TIVI

Collection: Faith

Est. Read Time: 8 Minutes

A Story that Found Me

Talking about faith can be difficult. Not everyone believes what I believe, and I understand that. My hope isn’t to convince you to adopt my faith. It’s simply to share one of the stories that became part of my own healing.

Because regardless of what we believe spiritually, childhood sexual abuse affects every part of us. It wounds us socially, mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. Whether we acknowledge that spiritual wound or not, many survivors eventually find themselves asking questions about meaning, hope, forgiveness, identity, and purpose.

I believe learning how to care for your spirit is one of the most important parts of healing. However you choose to do that, I hope you don’t neglect it.

Personally, I believe in the God of the Bible—YHWH, Jehovah—and in His Son, Jesus Christ. That belief has become one of the deepest sources of hope in my own life. You don’t have to share that belief to understand why this story matters to me.

Over the years I’ve come to see the Bible as something much more than an ancient collection of religious writings. I’ve come to see it as a profound exploration of the human heart. Its stories continue speaking to us because people continue struggling with many of the same questions they did thousands of years ago: shame, fear, loss, betrayal, forgiveness, hope.

The historical details matter, but what has transformed me most is the remarkable way these ancient stories continue revealing something true about what it means to be human.

One story, in particular, has stayed with me for years.

It’s the story of a little boy named Mephibosheth.

Lo Debar

You probably didn’t hear much about Mephibosheth in Sunday school. To be fair, I suspect his name alone kept him from becoming one of the more popular Bible characters.

His story appears in 2 Samuel, chapters 4 and 9. King Saul had spent years trying to kill David because he knew David had been chosen to become Israel’s next king. The two men were enemies. Yet Saul’s son Jonathan and David were the closest of friends.

When Saul’s kingdom finally collapsed, panic spread throughout the royal household. In the confusion, someone fled carrying Jonathan’s five-year-old son, Mephibosheth.

She dropped him.

The injuries permanently crippled both of his feet.

In the ancient world, that changed everything. Physical disability often meant social isolation. Your value was measured by what you could contribute, and Mephibosheth suddenly found himself carrying a burden he had never chosen.

He eventually lived in a place called Lo Debar. The name is often translated as “no pasture” or “nothing.” It was a place of scarcity. A place forgotten by most people.

Years passed. Meanwhile, David became king.

One day, remembering his covenant with Jonathan, David asked a simple question:

“Is there anyone still left from the house of Saul to whom I can show kindness?”

His servants found Mephibosheth. When they described him to David, they didn’t begin with his name. They began with his condition.

“There is still a son of Jonathan… he is crippled in both feet.”

When Mephibosheth was brought before the king, he bowed low and said something that has always deeply affected me:

“What is your servant, that you should notice a dead dog like me?”

I’ve read those words many times. Every time I read them, I hear shame speaking.

The name Mephibosheth is often understood to mean “from the mouth of shame.” His injury had become more than something that happened to him. It had become the way he understood himself.

David answered with words Mephibosheth never expected to hear.

“Don’t be afraid.”

Then he restored his family’s land. And he invited Mephibosheth to eat at the king’s table for the rest of his life.

My Own Lo Debar

I can relate.

For years, I lived in my own Lo Debar. Not geographically. Spiritually. Emotionally.

The abuse convinced me that I was broken. Shame convinced me that my brokenness defined me. Like Mephibosheth, I learned to see myself through the lens of my deepest wound.

If I’m honest, I’ve called myself far worse than a dead dog. I believed I was damaged beyond repair. Unworthy of love. Beyond redemption.

That wasn’t God’s voice. It was shame’s.

One of the greatest surprises of my healing has been discovering that God was not waiting for me to become whole before inviting me into His presence. He met me while I was still broken.

For years I believed my brokenness disqualified me. I’ve slowly come to believe the opposite. My brokenness became the place where I most deeply encountered grace.

I don’t believe God wanted me to be abused. I don’t believe He delights in suffering. But I have come to believe that no wound is beyond His ability to redeem. Some of the places I most wanted to hide have become the places where I have experienced His faithfulness most clearly.

A Seat at the King’s Table

Perhaps what moves me most about Mephibosheth’s story is this: he did nothing to earn a seat at the king’s table.

David’s invitation wasn’t based on Mephibosheth’s strength. It wasn’t based on his usefulness. It wasn’t based on his accomplishments.

It was an act of grace.

His identity changed before his circumstances ever did. His legs remained crippled. His past wasn’t erased. But he no longer had to see himself as someone forgotten in Lo Debar.

He had a place at the king’s table.

A Different Voice

That story has become deeply personal for me. For years shame convinced me that I belonged in my own land of “no pasture.” That I was forgotten. That I was too damaged to be fully loved.

Little by little, God invited me to believe a different story. Not because I deserved it. Not because I finally fixed myself. But because grace has never depended on my ability to earn it.

If you share my faith, I hope this story reminds you that your deepest wound does not have the final word. And if you don’t, I still hope you’ll consider the possibility that the stories we believe about ourselves matter.

Because every survivor eventually faces the same question:

Who gets to tell me who I am?

For a long time, shame answered that question for me.

Today, I choose to trust a different voice.

And that has made all the difference.

Reflection: Shame tells us where we belong. Grace quietly pulls out a chair and invites us to the table.

Continue the Journey:

Previous: 001. Silencing Shame: Why do survivors remain silent?

Next: 005. Solitude: How the outdoors became the place I found myself again.

Return to the Main Library

Why This Library Exists

TIVI exists because no one should have to walk the road toward healing, accountability, and restoration alone.

Every story in this library was written to offer one or more of three things:

• Experience – So you know someone else has been there.
• Strength – So you can borrow courage when yours is running low.
• Hope – So you can believe healing and accountability are still possible.

If even one story helps you take the next right step, then it was worth writing.

Please feel free to reach out to us if we can help. We’re here.