My Light Remains

By Vicky Marie Medrek

In "My Light Remains," the author navigates the fraught and often misunderstood world of Jehovah's Witnesses—a global Christian organization with over eight million active members. The central tenet of this book is the organization's controversial practice of disfellowshipping, an action leading to profound personal loss and, in extreme cases, suicide.

The author shares her personal journey into the heart of the Jehovah's Witnesses, her ordeal of living in an abusive marriage, and her grappling with spiritual suffering following disfellowshipping. She bravely reveals her darkest hour when she attempted suicide, providing a raw insight into the despair induced by excommunication.

However, her story is not only about despair but also resilience. Surviving her suicide attempt, she retains her faith and uncovers its miraculous ability to heal, endure, and offer hope. Her testament showcases the extraordinary resilience of the human spirit and the enduring capacity of faith and love.

Through the eyes of one woman, "My Light Remains" explores the darker corners of religious organizations, the devastation caused by isolation, and the power of faith to illuminate even the darkest paths. It is an exploration of despair, recovery, and the undying light of faith and love that heals all things.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350961553

Vicky Marie Medrek

The author of "My Light Remains" discovered the beauty of God's word as a child, which led her to the conviction that Jehovah's Witnesses was the one true Christian religion. Subsequently becoming a baptized Witness, she found emotional healing, joy, and a spiritual family within the organization, along with a sense of purpose, as she aimed to become a missionary. However, her life took a drastic turn as she withstood decades of abuse in a loveless marriage. Despite these hardships, her deep respect for Bible principles and a personal relationship with her God enabled her to cope with the trials of her life. She weathered her toxic marriage and survived a suicide attempt. However, her greatest challenge lay ahead—would her faith survive the trauma of being disfellowshipped? In "My Light Remains," she shares her experience with disfellowshipping, offering a deep, personal insight into the spiritual suffering it can induce, and the miraculous resilience of faith and love in the face of adversity.

Book preview

A Light Goes Out

… every hour and every moment thousands of men leave the earth… And how many of them depart in solitude, unknown, sad, dejected, that no one mourns for them or even knows whether they have lived or not.

The Brothers Karamazov, by Fyodor Dostoevsky

It is early, a bit after 7 am.

No school for me or for the boys. It is Thanksgiving holiday break.

The house is cold but warming quickly as my work of stoking the wood-stove is paying off. The smell of coffee and the thought of making breakfast, setting the table, serving my family… doing all these things are actions I cherish.

As I reach for ingredients and dishes, I converse with myself. "He will never allow me to get a job. He won’t. He will continue to punish me for my lack of subjection and my obvious worldly, independent attitude. I am 6 months away from graduation. I can get a job that will pay our bills and pay down our $45k credit card debt. He will eventually be glad to have my paycheck. I know he will. I will prove, again, that I am loyal not only to him, but also to God. Until then, I will continue to be an exemplary Christian wife. I will give him no cause for complaint. Neither will I complain.

I tell myself all of this as my back hurts, my breasts hurt, my nipples hurt, my bottom hurts. Sex hurts during and long, long after. This morning is like so many others. I hurt. I hurt physically. I hurt sexually. I hurt emotionally.

The beauty of this morning is memorable and noteworthy. Another brisk, crisp, clear November morning. I continue my self-talk, "Focus on the blessings. I have a home. I have a family. I have sons. I have a congregation, and an extended Christian family of thousands that I know and millions more that I have never met. I mentally remind myself that love is long-suffering. Long-suffering is not simply to suffer for a long time. Long-suffering is the informed choice to tolerate something that causes suffering for a purpose.

I am suffering.

I suffer with a purpose. I will finish school. I will get a job. He will eventually be glad that I became a Registered Nurse. He will. Then, my punishment will end. Then, he will love me.

Yes, another mantra, He will love me. He will.

As I cook breakfast, I make myself a Dirty Lavern. Heavy on the Kalua, double heavy on the vodka. Delicious. A second Dirty Lavern, better than the first. I feel it. That Dirty Lavern. She delivers the lightness of being. I am not a drinker. I only recently discovered Dirty Lavern. And, this morning Dirty Lavern has clarified everything.

As I stifle an actual eureka, I reach for his prescription pills. He has several bottles of pills. So many that they are kept in the kitchen cupboard. He has two bottles of Vicodin, each a different dose. I choose the higher dose. I take three pills. I am euphoric. I take three more. I do a little medical arithmetic in my head. How many Vicodin will equal one dead me? Twenty minutes more for the Vicodin to kick in. I am happy.

My mind is so clear. I discern everything, I see, I understand. I empty the pill bottle. Nineteen pills in all (maximum daily dose not to exceed six pills). I wash them all down with one more Dirty Lavern. I have never felt such a sweet, calming ecstasy. Soon…

Ya know what?

I am not going to serve breakfast!

How unlike me. I smile at my plan. Breakfast is cooked but no food service today. I laugh at my boldness. I’m actually going to go wake him up and tell him, Serve your own breakfast! Again, I laugh.

I cover the hot food and set the table.

I go upstairs, I wake him and tell him breakfast is done. So much for telling him to serve his own breakfast.

I go back downstairs.

I have to call my dad.

I need to speak to him before I go to sleep.

How do I say good-bye without actually saying it?

I control my voice, but I suddenly feel heartbreak. My phone call is brief, but longer than I wanted, or rather planned it to be.

Now what?

Now go say good-bye to my sons.

Even this thought: good-bye to my sons, who I so love… this thought brings something akin to relief, not pain. They will understand… one day. They will have forever.

I go upstairs again.

I walk into the boys’ room where they are playing video games. No school, no meeting, no field service. This is an actual free day, and they are laughing and playing video games. For them, this is a rare freedom. They are loving it. So much so that it is difficult to get their attention.

Goodnight fellas, my voice is surprisingly cheery – even to me.

Mommy’s going to lay down.

They all laugh at me. Goodnight?

They take turns teasing me, It’s morning! Goodnight? You’re funny!

Yes, mom is funny, I say.

Goodnight Adam.

Goodnight Benjamin.

Goodnight Samuel.

Each goodnight was accompanied by a kiss to the forehead. Their last kiss. This is the one they will remember.

Breakfast is ready. Go eat.

They head downstairs, and I head to the master bedroom.

He is in bed but sitting upright. He yells at me, What’s wrong with you? What did you do?

His disgust is palpable.

I see the telephone on the bed next to him.

Ah… Lavern’s clarity. I see everything. I know everything.

He listened to my phone call to my dad. I called from the living room, he listened from the bedroom. He knows. He knows!

And I don’t care.

Your breakfast is done. Please feed the boys. I’m going to lay down.

He gets up and goes downstairs.

I look at our marital bed, that clean, unadulterated, marital bed.

No.

Not there.

I remove the comforter from the bed and make a dog bed for myself in the closet.

Come, come sweet Slumber! Yes. I tell myself to go to sleep.

Wake up! I hear his voice.

The closet light is on and blindingly bright. I can hear how much he hates me.

He is yelling at me, Wake up! What are you doing? Get out of the closet!

I am awake.

My heart is pounding. It is pounding. My entire body pounds with the rhythm. It feels like a hammer pounding my chest and wracking my body.

I heard him but he is not there.

He will be back.

I must hide.

I go into the guestroom. There is a crawlspace instead of an attic. I climb up and into the deepest recess. It must be a little past 8 am.

If all goes right, I will be dead by noon.

In 1980, at a circuit assembly I became pen-pals with a young man from a neighboring congregation. This was long before e-mail and cell phones. We wrote letters. Write one, mail it, wait for a response, then read the letter over and over again.

I told him of my goals, and he shared his. Two kids with big ideas. He was raised in a Christian home from infancy. He graduated High School, joined the military, returned home, and killed himself.

Following his suicide his parents mourned quietly and deeply the second time.

They, as many Witness parents do, mourned for their son the first time when he was disfellowshipped. The direction from the Governing Body is that disfellowshipped people are to be cut off and treated as dead. Loyal Christian parents must choose between their love for God or their love for their disfellowshipped son or daughter.

These parents are loyal Christians. They lost their son the first time but held onto the hope that the pain of being disfellowshipped and exiled from his family and lifelong friends would bring him to his senses. Sometimes that works. And all rejoice at the return of the prodigal son.

This time, it didn’t.

At the time I wondered, how did he get that lonely?

That was more than 30 years ago.

I know now.

I know that despair.

But for me, it wasn’t always that way.

Because, once upon a time…

Clean At Last

"Show me favor, O God, according to your loyal love.

Blot out my transgression according to your great mercy.

Thoroughly wash me from my error, and cleanse me from my sin."

Psalm 51: 1, 2

September 15, 1981

Circuit Assembly, Elmira NY USA (age 15)

As I stand in a line of eleven people, I contemplate my final moments of being unclean. I was sexually unclean according to Bible standards. And that is how I felt… unclean.

I had a history of sexual activity. I was raped as a five-year-old.

My God-given conscience condemned me daily. As the psalmist David, I pleaded, Show me favor, O God, according to your loyal love. Blot out my transgressions according to your mercy. Thoroughly wash me from my error, And cleanse me from my sin. For I am well-aware of my transgressions, and my sin is always before me. Against you – you above all – I have sinned; What is bad in your eyes I have done. (Psalms 51:1-4)

This was my own conscience, my own condemnation. No one else could judge me because no one else knew my secret; the secret I had carried since the incident.

The word unclean was a gentle way of putting it. I was fifteen and my sexual activity haunted me. Nothing could remove the filth of my own action, or the weight of my shame and guilt. Nothing except baptism. …that is what some of you were, but you have been washed clean, states 1 Corinthians 6:11.

I needed that bath. I needed to be clean and until now, that was impossible.

But the impossible became possible because, with God, all things are possible.

Qualifying for