Seven, the number of completion in the Bible

July 4th, a day of Independence, a celebration of freedom

July 7th, 2024, the completion of my freedom and independence

She sits in the auditorium, desperately trying to focus on what the pastor is teaching, something about the psalms, but her mind is elsewhere. Until the end of the teaching, the pastor begins to talk about breaking off shame and names that have been spoken over all believers, but names that are specifically spoken over women. She feels the tug to go forward for prayer, but fights it. She doesn’t have the energy to tell the whole story tonight, not after this week, not before dinner out with friends, but the Holy Spirit doesn’t give up so easily. The tug grows stronger and stronger, but she refuses to move.

“I am not going,” she insists. Finally, she tries to make a compromise, “I’ll go forward, but only if the Pastor, who already knows my story, is at the altar,” she tells him, thinking this will keep her safely in her seat. Before she can even finish that thought, in comes the one pastor in the whole church who knows everything. This pastor is hardly ever on the altar prayer team anymore; this pastor is usually in the lobby at the guest central desk, overseeing volunteers. “Fine,” she responds to the  Holy Spirit as she makes her way towards the front of the sanctuary, tears already forming in her eyes. She walks down the aisle towards the altar, the whole world moving in slow motion. Finally reaching the pastor, she says, “It’s over, he’s gone.” Then, as all the emotions overwhelm her and the tears start streaming down, she buries her face into the pastor’s shoulder.

Half an hour later, with my makeup fully ruined, they are sitting alone in the sanctuary. She fills the pastor in on all that transpired over the last week, all the mixed emotions filling her, and the pastor holds and prays over her. At this point, she had not talked to anyone outside her immediate family about the event yet, a little out of my need for privacy, but also out of a fear of judgment, of people telling her how I should or should not feel about what had happened. Finally, they both startle as the serve team flips the lights on, one more long hug before leaving. She quickly walks to her car and then tries to salvage what’s left of her makeup. She turns on the music in the car,  her current “theme song,” and heads to dinner. Her week replaying over and over in her mind.

The seventh hour, of the seventh day, of the seventh month, of the seventh year, twenty-one days after Father’s Day, seven days before his birthday. The seven years that represent biblical completion, the completion of that storyline in my life, the completion of his life, the completion of my escape to freedom.

Independence Day weekend, a celebration of freedom, of liberty, of independence. It had been on the 4th that word reached them; the end was near.  The “caretaker” had encouraged her to go see him, to say goodbye, but she didn’t feel the need to. You see, she had already done that, 14 months prior, she had felt the call to go see him, she had argued with God, fought him, cried and yelled, but God refused to let up, so one Sunday after church, she hopped on the highway, and without telling a single soul, she headed in his direction. Halfway there when she had accepted the fact she was going, she sent a group text to her best friends asking for prayer. About an hour later, she sat in front of a nursing home, staring at the entrance, one final prayer, and she walked through the doors. A nurse came to ask how she could help. She gave the nurse his name, and they headed to the sunroom, where he was sitting. He hasn’t spotted her yet, and for a moment, she stands and watches him. He looks so frail, so sickly and broken, a shell, a shell of a man. Finally, she slowly walks towards him. Time seems to be moving in slow motion, and their eyes meet, but there is no recognition in his eyes at first. Then, they widen with surprise, and his mouth drops open. He shakily gets up and tries to walk towards her. She takes one very clear step backward, keeping space between them, and asks if there is a quieter place to talk. He nods and starts leading the way to his room. Once inside, he turns to close the door. “NO,” she says strongly. he startles and blinks at her, but leaves the door open. “Did he just respect a boundary? Did he just accept my no?” She shakes the thoughts from her head as he takes his seat across from her. Forcing herself to meet his eyes, she studies him. A broken shell of a man, barely any trace of the man she once knew, the man that should have been her protector, the hero of all her stories, the standard for all other men. But instead of being her hero, this man had chosen to be the villain, not only in her story but in that of many others. This man was not the hero; he was the monster. The monster who held her captive for the first 20 years of her life, the monster who destroyed her life, who cost her friends, a home, a church community, and a job she loved. A monster who had hurt the innocent, hurt her family, hurt her friends, the monster who was the cause of so much pain to so many. The man who chose his demons, the man who gave himself to the darkness, the man who ripped her heart into pieces, shattering it on the floor. The monster she had put behind bars, delivering evidence to the authorities, and signing papers that she was willing to testify to stop him. The monster who had taught her the very skills she had used to take him down.

  He blankly stared back at her. Finally, he spoke, “It’s been a long time.” She stared unblinking back at him and responded, “Yes, it’s been 6 years.” He nodded slowly and repeated the number to himself. He asks about her life, if she is married or dating, what she does for a living, how her family is, and so forth. She gives a very generic short answer to protect herself and her family. Finally, she asks him if he remembers the last time they spoke. He shakes his head in confusion, and she tells him the date and time, for it had been the night of the news report when her world shattered, it had been the night she died, curled up on the bathroom floor with a hand over her mouth so no one would hear her scream. And with that image in mind, she confronts him on everything: the abuse, the crimes, and all the pain he caused. For a moment, he tries to object or deny, but she cuts him off, giving him details and crimes that he didn’t know she even knew about. He just stares intently as he recounts the evidence she found, as she admits to taking it to the authorities and signing statements to put him in jail for good. This time, when she finishes, he doesn’t try to deny it, and to the best of her knowledge, for the first time, he admits to everything, confessing what he did, and this time, he doesn’t try to blame the medications. For a moment, the anger wells up inside of her, her gut clenching tight, but still staring him straight in the eyes, she says the three words she knew God had brought her there to say, “I forgive you”.

For the first time since feeling the call to go see him, she takes a deep, full breath as she looks in the eyes of her abuser, and in that instant, the final chain he had on her breaks. All the bitterness, anger, pain, and resentment that have been festering in her soul for years fall away with it. All of a sudden, he seems smaller, more frail; she sees the skin’s cancers on his face, the shake in his hands, the illegible mumbling as he tries to say something. For a while, He stares in stunned silence, completely taken aback and disarmed. She asks him if he deserved prison, if he was sorry for what he did; his voice breaks as he confesses. Then something happens that can only happen when the Holy Spirit is involved; she leads him to Christ. He confesses to God what he did, asks for Jesus’ forgiveness, asks for salvation, and asks for the Holy Spirit to come in and transform him. She quietly asks herself if this is really happening and prays he is genuine this time, prays that the pathological liar is finally speaking truth, prays it’s not just another lie and manipulation to get her to bend to his will.

  After they were done praying and she rose up to go, he asked her to stay, asking her if she would come back. She says she doesn’t know but that she will pray about it, and he shows brief disappointment but again respects her choice. He walks her to the door of the secured building, and she says the last words they ever spoke to each other: “goodbye”. Walking into the parking lot, she turns and sees him standing at the window and knows in her heart that this is the last time she will see him in this lifetime. “Goodbye, Daddy,” she whispers, one last time.

      Her mind bounced back to this week, to the fourth of July, Independence Day, when they got the call, he was dying. She struggled to decide whether to go see him again or not. It was no longer him she feared, but his family, his caretaker, and friends. For they had attacked her just a few days after she went to see him. They had made it unsafe to go back, something which she would spend hours in therapy to process. As she thought about their last conversation, she realized she had already said all she needed to; she had confronted him, had forgiven him, had said her goodbyes, and gotten the closure her heart had needed. She had done all she could for him, and to a degree, her father was already gone. After some quiet prayer, she decided not to go, and at that moment, the peace she had felt leaving him that day filled her deep inside all over again. As she sat there watching the fireworks burst with light across the night sky, she was filled with anticipation of freedom. Now, three days later, she was free.

  Free of the guilt, fear, and anxiety that had plagued her for years, her feelings with the new truth, this wasn’t just her freedom or independence, it was her father’s too. If he really had prayed, if he really had repented to God, then he was now free of the body he destroyed, of all the dark forces that tormented his mind. And someday she would meet him, the person he was supposed to be, the person he chose not to be on this earth; that peaceful thought drove out any guilt trying to keep in about her decision. She knew from this day forward, Independence Day would mean something different to her.

  Three days later, she was writing at her dining room table when she heard her front door unlock and her mom’s voice on the stairs. In that moment, she knew, knew it had happened, knew he was gone. She looked deep inside for sadness or grief, but she found that she had already grieved that loss. Seven years ago, when she realized her father was no more, when he had fully given himself over to the monster, that is when she grieved, grieved the relationship they never got to have, the princess she never got to be, the empty chair at her table where he should have sat watching over her, protecting her.  She had grieved in her therapist’s office,  grieved it in her pastor’s office, grieved it with the only two friends she didn’t lose because of him. This was just the completion of the process. The seventh hour, on the seventh day, of the seventh month, in the seventh year of estrangement, fourteen months after their goodbye, seven days before his birthday, twenty-one days after Father’s Day. Finally, the war, the fight was over, and her freedom felt complete.

   Over the next week, she knew she couldn’t talk about it much; not everyone knew the full story or would understand why she wasn’t more upset or in more pain. She didn’t want sympathy cards or flowers, didn’t want everyone acting weird around her. It’s hard to understand unless you have been through abuse and estrangement in a parental relationship. She didn’t want to explain to others why she couldn’t help but quietly and peacefully smile to herself. She couldn’t suppress the feelings of freedom that flowed through her. Even though she had escaped her cage seven years prior, every time she tried to fly, some tether to him seemed to pull her back down. People armed with out-of-context scripture and “umbrellas of authority” throwing stones at her for leaving him, telling her she wasn’t a real Christ follower for “betraying” her father. His family asked how she could abandon him, not believing the stories of abuse. But now the world felt safer; no longer would his family have reason to harass her, no longer would the caretaker try to guilt-trip her or send her out of context and misuse Bible verses in an attempt to get her to go see him. No longer would she suffer the nightmares of being trapped in a house with him, unable to escape, or of him following her to work. No more nightmares of his family pushing him in a wheelchair, trying to force her to talk to him. This time, when she leaped into the air, no one would pull her back down to her cage.  She was free to live her life, and to learn from his mistakes, to break those family curses,

Where he was afraid, she would be brave.

Where he was addicted, she would practice self-control.

Where he was selfish, she would serve

Where he hid his weakness, she would safely share

Where he told only lies, she would speak the truth.

Where he was concerned with appearance, she would play with joy.

Where he ignored his mental health, she would continue therapy.

Where he chose isolation, she would choose community.

Where the first two decades were spent in captivity, then surviving, eventually escaping, and healing from the trauma he inflicted, she would soon be entering a new decade, a decade he could never touch.

July 7th, 2025

I wrote a rough draft of the above last year, but I couldn’t bring myself to share it. After losing what felt like all my privacy in 2017, I’ve had to learn to balance what to share and when. For a long time, I overshared, trying to stay ahead of the gossip and questions, then I would swing too hard the other way and keep everything bottled up inside; neither is healthy for me. Now, after a year of freedom, prayer, and therapy, I finally feel like I can talk about this, not just for myself but for others. God has brought so many people into my life (in person, online, and through books)  who have been through parental abuse and estrangement, have been through the unhelpful comments, judgments, ignorance, and worst of all, the misuse of context scripture weaponized to bring shame. It took me a long time to realize that there is no right way to process this, no formula or plan to follow, and anyone who says there is hasn’t survived this. Did you know that purple is the color for the “survivor ribbons” for domestic abuse victims? Add that to my list of many reasons to love that color. Up til now, this is a story only the immediate family and my inner circle of friends have known. Now I feel I can share without shame or guilt. After all, I have the freedom to do so, because I no longer care how people think I “should” feel about the situation. I share because other people’s stories have helped me on this long road to healing. I share for all the other forgotten victims in their own stories who didn’t get the help they needed when they needed it. When your parent is the monster, I have found both through my own story and others,  oftentimes it feels like your pain is somehow less than other victims, as if the abusive parent has a right to treat you badly because you are their child. This ideology is especially prevalent in some churches, although it has no biblical evidence for the mindset. Forgiveness does not mean reconciliation; you can forgive someone and never want to see them again. After I went to see him, after I forgave him, and I got to watch him repent and accept Jesus’ forgiveness ( I do believe it was genuine), I still got an email from a “friend” of his, telling me I was a bad Christian. Even though I had just loved my enemy and offered forgiveness, I was still doing Christianity wrong. With that in mind, I no longer try to force myself to feel the way others think I should because there will always be someone who disagrees with my decision or doesn’t understand it. I am done hiding in the shadows in order not to make others uncomfortable. Over the last year, I have learned that I can forgive him for what he did, but also still have some anger that rises up on occasion. I can be sad on this day and also grateful for the freedom it brought. There is no right or wrong way to feel about this day. Some people would hide away, some people would work like it’s any other day, some people would try to escape the pain with coping mechanisms ( safe and healthy ones, I hope), me? I write because that seems to be the healing exercise that works best for me.

Because I am alive

Because I survived

Because this is my Independence Day