Along Came Hell, or So I Thought

By Lois Young

In "Along Came Hell, or So I Thought," witness a profound journey of spiritual transformation as one woman grapples with the shocking revelation of her husband's betrayal after forty-four years of marriage. This heart-wrenching narrative delves deep into the core of family trauma, shedding light on the dark corners of sexual abuse within a seemingly normal household. It's a poignant growth book that doesn't just tell a story; it escorts readers through the tumultuous pathways of emotional healing, guided by a steadfast Christian perspective on trauma.

As you turn each page, you'll find yourself walking alongside the author, experiencing her despair, confusion, and anger after learning that the man she shared her life with had been molesting their granddaughters. But this is not a journey she walks alone. She finds a way to navigate the stormy seas of betrayal and hurt through conversations, Bible studies, and unexpected Holy Spirit surprises. This narrative is an emblem of hope for anyone seeking books about healing from sexual abuse.

"Along Came Hell, or So I Thought" is more than an emotional healing book. It's a testament to the unyielding strength of the human spirit when fortified by faith, addressing sexual abuse in the family with raw honesty while also offering a path to redemption and peace. The author's story illustrates the power of naming one's pain, confronting it head-on, and then handing it over to the higher power of God's love.

As you immerse yourself in this powerful account, you'll witness the transformative power of not choosing to bolt but to molt — shedding the layers of pain and emerging renewed and resilient. While everyone's life story differs, this book encapsulates the universal truth that amidst life's most challenging trials, one thing remains constant: God.

This book is not just for those who have experienced similar trials but anyone seeking understanding and compassion. It's a beacon of light for those navigating the dark, a guide for the lost, and a message of hope for the broken. "Along Came Hell, or So I Thought," is an essential addition to the canon of emotional healing books, offering a unique blend of personal narrative and divine inspiration that will touch hearts, stir souls, and inspire minds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669835134

Lois Young

Lois Young, a native Nevadan, mother of three, grandmother of seven and great grandmother of seven, has written stories and poems for her family and friends’ enjoyment over many years. Some found their way into her church’s newsletter, some appeared in a blog she wrote for three years, some as notes in cards, and still others appeared as devotional material for women’s groups. Many stories she shares are Kingdom insights from every day experiences. In addition to writing, Lois took up painting in her retirement years. Besides writing and painting, she loves watching clouds, trees, and animals, solving all kind of word puzzles, but most of all, she loves her family, her friends, and her Lord.

Book preview

Chapter One

That January evening, I had been completely unaware of the events being set into motion when I had responded to a simple telephone request from our younger son. Mom, would you ask Dad to come over for a few minutes? Ed grabbed his jacket and headed out the door to James’ house a few miles away. After he left, I washed the dinner dishes then settled down with a crossword puzzle. Within an hour Ed returned. All the kids are on their way over he told me.

Puzzled, I questioned, All? Alan and Marie, too?

There is something we have to discuss.

An alarm sounded in my head. It is Thursday night—not the weekend. Why did Alan and Marie come to town unannounced? They live two hours away. What’s going on? Along with the sounding alarm came both a sinking feeling and an epiphany. I knew what was about to happen. All the confusion, all the concerns, and all the fears I had tried justifying during the past years had not been unfounded. I would soon learn the truth. Instead of looking at my husband, I stared at my incomplete puzzle and quietly asked, How bad is it?

It could be worse, was his simple, almost whispered, reply.

That evening’s events are so clearly etched onto my mind I can’t remove them. Over and over again they play. My older son Alan’s first words broke the smothering silence filling our living room. Looking directly into his dad’s eyes, he spoke with such simple words and casual voice that nothing hinted at the bomb my husband was about to drop. Dad, I think you have something to tell us. With that simple announcement, the searing heat of hell along with the icy, deadly grip of winter entered my body. If I hadn’t sensed the coming doom, I would have thought my husband would announce coming out of retirement, or embarking on a new camping adventure, but I knew, I instinctively knew, what we faced. I had no doubt. I have inappropriately touched the granddaughters, his emotionless voice stated.

With my husband’s confession of inappropriate touching hanging in the air, my mind began spinning. Inappropriate touching… our granddaughters! I knew it. I knew it.

I couldn’t bring myself to look at my husband, so I looked instead at our three kids and a daughter-in-law seated around our once-laughter-filled room. They weren’t children any more. They had grown up. Michelle, a teacher, dressed as if she had come directly from her third-grade classroom, sat cross-legged on the floor and showed no visible emotions. Alan and his wife Marie sat comfortably cuddled together on one sofa. James, also in his teaching clothes, sat stiffly next to me on another. I finally dared to look at my husband as he sat on the raised fireplace hearth facing us all. His wire rimmed glasses, balding head and gray beard revealed his age. He, like our offspring, had grown older.

Uncomfortable with that thought, I shifted my gaze from his face to my hands. Seeing their age-spots and obvious veins, I suddenly felt old. A stray white hair on my shirt sleeve confirmed my feeling. The strand whispered, You’re also old,. Yes, I silently agreed as I plucked it off, dropped it, watched it settle onto the floor next to a cracker crumb and thought, I should have vacuumed this week. Maybe tomorrow.

While my heart raced and blood roared in my ears, my stomach churned, and bile filled my throat until I thought my recently eaten dinner would spew across the room. Then, while my mind focused on all the confusion, concerns, and fears I had attempted to justify in past years, I realized the truth was finally out. My gut had been right. Time ground to a halt.

Although time seemed to stand still, the next hour raced past. All that remains is a mish-mash of words, emotions, and a cacophony of sounds. Who spoke what and when? I don’t remember, but some parts of the conversation will remain with me forever. Marie spoke first. That surprised me. She usually listened during conversations involving multiple people, then asked questions or made comments later. Not this night. She immediately jumped right in

Our older son’s wife, Marie: Inappropriate doesn’t tell us anything. You have to take ownership of what you did.

Ed (my husband): "I don’t need to go into detail, do I?

Ed: I’ll buy some books to help me.

Me: You don’t read the books you do buy. Books won’t help.

Alan: Dad, you have to step down as church council president as well as from your other organizational leadership positions. You are no longer spiritually qualified to be a leader.

Ed: I am in charge of an important meeting on the other side of the state next month. I’ll step down after that.

Alan: No, Dad, you have to step down immediately!

Ed: But…

Alan: No, Dad.

Ed, in a panic: I… I... I could be in very big trouble.

Alan: Yes, Dad, very big trouble.

Ed: I didn’t hurt the girls. They liked it.

James, our youngest: "No, Dad, you liked it. Chris and her mom are going to the Sheriff’s Office in the morning to make a report."

He then stood up, pointed a finger at his dad, and almost shouted, YOU RUINED MY DAUGHTER! With that statement he left the house without a stamped foot or slammed door. Although he had left silently, his obvious anger still rang in my ears. Thankfully he had had a meeting at school to attend.

Following a short pause, Marie spoke up once again, Papa, let me tell you what it was like when I was that little girl…. I would hear footsteps coming down the hall toward my room…It made me scared…Who was coming...? What was going to happen this time…? I would make my mind go somewhere else. I would pretend I was asleep.

If silence hadn’t been palpable before, the silence following Marie’s words certainly was. The once smothering silence had morphed into a heavy, dark cloud that blocked all sound except the surging blood in my ears. My body grew hotter; my breathing difficult. It felt as if I, and possibly the entire family, had been set ablaze by a consuming fire. At least that is how I felt.

Finally, I heard Marie speak these profound words, Satan would love to use this to destroy our family, but God wants to use it for good. With that declaration, we tossed around the Old Testament story of Joseph whose brothers had sold him into slavery. At the story’s grand finale in Genesis 50:20 Joseph told them that although they had intended to harm him, God used it for good. That simple, ancient, yet applicable story gave us something to hang on to as well as the realization that God would somehow use the newly revealed horrors for some sort of good.

"What kind of good will that be, Lord? What kind?" I asked.

Silence continued stagnating as we sat consumed by our own thoughts. I looked at no one until, once again, the usually silent one spoke up. For a third time Marie’s wise voice broke through our thought clouds. We need to pray for all of us. Especially the girls. With that, Alan and Marie both prayed. I don’t remember what they prayed; however, I do know Marie’s earlier words had contained a deep truth. The Lord would use our unfathomable situation in ways we could not even imagine. Truth, not Ed’s truth of admission, but God’s truth of HOPE, presented itself into my thoughts, dispelling the choking sensation I had felt moments earlier. The Lord had heard our prayer-filled cries. Then, as unexpectedly as family time had begun, a resounding AMEN ended the family meeting.

Michelle solemnly departed for home where her husband and two daughters awaited her. Alan and Marie’s two teenage sons, two hours away, also waited for them at their home. I hugged them and they hugged me and we said our goodbyes. Ed then approached unannounced and also hugged Alan and Marie. Turning, he reached toward me. Immediately panicking, I stiffened and backed up with the words, I can’t do it. Thankfully Alan stepped forward and put his comforting and assuring arm around my shoulders. That’s OK, Mom, you don’t have to. With that he and Marie walked out the door, down the steps, and into the engulfing darkness.

That left the two of us, Ed and me, face-to-face in the dimly lit living room. Still unable to look at him, I stared at my bare feet. Waves of unspoken emotions, words, and questions swirled between us. If Ed’s emotions were running high, I couldn’t tell. He kept silent. I must admit that I felt differently than one would expect in a situation like this. I felt neither the intense heat nor the bone chilling cold of an hour earlier. I felt neither anger nor rage. The panic had left, and I shed no tears. I merely stood there feeling nothing. My complete lack of emotions absolutely confirmed my years of believing I had none.

As I quickly learned, even though no outward emotional signs had appeared, raw emotions did exist. I began discovering them as I continued staring at my feet. A deep, deep, overwhelming sadness filled me---a sadness that shed no tears. Mixed with the sadness came another feeling or whatever one would call it. Naming the little storm brewing inside me either Anger or Rage didn’t fit what I felt, so I named it Ticked. No others words came to mind. I was ticked. Nothing more, nothing less, that’s it. TICKED.

I think both Ed and I wanted desperately to find appropriate words, or just any words as we remained standing. Mere inches separated my bare toes from his running shoes. Etiquette books didn’t cover this situation which ensnared us. What happens now? Do I tell him to get out of my way? Do I walk around him? Tell him how sad I am? Tell him what is on the tip of my tongue? I didn’t know.

Finally, still unable to look him in the eyes, I addressed his toes with words that were driving my tongue crazy, Little boys know from their earliest years that they have a penis. They can see it, touch it, and experience it do crazy things, but the Lord choses to hide a little girl’s private parts for discovery at a later time. She has no idea what secrets she possesses until she is older, or when someone molests her. Because of your horrendous actions, you have sexualized your granddaughters. When I finally looked up all I saw were Ed’s scared, pain-filled eyes. Out of his mouth croaked these words, What in the world have I done?

I didn’t reply. I couldn’t reply. No request for him to sleep on the couch, leave the house, or get lost passed through my lips. I merely walked around him toward the bedroom as if nothing had happened. He followed. I said nothing more to him. He said nothing more to me.

I climbed into bed on my side; he on his. There we lay, back-to-back and silent. I could tell he wanted to say something. He probably wanted to make the entire evening go away with an apology of some sort. I’m sure he could feel the increasing coldness coming from my side of the bed. Finally, he reminded me he would be up early for a morning flight to a weekend meeting. I muttered something in response. He fell asleep. I didn’t.

I lay on my side of the bed with eyes closed, body stiff, and mind busy. While I berated myself for not acting on the gut feelings that had troubled my soul so many times over at least six years, I kept wondering where the Lord had been all that time. The bomb my husband had dropped on our home only hours earlier could destroy so much. Could my husband ever be believed again? Trusted? How emotionally damaged would the granddaughters be? Would relationships with family members and within marriages themselves survive the explosion? Why did this happen? I didn’t blame God for any of it, but did wonder how or if our family could survive the blaze that could consume everything in its path.

"Where are you, Lord? Help me. Help us. Let us see you. Give us something to hang on to for survival."

Chapter Two

I also wondered where, when, and how the molestation began. What had I missed? Hours passed as I pondered all these things. A decade of memories wafted through my mind bringing highs and lows as well as special a-ha moments. As I learned during the long hours before daybreak, God had been working in unexpected and surprising ways my entire life. These discoveries began my healing process.

It’s amazing how many memories can find their way to the front of one’s mind during dark, sleepless times like the one challenging me. Most memories from earlier years fluttered in and fluttered out, but others alighted for a spell.

One memory that remained for more than a flickering minute that sleepless night brought a slight smile to my lips—memories of a party! I wondered if it would help uncover answers to my unending questions. And, if it did, would I have a better understanding of how this all happened? At least that was my hope.

The Party Memory

Any gathering at James’s home included food and games. This particular event didn’t differ at first. We sang a table prayer to the Superman theme song (Thank you Lord, for giving us food…) followed by the Johnny Appleseed tune (Oh the Lord is good to me…) Time wasn’t spent dining on gourmet food. Instead, we filled our tummies with simple food, then filled the dish washer--all amid happy voices and laughter. As the dish washer swished away, the adults either visited in the living room or while playing games at the dining room table, and the grandkids played elsewhere in the house. It was our typical family gathering.

The atypical occurred later in the evening when both our four-year-old granddaughters, festooned in beautiful, sparkling, angel costumes complete with wings, pranced, squealed, and flapped into the living room. In a twinkling of an eye, Ed, their papa, lifted one of the girls over his head and danced around the room with her. The magic had begun.

First one girl, then the other, flew through the living room holding securely to Papa’s arms. As each imaginative child got brave enough to let go and spread out her own arms, she changed from a costumed little girl into a beautifully draped angel. From the glow of angelic, little-girl faces, I knew tele-transportation really did exist. Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, we happy people now sat in a heavenly realm where angel dust floated down and landed on our heads. That ordinary evening had become extraordinary. Then, as rapidly as the images had appeared in my mind, they disappeared. Sadly, no answers had revealed themselves.

Memories of Being Polar Opposites

Additional memories of my husband playing with those two little girls, whether in our own home or theirs, made their appearances. What became apparent in these memories was his playing almost anything they wanted to play. From hoisting them overhead to dancing at their pretend balls, from playing computer games to reading books, from being a seeker of the hiders to a pusher of the swingers, Papa entertained, amused, held, and played. He adored his granddaughters and they adored him.

Papa loved not only his granddaughters, but also children in general. For reasons I never understood, children were as drawn to him as ants were to honey. He teased. He chased. He pretended, and he laughed. He loved having youngsters around--especially the granddaughters.

I don’t know exactly when or why my amused observations change into confusion and concern. But when I would watch Ed pick up and hold any of his granddaughters, especially when they had played contentedly by themselves on the other side of the room, I silently questioned his actions. Why did you do that? She was playing fine by herself. When I watched him pat a tummy or a leg while one of them sat on his lap, I often thought, What are you doing? Leave her alone.

You see, my husband and I are polar opposites. I seldom picked up or held the grandkids without a reason to do so. If they climbed onto my lap by themselves, I’d welcome them. If they asked to get up, I’d help them, or if they were handed to me, I would take them. I loved their company. I loved laughing and talking with them. I loved reading to them. But I usually did not initiate physical contact.

My husband’s overtly affectionate nature reflected some of his dad’s behavior. His father’s kiss on my cheek during our initial meeting had caught me by surprise. I don’t remember my own parents or any relative ever kissing me. I knew they loved me, but memories of kisses or hugs don’t exist

Ed and I were, after all, two different people who had learned to give and receive love and affection in different ways. That is how my husband and I each grew up. Besides, what gives me the right to judge his actions? Deep down I felt my standoffish approach of smiles and quiet conversation was the questionable behavior, not my husband’s hands-on approach.

After musing and tossing in my bed, I still saw myself as an unemotional ice cream cone—sweet, but cold at the same time. My husband, on the other hand, as a warm, loving, teddy bear. Should I have expected different behavior from either of us? I didn’t think so. With my unchanged mind-set, I not only continued accepting his behavior as different from mine, but I also justified it. After all, we were who we were. Even though this stream of thoughts had finally calmed down, my body continued tossing and turning next to my softly snoring husband.

Becoming a Spy Memories

Soon different memories stormed in, memories of being uncomfortable with his behavior to the point of spying on him. We occasionally babysat the grandkids while their parents had a date night or weekend getaway. Our evening routine meant Ed volunteered to bathe the girl(s) and get them into their jammies while I did dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. His helping in itself wasn’t unusual. My husband always found ways to help out. Without being asked, he would do dishes, wash a load of clothes, or make the bed. That’s who he was; however, giving a child a bath when she had played indoors all day and needed only her face and hands washed seemed unnecessary. I didn’t like it.

Is there more here than meets the eye? Am I missing something? That question wouldn’t leave me alone. One evening, instead of wondering, I actually tiptoed to the slightly opened bathroom door and peeked through the crack. Papa sat on the floor making silly faces any amusing way he could for the young blond girls who splashed around and giggled their high-pitched giggles. Soon afterward he toweled them off and put them into their warm, footie pajamas. Nothing inappropriate had happened. My hands returned to cool dish water before the bath tub finished draining. No answers to my question ever appeared here either.

Memory of Wondering Who is Obsessed?

As the bath routine memory faded away, I continued wondering what finally triggered me to seriously question my husband’s actions. It might have been after I watched him once again play tea party with the girls instead of joining his grandsons as they played catch outside; or watched him play prince to the girls’ princesses instead of joining the family’s game of Hand and Foot; or massage the feet and calves of a feverish granddaughter staying at our home while her parents were at work; or looked for him in a department store where I finally found him in the children’s department looking at little girls’ clothes. Don’t you think this color would look good on Rose, and this one on Annie? he asked me about some cute jackets hanging from the rack.

I think you are a little too obsessed, I thought.

These types of events unfolded over and over during a number of years until Nana Spy, as I had begun calling myself, checked activities more and more often. When my husband disappeared somewhere in the house with one or both of the girls, I quietly approached the room and peeked around the corner. Nope, nothing’s going on.

If they played outside, I approached in stealth mode, making sure I cast no shadow revealing my presence. Again, I saw nothing unusual. I wanted to call the Sheriff’s Office in the worse way, but what would I report? Saying that my husband loved pushing his granddaughters on the swing or sipping imaginary tea at their tea parties didn’t sound like anything reportable to me,

Lord, I remembered myself often praying, "am I being overly sensitive? Because what he does is so different from what I do, is his way wrong, or is mine?" Was I becoming suspicious to the point of obsession? I didn’t think so. I merely wanted to know the truth. Besides, his years of hard work for the state had revolved around protecting children. He had supervised case workers for Children’s Protective Services for years. Though now retired, he knew the ins and outs of child abuse, molestation, etc., etc., etc. and the consequences. There was no way he would molest the girls he adored. Or was there?

Not only did I not call the Sheriff or confront my husband, I also kept my mouth shut around our kids. I felt my reticence was scripturally based. Ephesians 4:29 NIV. "Do not let unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen." Any voiced suspicions coming from me, if unfounded, would definitely be unwholesome, un-helpful for building up, and of no benefit to listeners. The other scripture, Ephesians 4:15 about speaking the truth in love kept my lips sealed too because I had no idea what the truth was. I hadn’t wanted to plant seeds of doubt about