*This poem contains descriptions of domestic abuse, child endangerment, and spiritual betrayal. Reader discretion is advised. It may be triggering for survivors.

You stood at the altar

week after week,

spoke of grace,

truth,

accountability—

said you were called

to protect the vulnerable.

To guide the flock.

To speak when others stayed silent.

But when I came to you—

shaking,

ashamed,

bruised in places no one sees—

you nodded,

prayed,

and stayed silent.

You knew.

You saw the rage,

the fallout,

the bruises on our son’s face.

He told you what happened.

I told you what happened.

And still—

you wrote the affidavit

and called her

a good mother.

Said she never hit them.

Said she never lost control.

You lied

to the court,

to God,

to me.

All while preaching

“truth sets us free.”

You watched me

try to hold my family together

with bloodied hands

and no support.

Watched her scream and swing

and gaslight

and choke me

while I kept showing up

to your services,

waiting for justice

in a sanctuary built on cowardice.

You said nothing.

Not to DHS.

Not to the judge.

Not even to me.

A mandatory reporter

who chose

to be optional.

You gave her character

while she tore mine apart.

You signed your name to fiction

while I tried to shield our children

from hands you pretended

never struck.

And I wonder—

when you bow your head in prayer,

do you hear my son’s voice?

The crack in it

when he said,

“Mommy hit me.”

Do you hear my own,

begging you to do

what you were legally

and morally

obligated to do?

Or have you convinced yourself

you did the right thing—

because keeping the peace

was more important

than telling the truth?

You were supposed to be

a shepherd.

But you let the wolves in.

Let them sleep in our home.

Told the sheep

they were safe

while blood pooled

in the pasture.

So now I stand

not in your church,

but in a courtroom,

telling the truth

you were too afraid to write.

And I hope to God

that silence weighs heavier

than the pulpit ever did.

 

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