ABUSE, DEATH, & THE MERCY OF GOD
(Psalm 68:6)
God sets the lonely in families, He leads out the prisoners with singing; but the rebellious live in a sun-scorched land.(Ephesians 4:11-14)
Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. It is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. But everything exposed by the light becomes visible – and everything that is illuminated becomes a light.
My first cousin, Liz Repic, was recently taken from us.
She was last seen at the soccer game of one of her young sons, and about a week later her dead body was found in a storage unit inside of an apartment building in a public housing community. One person has been arrested in connection with her death. An investigation is still ongoing, but there are so many questions about what happened to her between cheering her boy on from the sidelines and the closet where she was eventually discovered.
REMEMBERING MY COUSIN
Liz was just a couple of years older than me. I’ve seen pictures of me with my cousin when we were little, but to my recollection I was something like 17 years old the first time I really had a conversation with her. She visited our house after moving back to the area. I remember sitting near her feet on the floor while she sat in a chair in a room full of relatives. Her smile and engaging personality were contagious. Even then, I was aware she was fighting some intense personal battles, but somehow it seemed exceptionally easy to find space and acceptance with her because she was fighting those battles.
In the years after I went to college and then returned to Aliquippa, our paths crossed from time to time. It was obvious she was often struggling. There were arrests and times in the Beaver County Jail. Once and a while a social worker would contact us and ask if we were willing to play a role with her very young boys. We were always willing, and although things never materialized that way Liz would write us letters thanking us for our being open to the possibility.
I often have told people Liz was one of my favorite family members. She was easy to laugh with and many times a joy to be with, but she’d go toe to toe with someone in a heartbeat. One time she angrily texted me asking me if I was ignoring her messages because at the time she had a girlfriend. That wasn’t it – my well-known and well-documented forgetfulness was to blame. But she had a way of being in your face about who she was and wasn’t and what was going on in her life no matter your opinion. And even though she could be intense, this quality somehow made her feel safe. You got what you got when you were with Liz. She couldn’t be anything but herself - even the hard parts showed boldly. Although I knew my cousin had lied and stolen sometimes as she suffered in her addiction, I also knew she didn’t really know how to fundamentally hide.
Maybe not knowing how to hide – or just not being able to – is its own kind of gift.
THE ABUSE
One time Liz wanted to meet me in person, so we linked up at a Panera Bread. As we sipped our coffees, we talked about the sorrows in life and the propensity we all seem to have to want to hide because of shame. What is it about suffering that makes us feel like we have things to hide and people should avoid us? And why, when suffering comes to us at the hands of another, do we feel like we must hide all the more?
She never went into the specifics of her story with me. She never recounted the traumatic details, but I knew she had experienced some kind of abuse. Somewhere, somehow, it seemed to me her sense of safety and agency had been violated.
I recognized it because it’s true of me too. I’ve been both physically and sexually abused in childhood and adolescence, and sadly most of it took place in the context of family. And while I’m certain I actually know relatively little about my extended family, it’s long been my suspicion that I’m not the only one. These things have a way of being generational and repetitive and multi-directional in families, buried deep underneath well-reinforced secrets and lies we’ve told ourselves for so long we now truly believe them.
Liz hinted at the abuse – essentially told me – and I told her the same about me. But either because we just weren’t ready to tell the whole story – or maybe because we were sitting in Panera and it didn’t seem like the place – or maybe because it’s just too hard to tell the whole truth – or maybe because we were just afraid or tired or angry - we didn’t get into too many details. But Liz and I knew we had this in common. We both knew the swirl of lies, the manipulation, the fear-causing, the codependency, the second-guessing, the finally telling people only to have them think you’re exaggerating, and the doing your best to survive when the pain is so real but it feels like you must be making it all up. We both knew.
We talked about how religiosity, social status, and vocational and educational attainment in families can conceal abuse in both intentional and inadvertent ways. We talked about our emotional journeys and our desire for healing and the temptations toward numbing pain that is unspeakable. I remember Liz blaming only herself for her decisions but also acknowledging the pain she had endured because of others.
And I remember her talking about the love of God.
Liz knew about God’s love. And mercy. I’m not talking about in an intellectual or theological way but an experiential one. She really believed God must love us. Even that day, when she talked about God’s love and what Jesus had done for us, she sounded desperate. Like if this wasn’t true, we were all really gonna die because this was the great and last hope. It was God’s love or no hope at all. She had a way of talking about God’s love that made you believe it must be true – or it had to be true. Or else.
THE LONELY PLACED IN FAMILIES
My cousin’s obituary reads that I officiated the vigil that happened near where her body was recovered as well as the memorial service the next day. But I didn’t. I did, however, show up at both gatherings. What happened there was almost the opposite of me officiating.
When my wife and kids and two of our good friends (what friends we have!) showed up at the vigil, about 20 or so friends of Liz showed up too. It was just us – my own family, these couple of close friends of mine, and about 20 perfect strangers. Strangers to me, but not to Liz. We stood in a circle around a tree in an apartment complex, holding candles and not quite knowing what to do.
These people were devastated by my cousin’s death, and they had come to make remembrance as they cried and laughed. A woman named Jonie talked about knowing my cousin in jail and how it was my cousin who introduced her to God and taught her to read the Bible. A nurse from the jail showed up to talk about how Liz had inspired her faith and showed her Jesus. People spoke of her fierce love for her kids - her mama-bear protectiveness that sometimes could seem even paranoid. A man from the apartment building, more than a little slurred from drinking, spoke his grief about Liz’s body having been found near his home. On the day Liz was found by the police, a person named Raven stood in the rain for hours to provide comfort to Liz’s friends who were grieving. She had no connection to the situation except that she saw the police and could tell people needed presence, so she stayed. And now she was at the vigil too.
And of course there was also Chasidy, the legal guardian of Liz’s boys. A neighbor that Liz very much trusted, she’s cared for these boys for years like a mother would for her own children while making sure the boys knew and loved their biological mother. She’s managed doctor appointments and schoolwork and signed them up for youth programs just because she saw the need. She’s been a stabilizing force in their lives. She’s given them a home.
And the boys – Liz’s youngest boys, Ahzrel and Isaiah, were there too, ages 10 and 8. They shed tears for their mom. The younger one stood in front of the tree surrounded by candles and crosses and scribbled messages of love to his mom while bravely speaking to us about Liz’s love and care. We listened to music, shared memories, and shed tears with the boys – holding them and our candles and one another.
Of course, people shared the hard things about Liz too – there was reference to her inadvisable decisions, her struggles, the arguments they had with her. But I know that’s what Liz would have wanted. She hated putting on appearances. She would have wanted people to present her honestly. There was no need to hide with these folks.
And then it was my turn to speak. I wasn’t officiating anything, just watching these people I newly met officiate this pop-up service on the street to honor my cousin’s humanity and contributions. There’s so much I don’t understand about the family Liz and I share. Some family members just never make contact, others have shut me out, and I’ve shut out some myself – especially if I feel they perpetrate abuse. The experience of estrangement in our family is a real and ever-present ache. I know I wasn’t there enough for Liz. But I told this group I was so grateful to know that Liz did have a family beyond her relatives. God puts the lonely in families, Scripture says. She did have people who cared for her. She did know people who wouldn’t abuse her. They weren’t perfect – some of these people in front of me had their own addictions and failures – but they saw Liz as a person and tried to treat her with dignity and love. In that moment, it felt like they might be my family too.
I thanked them. Because they were the ones who officiated. They bore witness to the image of God in my cousin. They did what was right. They spoke, they honored, they waited in the rain, they gave hugs, they cooked food, they brought candles and flowers for a vigil. They shed tears. They did it.
Abuse causes estrangement in families that can leave people needing family, but God Himself finds families for them. He did for Liz. And on that night, He did for me too.
A BRAVE LIGHT
Although I reference my biological family here and the abuse I’ve experienced, I don’t write this to make accusations. Honestly, I’m not seeking justice if justice is retribution. I mean only to tell some of my own story – both my own experience of abuse and my experience of Liz. I’m learning I don’t have to ask anyone’s permission to tell my own story including my own experiences of family members, although if you’ve experienced abuse you know the fear that comes from putting your own story out there. While an ever widening group of friends have learned the details of my story over the years, relatives have sometimes applied pressure for me not to talk, threatened to air secrets they claim to have about me to my church community or employers, asked me to keep secrets to myself, left angry messages on my social media or websites, or left clues that they’re coming around my work or family – seemingly reminding me they are nearby watching.
That’s not the whole picture of my family. Most of these relatives have also been gentle and kind with me at times. And funny. Man, are my relatives genuinely humorous. I have fond memories with most all of them. Some have been nothing but kind to me, and a couple I even trust. But overall, the implied or explicit pressure to not speak up has been palpable.
Because of counseling and prayer and friends and a long healing journey that is still unfolding, I’m learning that when people aren’t willing to carry responsibility for their own shameful behavior, the family system they are in can shoulder the responsibility to carry it for them. The abuse is an unresolved wound that keeps festering, and everyone is trying to figure out how to respond. People react or cope in different ways. Some choose to enforce silence through threats, manipulation, or even violence. Others might keep secrets in a way that silently applies pressure for ever more secret keeping. Others choose to just avoid or disappear.
Liz, in her own way, wasn’t satisfied with those options. Oh for sure, she had trouble talking about some things as well, and I wish her path didn’t involve so much pain and loss. But her willingness to be who she was nonetheless inspired me. It did that day in Panera. She loved God, but she’d also tell you about her sins with remorse. She knew she was a mess, but she also knew she was loved. She believed God’s love in Jesus was somehow enough for her sins.
Additionally, the willingness of her friends to show up in the weeks following her death has inspired me. To them, it was and is unthinkable that Liz’s life should end without her story being told – even the hard and unattractive parts. Somehow Jesus was showing up in her story, and they knew it. Liz had so much she was battling against, but she was so connected to God in the battle. He was with her. You could feel Him around her. Even when I didn’t agree with her decisions or thought her behavior was destructive, He was near to her. If God wasn’t afraid to show up for her, why wouldn’t her friends show up too? Why wouldn’t they be so brave?
My cousin was herself brave when she lived in a way that her broken story wasn’t hidden behind respectability. Every time she told me or anyone else about her abuse or failures, she was brave. She was brave when she drew boundaries with those she felt were dangerous for her kids. She was brave to tell people in jail about Jesus when she knew she hadn’t lived up to everything she believed about Him – because she knew it was about His goodness and not her goodness. I so wish I could have been there when people were trying to hurt her at the end – to defend her. But I have to imagine she was also brave then when her life was being taken. I imagine her brave to the end.
So now, why wouldn’t I be brave enough to speak up about the abuse and my own story? Secrets keep people in danger, but bravely speaking the truth protects people. Why wouldn’t I be brave enough to speak up to authorities and the media so that those investigating her death don’t categorize her as just another forgotten casualty of the streets? Three women, including my cousin, have now been found dead in Beaver County in recent months. Will we be brave enough for them no matter what evil lurks nearby and what truth is uncovered? And will we remember them as a living, breathing humans – as created in God’s own image. Or like my cousin – as a mother, an empathetic and caring person, and as her obituary stated, compassionate enough to care for animals. As brave.
Somehow, Liz’s life and death have also confirmed for me the gut-wrenching decisions I’ve made to sometimes speak up, draw a boundary, cut off contact with someone who is acting dangerously, or stand up for my own wife and kids – no matter how misunderstood these decisions might be or how people might misrepresent me as a result. I’m discovering, although I second guess myself often, that I am acting bravely even if imperfectly. I can be braver still. God is making me braver still.
Liz was also brave when she named her two youngest sons Ahzrel and Isaiah – one name meaning “help from God” and the other meaning “salvation of the Lord.” I don’t know how or why she picked those names, but I stood at that vigil clinging onto these names as prophecies for me and my family. Scripture tells us that shameful deeds done in secret are being exposed, and the things illuminated by light become light. Darkness can never become light until the darkness has been exposed by light. Even to my family I say, if you’ve been abused and never said anything – say something to someone. On my part, I don’t know what I can do to help, but I’m available. It’s never too late to bravely face the darkness and let the light of Jesus flood in. Every time we confide our story of abuse by another or confess our own sin, even the dark things become light.
I don’t want to participate with the darkness anymore. My cousin is dead. Abuse has wounded. Addiction has stolen. It’s all stuff done in the darkness. I’m tired of living my life in reference to these things. But,
Wake up, O sleeper
Rise from the dead
And Christ will shine on you.
(Ephesians 5:14)
Yes Ahzrel, God is sending help – the kind of help that separates truth from untruth, light from darkness. Yes, Isaiah, there is salvation from the Lord.
When people start speaking up about their stories – start letting the light flood in - it requires bravery because it threatens the patterns of denial, lies, and manipulation we’ve become comfortable with. But as a friend once said to me, don’t feel pity for the people who have been abused, are healing and moving on, and refusing to live their lives in reference to that abuse. Because there is no penance like the one perpetrators experience who remain in the shadows and the secrets, the denial and manipulation. They are constantly experiencing the reward of their sin. Have pity on the darkness dwellers – not the ones coming into the light, no matter how hard their journey might be.
One time, a family member messaged me after I made the difficult decision to set some hard boundaries with another relative. They just couldn’t understand and were angry. They wrote, “May God have mercy on your soul, if you have one.”
The truth is, I do have a soul because I’m human. So does Liz Repic. So does everyone who has suffered abuse. So does that relative who wrote those words to me. So do the people who abused me, might have abused Liz, or abused other family members. And the very, very good news is that God does and is having mercy on our souls.
Sometimes I think of what it will be like when my eyes eventually open in the fullness of the Kingdom. I believe God will judge wickedness, but the more I walk with Jesus the more another kind of thought is developing in me. I believe in God’s judgement, but more than ever I believe in His mercy – or that His mercy is somehow wrapped up in how He is just. I’m starting to think it’s quite daring to believe God is more wildly merciful than we ever might have originally thought.
There’s mercy for the abused and for perpetrators, mercy for our addictions and our failures as parents, mercy for our anger and traumas. There’s even enough mercy when I feel I need to separate from someone – He shows mercy to them when I don’t know how. He keeps showing mercy to the people I draw boundaries with. We can exclude dangerous people when needed because our boundaries don’t keep His mercy out. And that’s increasingly a comfort to me amid the unresolved issues of this life where it seems impossible to figure out how to love.
On that day when all things are made new in the Kingdom, I won’t be surprised at all to see my cousin there. She was desperate, and she knew she needed God. She believed Jesus was the way, the truth, and the life. I believe His mercy is enough for her desperation. Even if I saw the abusers in my family there – somehow that wouldn’t surprise me either. In fact, the more I follow Jesus the more I hope my imagination is right. I trust God’s good judgement completely, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if somehow the mercy of God overcame it all and made all these relationships right – so we could finally relate to one other without manipulation or self-protection or insecurity or abuse. Wouldn’t that be wonderful – if repentance and obedience and mercy and grace overcame it all - meaning, if Jesus overcame it all? I hope for that more than I hope for punishment.
Whatever the Kingdom is, it’s gotta be more mercy than I’m imagining. I think Liz was suspicious it is. For the sake of us all, I hope so.
