When your child is wounded, something primal wakes up inside you. A father becomes a wall, a shield, a storm. And yet the days after my daughter’s revelation left me feeling like none of those things—just a man standing in the ruins of a home he thought he had protected.

But while my daughter was trying to breathe through memories she had buried for almost a decade, another reality pressed in with a weight I could not ignore: I had already committed to visiting David in prison, and the day had come.

The thought of seeing him again made my stomach tighten. Before, his sin was devastating. Now, it felt personal. His crime had laid a mirror over my daughter’s trauma. He wasn’t her abuser, but in my mind, the two men became entangled—interwoven threads of betrayal, violation, and innocence stolen.

And I was expected to minister to him.

I didn’t tell the whole story to the small group of men who went with me that day. Not because I didn’t trust them, but because I didn’t have the strength to speak the words again. Some pains are too fresh to articulate twice. The truth sat heavy in my chest, and I carried it into Metrowest Detention Center like a man carrying a stone he could not put down.

As we walked through the sterile intake area—lockers clicking shut, belts removed, metal detectors humming—I felt a tremor inside me. This wasn’t fear. It wasn’t anger. It was the collision of two worlds I never imagined would meet: the wound of my child and the ministry God had placed on my shoulders.

The prisoners were brought out one by one, each sitting behind a glass window, each holding a phone that acted as a lifeline and a barrier at the same time. The men in my group took turns speaking with David. I stood back near the vending machines, unable to sit yet, unable to face him. I stared at the rows of candy and soda behind the glass, blinking hard as tears threatened to break free.

How do you love a man who reminds you of the one who destroyed your daughter’s innocence?

How do you show compassion to someone whose sin echoes your family’s deepest wound?

How do you sit across from a child molester when your own child has just said, “It happened to me”?

I wiped my face before anyone could see.

Eventually, it was my turn. I sat down in the cold metal chair, lifted the phone, and looked at David—really looked at him.

He looked small.

Smaller than I remembered.

Thin, fragile, worn down by confinement and shame.

His beard untrimmed, his cheeks hollow, his eyes searching for mercy he wasn’t sure he had any right to receive.

And in that moment, my heart split into two opposite worlds.

One part of me—the pastor—saw a broken man, a sinner in need of grace, someone who had confessed, someone who claimed to be repentant, someone Christ still loved.

The other part—the father—saw my daughter’s face.

Her fear.

Her silence.

Her nine-year-old innocence.

Her trembling voice in a dark parking lot.

Her years of carrying a secret she never should’ve had to bear.

I listened to him talk.

I listened to him cry.

I listened to him confess his guilt before me, not in detail, but in broad strokes—repentance shaped like the outline of a story he wasn’t ready to tell.

And the whole time, something in me rebelled:

Why am I here? Why am I doing this? Why am I the one God sent to sit across from him?

He talked about understanding the weight of sin now.

He talked about seeing the pain he caused.

He talked about Jesus, repentance, forgiveness.

And I nodded because it was the right thing to do, but inside I felt an ache I couldn’t name. His words were true, but truth wasn’t enough to quiet the storm inside me.

I wanted justice.

I wanted protection.

I wanted healing for my daughter.

And I wanted to stay far, far away from anything that reminded me of the evil she endured.

Yet here I was—my ear pressed against an old phone receiver, talking through a glass window in a Miami detention center—because Christ had commanded love, commanded compassion, commanded something far beyond my natural capacity.

When the visit ended and we stepped outside, the men chatted softly about the experience. But I stayed silent, my thoughts tangled. The sky was too bright for a day that felt so dark.
I wasn’t thinking about ministry strategy or discipleship or what forgiveness should look like. I wasn’t thinking about Scripture or sermons or spiritual language.
I was thinking about my daughter.
And I was thinking about this man.
Two wounds.
Two lives.
Two unbearable realities colliding inside my heart.
I drove home quietly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary. I wanted to shout at God, but all I could muster was breath. Heavy, uneven breath.
Somewhere inside, I knew this was the path Christ had placed in front of me. A path of obedience that hurt. A path of compassion that didn’t feel noble, only impossible. A path that required me to hold the wounded and the guilty in the same heart.
It didn’t feel holy.
It felt like being torn apart.
But sometimes obedience feels like that.
Sometimes love feels like that.
Sometimes following Jesus means walking into a storm you never would’ve chosen—but trusting that He is walking in it with you.

Faith in the Dark is Jesse Velez’s true story of enduring faith, costly obedience, and discovering God’s presence in seasons of grief and silence. Best to read the 12-Part Series in order:

  1. The Night the Police Lights Found Me
  2. The Call That Split My World
  3. Behind the Glass
  4. Life as a Pastor, Father, and Protector
  5. My Daughter’s Disappearing Act
  6. My Mother’s Drive and the Truth She Carried
  7. Holding My Family’s Pain in My Hands
  8. Loving the Guilty and the Wounded at the Same Time
  9. The Jesus I Wanted vs. the Jesus I Needed
  10. Forgiveness With the Lights On
  11. Faith Inside the Fire
  12. The Road That Goes On