To Love a Villian

Someone requested that I rewrite this for their newsletter that goes out to prisoners and prisoners' families. So, here's the rewrite. I hope it can encourage someone out there. I also think this version has a better hook--that's the writer in me. And yes, this is a true story.



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When I was five, I almost killed myself. After getting beaten and kicked around by my dad, he left me to find my own way back in the dark to our campground. I decided I was going to get even and throw myself in the raging river flowing in the not-so-far distance. At five, I was already tired of living. Tired of the abuse, and tired of being afraid. And this time, Daddy would pay.

As I trudged toward that unseen river, the black trees loomed over me. Their wicked branches reached down for me like claws. Still, I walked into their clutches. I wouldn't let them scare me. After all, I was ready to die. I wondered what it would be like to throw myself into the raging water. Would there be an easy place to jump in? Would it be cold? While we were driving to the campsite, Daddy had pointed it out to me from a bridge. Its white foamy waves raged along its banks, and throwing myself into it would be certain death.

I imagined watching the scene after I was gone. Maybe I'd sit in one of the tree branches far above the river, far above everyone. The police would come, wandering the river's edge, searching for my body. When they found me, if they found me, Daddy would be arrested. It felt great to imagine them putting him in handcuffs right there under the trees. Maybe he'd finally learn what a horrible person he was.

Then I imagined my mother. She sat on a rock on the river's bank, her face buried in her hands, and she was crying—crying for her drowned little girl. The only other time I saw Mommy cry was when Daddy hovered over her, raging at her like the river. But now I saw her crying by herself, alone on the boulder. She and my baby sister would now be alone. Alone with Daddy. That wasn't such a nice feeling. I couldn't do that to Mommy. I couldn't make her cry. So, I turned back.

Amazingly, it was this same man—my father who made my life a living hell—who brought me to Christ. A bank robber who had read the Bible and learned how to become a Christian on his own, converted my dad in prison—but that's another story (if you'd like to read it, look for "Convicted" on my website at www.sandirog.com). When Dad got out, he taught me the gospel. But at sixteen, I didn't trust a word he said. He literally had to show me verse-by-verse how to be saved in order for me to believe. I didn't notice any changes in my dad right away. After all, it had been a while since I'd last seen him. But as time went by, I noticed he had more patience, his voice was softer, and he apologized for his mistakes. It's amazing what a big difference a sincere apology makes. "I'm sorry" can be one of the most difficult words to say, but when it's said from a sincere heart, it can be very healing to both the victimizer and the victim.

My dad is the only one in my life who took the time to verbally teach me about Jesus. My Christian family members hardly whispered a word about salvation to me. However, they taught me by their examples. They may have kept their mouths shut about God, but I was watching their actions. And their lights were shining. They were happy and they had good lives. I wanted what they had. Despite the fact that some of my family were Christians, it was ultimately my father who brought me to the Lord.

There were times I wished it hadn't been him. I wished it had been one of those kind family members. That way I could still have a reason to hate my dad. But I wasn't allowed to hate him anymore. Not after reading 1 John 4:20, "If someone says, 'I love God,' and hates his brother, he is a liar; for the one who does not love his brother whom he has seen, cannot love God whom he has not seen."

How does one learn to love a villain? For me, it was to realize that they're not all bad. After all, this villain brought me the truth—the truth that gives eternal life. What an awesome gift. Bad guys have depth, and they also need God. Not only has my experience made it easier to see all sides of people I meet, it's helped me to know that even in some of the vilest characters resides a soul longing to be filled and loved by Jesus.

It's also taught me to love God's truth. Truth doesn't always come in pretty packages. Sometimes, it's wrapped up in something ugly. Sometimes I think God tests us to see how much we really love Him. If we really love truth, love God's message, it won’t make any difference which messenger brings it.

After all, God can use anyone to accomplish His plan—even the devil himself.