate what I believed God had done in response to my cries of despair. I realized that years of deception had closed the doors to speak to those I love the most -- my children. I thought perhaps, though deaf to direct attempts, they would read the words I wrote in this blog and see them as a true description of what it means to be granted freedom from the darkest pit of life. In expressing remorse, confessing hurt, pursuing repentance and marveling at the grace of God, I hoped they would see and trust a new me. That was the selfish part: I wanted my family restored.

The selfless part? I knew I was never in the pit alone, but that many stumbled around the darkened depths, feeling blindly for some way out. I thought perhaps in sharing transparently my own struggle I might accomplish two things: encourage fellow strugglers to persevere and pursue restoration and encourage those who love them to be more hesitant in leaving them, believing in the hope of Christ to heal and the power of grace to restore.

A Christian who struggles with sexual brokenness struggles from the point where he first encounters Christ and realizes he is out of sync with God's plan for his life. Much of that struggle takes place in secret torment, wrapped in fear of revelation. That was my case for decades, until, in 2005 -- seven years ago now -- the battle emerged onto a public battlefield, and, in the freedom of that revlation, I was able to enlist re-enforcements and benefit from the insight and input of those who had traveled a similar road to freedom.

In 2009, due more than anything to the crippling consequences of a false accusation leveled at me by someone close and dear but deeply deceived, I began to write, partly out of a crippling fear that I had perhaps lost hope, and partly out of righteous indignation that I had traveled so far only to be sideswept and blindsided. I had not lost hope of change, for that was already well underway, but I had lost hope of restoration, as self-defined. It seemed that loss was to be my prevailing lot in life. It was becoming more and more difficult to balance the columns of loss and gain. Oddly, in the days when I had buried a deep secret, I seemed to have it all. A wonderful family -- great wife, four outstanding sons, an amazing daughter -- a great job, perhaps undeserved but the cherished respect of friends and peers, a fairly stable and predictable future, a nice and comfortable home. The clarity that had emerged in the years after 2005 careened into chaos in 2009 with an attack that overwhelmed everything that had come before, seeming to heave the healing that had taken place into a heap of meaninglessness. Abrupt, unwelcome and untrue now and forever, the accusation was clearly a flexing of Satan's muscle, something I have seen take place in others who find their recovery assaulted by Satan's refusal to let them go. He will use anyone and do anything he can when he sees the work of goodness freeing anyone from his snares. Breathless and bewildered, I began to see everything slipping away.

As many fear -- "If you only really knew . . ." -- became skewed reality. Those who had been unaware of my past struggles, including those with whom I worked, now knew not only about the real ones of the past, but viewed them in light of the false accusation, resulting in an end to my career as a respected executive. Consequently, each of the cherished things slipped away: my children, the respect of others, the seeming stability of life that had been assured by the cozy executive position.

It seemed only two things remained and both are examples of the extreme strength of love: God and Lisa, the only two things I have ever been "one" with. I am in Him and He in me. I am one with her. Had God not demonstrated the strength of those bonds, I would have welcomed the temporal soothing the world always seems to offer at our most despairing or bewildering moments. He was so faithful. And, Lisa, who had stared down my own unfaithfulness, continued to demonstrate hers.

I have, for the past three-and-a-half-years, traversed the paths of brokenness and come to love those who traveled there with me. The fuel of anger was slowly spent, though I railed at what I saw -- and still see -- as an indifferent church which blames its losses on culture instead of its own neglect to address the emerging needs of fellow saints, those who survive momentarily by pretending to be what they hear they should be instead of reaching out for help from those who pretend to be what they are not. The church needs far fewer words and less glorified insight and far more action and a sincere desire to engage in the fights that are ravishing the flock.

That is not to say that there is not desire on the part of some within the church to help those who struggle. For the past several years, I've written regularly for SBC Voices on the subject of sexual brokenness and -- at least in the comment section - it appears the message reached some church leaders. I also joined with others who have a heart for those who bear the burden of sexual addiction within our churches, handing out thousands and thousands of copies of resources to pastors and leaders at the annual Southern Baptist Convention. I pray that some took it to heart, though the evidence is underwhelming.

Within the "ministry" itself, I benefited in my own battle through healing involvement with First Stone Ministries and through the insight and truths shared through Exodus International and Desert Stream. Still, it was heartbreaking to see the split develop within Exodus, thought it did make my own resolve -- to address each person's burden individually within the landscape of their own trial -- and not to get pulled down by distracting disagreements while the puzzled perish.

I pray that the work of the determined individuals prevails even as the ministries attempt not to derail.

How does a tantrum give way to a sigh?

I slowly have come to the realization that consequences are not always erased by grace and that restoration is not always a mirror of the dashed past. Just as battlefield injuries leave the soldier forever changed, perhaps with a prosthetic leg and a deep facial scar that all can see and wonder about, so does that battlefield of a consuming inner war leave us forever changed, perhaps with some scars that do not completely fade, but do close tight around the original wound. That does not mean we default from the race or turn from the mirror. We are different, but not indifferent.

There are types of sighs.

Sighs of resignation.
Sighs of sorrow.
Sighs of indifference.
Sighs of regret.
Sighs of exhaustion.
Sighs of surrender.

It appears to me that it is time to, at the very least, pause in the writing of the blog. I am not doing so out of resignation --- though some of the things I hoped for are unresolved. I am not doing so out of sorrow -- though some of the things unresolved do sadden me. I am not doing so out of indifference -- I am as determined as ever to do as much as I can to help others free themselves from Satan's grip of sexual brokenness. I do not do so out of remorse . . . for I am forgiven and have walked through confession and repentance. I do not do so out of exhaustion . . . though I am dismayed that  the enemy has made so many gains in this battle and that Christians seem to wander further into apathy about how to fight against the consuming of so many. And, I definitely do not pull back on this blog out of surrender. Indeed, I am prayerful that another door will open.

In the days ahead, I believe that we will see more and more people, perhaps exasperated by the complexities of too-bureaucratic churches and denominations and too-entrenched ministries may find that God will continue to do what God has always done: use us each and everyone to reach out to our brother and sisters and walk with them, at their side, through the trenches we have ourselves endured.

What an honor that will be, changing lives one-on-one. So Christlike.

So, I do sigh. But it is a sigh of peace. Much like sitting on a porch as the seasons change and the trees drop their leaves and leave us longing for what we know will be a gorgeous spring, once we have endured the calloused winter. A bird crosses the sky, just below the low hanging clouds and a train whistles in the distance . . . and there is a peace that makes you want to linger. But there is much to be done, and there is peace in knowing that. It is the promise of enduring.

No doubt I will venture back here on occasion when I feel like God is nudging. In the meantime, I hope you will explore the older posts and reflect on my journey in the hopes you will see glimpses of your own and find encouragement. The books -- Surviving Sexual Brokenness and Who Told You You Were Naked? The Counterfeit Compassion of Culture --  will always be available and, if you think you or someone will benefit from my attempts to fill them with truth, compassion and realistic encouragement, I hope you order them..

Thank you for reading and traveling with me. God has been so good and I am so thankful that I am not who I once was.

In Him,

Thom