There is a bitter woman in my life. There’s no way to dress it up. She’s angry, and resentful.

Recently, during one of her many text-rages to my husband, she accused him of moving three hours away “so your wife can be near her pedophile.”

Wow. Deep breath… Wow.

I must confess, the woman knows how to bring me to my knees.

Surely, she must know how difficult it is to be within “hollering distance” of my abuser. A logical, rational mind can’t help but know. I’m left with no choice but to believe her words were sheer malice, the very fruit of bitterness.

What does the bible say about bitterness? Well, here are a few verses:

“Therefore I will not keep silent;
I will speak out in the anguish of my spirit,
I will complain in the bitterness of my soul.” (Job 7:11, NIV)

“I loathe my very life;
therefore I will give free rein to my complaint
and speak out in the bitterness of my soul.” (Job 10:1, NIV)

Each heart knows its own bitterness,
and no one else can share its joy. (Proverbs 14:10, NIV)

Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. (Ephesians 4:31, NIV)

But if you harbor bitter envy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not boast about it or deny the truth. (James 3:14, NIV)

Clearly, God wants us to rid ourselves of bitterness, but Job said — more than once — in essence, “My life sucks and I’ve had incredible trials and hardships, so I’m bitter.”

I was about to fire off a spiteful, incredulous text back to the woman whose singular goal was to hurt me, but… I stopped.

The phone was literally in my hand.

What pain, what torment, has taken root in her heart so deeply that the only way to soothe it — even for a moment — is to attack me with the most painful thing I’ve lived through? I thought.

My eyes were opened, and I saw her as a wounded animal, writhing in pain as she struggled with the weight of a burden she couldn’t release, lashing out with claws at anyone who came near.

Isn’t that what we do, when we’re hurt, defeated, overwhelmed, and without hope?

I’ve chosen to pronounce my pain in a very open forum, perhaps giving her an endless supply of stones to cast at me in her hatred.

She… has not chosen a public revelation of her trials.

I don’t need to know what they are. It is enough to know they exist. If they didn’t, she wouldn’t live in the bondage of bitterness.

In so many ways, we are sisters. We share love for the same children, we sometimes get angry with the same man (ha!), and we’ve both suffered. Greatly so, it seems.

It is unproductive for me to harbor hatred and withhold forgiveness. It is unproductive to try to have a conversation with her. I’ve tried. The most productive thing I can do is pray for her, and love her. (Lord, help me with that one, will you?!)

“You have heard that it was said, ‘Love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I tell you, love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, that you may be children of your Father in heaven. He causes his sun to rise on the evil and the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.” (Matthew 5:43-45, NIV)

…pray for those that persecute you…

May the rain wash away your bitterness, and may God’s love soothe your pain. May you find the gift of forgiveness, and find yourself healed in His glorious light.

Here are some words from my favorite poet, Rumi:

We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste this minute of eternity.

We are pain and what cures pain both.
We are the sweet cold water and the jar that pours.

I want to hold you close like a lute so we can cry out with loving.

You would rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror, and here are the stones.

Please, take all the stones you need. I’m giving them to you.

I’ve already been broken, shattered into a brilliant, reflective masterpiece of glory. A mirror intact reflects one image, and one only. A mirror shattered glistens with light from every angle.

In an October 1976 issue of People, Woody Allen stated:

‘I’m open-minded about sex. I’m not above reproach; if anything, I’m below reproach. I mean, if I was caught in a love nest with 15 12-year-old girls tomorrow, people would think, yeah, I always knew that about him.’ Allen pauses. ‘Nothing I could come up with would surprise anyone,’ he ventures helplessly. ‘I admit to it all.’

While admirers and fans may have dismissed the quip as just one more neurotic rambling from the quirky genius, for his daughter, Dylan Farrow, reading those words — spoken by her father, well before she was born — must be gut-wrenching.

The story Dylan tells of what happened when she was seven years old is chilling. What haunts me about her story is how the world turned a blind eye to her claims, because her father was — well — Woody Allen. He’s been praised and revered by Hollywood, by journalists, critics and fans, and almost no one gives a second thought to the little girl who knows him to be a monster.

I understand what Dylan is feeling, when she writes:

So imagine your seven-year-old daughter being led into an attic by (her abuser). Imagine she spends a lifetime stricken with nausea at the mention of his name. Imagine a world that celebrates her tormenter.

You see, my abuser is popular.

He may not be the proud owner of a shiny teaching certificate any longer, but he is relatively successful. He owns various rental properties, including vacation rentals which rent out at $4,100 to $4,300 per week. He mingles with folks who matter. He is an accomplished athlete, and has won numerous races and awards for his skill.

He fosters dogs awaiting adoptive homes, and has signed up to train service dogs.

I can see, from browsing his Facebook profile, that we have five mutual friends — four of which I met through my original home church, and the last who I met through the resort I worked at the summer I was 18. I’d already started my job when I learned my abuser also worked there, in the same department. I had to go to my supervisor, tearfully explain the history, and ask to be put on a different shift, so I wouldn’t have to see him.

I also see photos, visible to the public, on his profile. Photos of him with a little girl on his lap, and his arm around another little girl, the top of his thumb just below her still-developing nipple. Photos of him and four pre-pubescent girls in bikinis. Photos of him rafting with a girl who went to high school with my daughter.

He is a popular man. Maybe he’s not Woody Allen-popular, but he is popular in a tiny town, where the graduating class of 1992 was 24 students.

And, I must admit, I get it. He’s smart. Brilliant, actually. He’s funny, and resourceful, and he likes to cook and bake (he took me and a couple of my girlfriends to his house to make cookies one day, as a “workshop”).

He is the reason I know the difference between “Can I…” and “May I…” (“I’m sure you can, but no, you may not.”) He is the reason I qualify as a “grammar Nazi,” and am fiercely protective of proper use of our language.

I learned some of the best (clean) jokes I know from him, as well as some of my most effective mnemonic devices. My obsession with certain books, DOS-based computer games, television programs, newspapers… those are all influenced by him.

I am the brilliant, unconventional, genius-caliber bundle of chaos I am today, in part, thanks to him.

What’s my point? I’ve been thinking about this, for days. What am I trying to say?

It means nothing, without repentance.

Woody Allen may be celebrated, honored, revered, even worshipped… but it means nothing, without repentance, if he is guilty of Dylan’s abuse.

My abuser may be talented, brilliant, even likable… but it means nothing, without repentance. He is guilty of abusing many children.

And, when the world holds our abusers on a pedestal, it makes us feel that much smaller — that much more insignificant.

Know this, though… To God, we are not insignificant. We are not small. We are not meant to live in the shadows of our popular abusers.

To the contrary, we are meant to outshine those who have hurt us. In our boldness, our tenacity, our strength, we mean something. We mean more to others who are crying out, locked into their own shame and pain. We mean more to those who will be saved because we choose to speak. We mean more to a world that is quickly tiring of silence and conspiracy… Our voices matter. They matter to so many lost, and they matter to God.

There is nothing concealed that will not be disclosed, or hidden that will not be made known. What you have said in the dark will be heard in the daylight, and what you have whispered in the ear in the inner rooms will be proclaimed from the roofs. (Luke 12:2-3, NIV)

Our stories will be amplified. The truth will not be hidden forever. Again, I go back to Whitman’s Song of Myself, and his line — I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable, I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world. — for which this blog is named.

And, the words of Marianne Williamson, author of Return to Love, seem especially on-point, here. (Please note: This quote is often erroneously attributed to Nelson Mandela, but was penned by Williamson.)

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small doesn’t serve the world. There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we’re liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

A certain amount of “celebrity” comes with going public. It’s not the sort of fame we wish upon anyone, but it holds more sincerity and merit than pop culture.

We are… creating a new culture — one in which silence no longer wins, and victims no longer suffer alone.

Are you ready to break your silence? LISTENconspiracy wants to help. Find them at LISTENconspiracy.com, or on Facebook.

It’s time for your barbaric YAWP to sound, over the rooftops of the world.

How can I pray for you, today?