I try to put it into words. I’m still trying to put what happened into words. But it’s all so messy. Some words feel too big to speak or write. There are still moments where I open my mouth to try and speak, but nothing comes out. I still feel so afraid.
My stomach begins to turn and my hands become sweaty. Some parts are blurry, and others aren’t blurry at all.
It’s not hard to remember—it’s hard not to.
I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go back to the attic, but I know I need to. So I tie up my hair, leave my phone on the nightstand, pick up my flashlight, and meet God at the door.
I can hear my breath. I can hear my heart racing. But I close my eyes anyway. And as my chest gets heavier, He whispers:
“I’m with you. I’ve got you. Don’t be afraid.”
It’s darker than ever. All of it hurts. I can feel my throat closing up. I look for Him and I notice that He’s staying with me. And so this time, I stay too.
I move in closer to the memories. I move in closer to the pain. And I let the darkness envelop me.
I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to be there. But my team leader insisted that I bring him supplies for an upcoming event. The request made no sense. But I was too afraid to say anything. I was too afraid to say that to him.
I remember my hands out in front of me. Bent over. Crying. I told him to stop. He did, but not until he was done.
I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t hear me. No one else did. Maybe I didn’t yell loud enough. I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t hear me. No one else did. Maybe I didn’t yell loud enough. I don’t know. Maybe he didn’t hear me. No one else did. Maybe I didn’t yell loud enough.
I don’t know.
Maybe God didn’t hear me.
No one else did.
Maybe I didn’t yell loud enough.
I don’t know.
Maybe I didn’t pray long enough that morning.
Maybe I didn’t lead enough people to Jesus that day.
Maybe my faith wasn’t big enough, or maybe I wasn’t doing my job well enough.
I don’t know.
I love grapes.
There’s nothing like eating a grape that crunches.
I’ve had grapes in a nearby fridge for as long as I can remember.
Up until last fall.
We brought home a Goldendoodle.
She’s a light in our home.
I used to think people who treated animals like people were weird.
I don’t anymore. I get it.
This dog, our girl, sleeps right next to me every night.
Anyway, one morning she ate a grape.
And not just any grape—a grape from Sam’s.
So really... she ate like a handful of grapes.
We were pretty new to this dog-havin’ stuff.
I was shocked when I read that grapes are highly toxic to dogs.
Apparently way more than chocolate.
I haven’t had a dog my whole life, but I’ve known my whole life that dogs can’t have chocolate.
So when Google tells me grapes are worse for dogs, I begin to panic.
The grape rolled off a plate and vanished.
We all searched frantically, looking all around.
But maybe our girl didn’t get it.
Maybe she ate something else.
Maybe she didn’t eat anything at all.
The more I scrolled on Google, the less willing I was to find out.
It was around 7:30 that morning.
I jumped in the car in my pajamas and scooted down the street to CVS.
I got a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and followed the instructions listed on Google.
Our girl threw up within minutes.
And there it was.
A Sam’s grape.
A cotton candy Sam’s grape.
We were all so relieved.
I cleaned up the floor and kissed my kids and my husband as they left for school, then work.
And that was the last time we had grapes in our fridge.
I haven’t eaten one since.
Scared the hell out of me.
I don’t know why I’m telling this story.
I don’t know where I was going with it.
I thought of the word grape when I thought of the story I told before the one about my dog eating one.
Maybe because it rhymes.
Maybe that’s how trauma works.
Maybe it’s because I think that’s what happened to me.
I mean, I used to wonder if that’s what happened to me.
But I don’t wonder anymore.
Because I know that’s what happened to me.
That’s what it was.
It was a grape.
But without the g.
Then, I ask:
God, when will it be dawn? Can we leave this place? Can we be done now?
And at first, it seems like He’s silent. That’s because He is. And I know it’s because I already know His answer. He holds me close while I catch my breath. No tear goes unnoticed. Not one will He forget.
He holds me close as I remember. And I can see Him in the courtyard. Tied up for me, because He wanted me to be free—to heal. That’s the joy He saw out on the hill ahead of Him. I can’t feel it yet, but somehow I know it to be true.
He holds me close and I’m reminded He has scars too.
Different from mine. But scars, nonetheless.
I know we have to stay here a little longer. Because He loves me too much to let this part of my story end like this. He loves me too much to let fear and hatred have me. So I hold onto Him, and even as a child, my small arms reach around and feel the stripes on His back.
They don’t dismiss my pain. That’s all I know.
I don’t have the answers yet. I don’t have the coffee mug phrase that reminds me of triumph and victory just yet, but that’s not really what I’m after anyway.
All I know is that His scars give meaning to mine. Not a reason. Not a purpose.
Meaning.
It doesn’t fix them. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but it does slow down my heart. It does make it a little easier to breathe.
And that’s something worth noticing. That’s something worth holding with both hands.
Maybe it’s something to take with me and keep for later.
I’m so sorry for what you went through. You trusted that place as your workplace, your community, your family and they completely destroyed your worth. Tables will be flipped in the name of Jesus.
You are so brave for speaking up. I know that couldn’t have been easy. I’ve had grape happen to me too. But I wasn’t brave enough to speak up or hold the one who did it responsible. I regret that everyday. But your story inspires me. It reminds me that I’m not alone in this difficult and lonely road. It makes me feel a little less lonely and a lot more vulnerable. Thank you for your honesty. Thank you for trusting us with your story.