Jessica Harris - Beggar’s Daughter

I remember so well sitting in my Grammas kitchen one day as she discussed pornography. Someone in ministry had recently been caught viewing pornography. My grandfather sat beside me at the kitchen table. Gramma was at the stove, cooking. Her petite frame turned, her face puckered in disgust. She made her way across the green linoleum floor, one step at a time, waiving a spatula in the air. Thats just sick! This is a sickness. These are sick, sick, people.

For a moment, I thought she knew. I wondered how she had found out. Wondered what was going to happen to me. I sat, wide-eyed and silent, as she turned and walked back to the stove, still muttering about those sick people. I decided then that my family could never know that I was one of those people.

Pornography had found a place in my life. To me, it made perfect- albeit shameful- sense. It was simply a part of who I was, as natural as my wavy hair that refuses to be tamed and my countless freckles. The rest of the world just did not get it. I still remember those words coming off my moms tongue the first and only time she caught me.

I just dont get it.

So, I withdrew out of a fierce desire to protect this thing that felt like a piece of me. It was part of who I was. If people could not accept that, then the obvious solution was not to tell them. Ever.

Over the years, I have come to understand that this is the power of shame. Sometimes, we act like shame is a good thing. We think we can shame people into making good choices. All we really end up doing is shaming them into lying about the bad choices they have made.

I was an excellent liar. I knew how to play the part, and wore countless masks. Perfection, to me, was the perfect protection against shame. I was active in church, winning competitions and serving in several capacities. I was a straight-A student in school, taking the hardest courses.

I was on some sort of subconscious mission to do anything and everything to protect the image I had made of myself. No one needed to know I was addicted to porn.

That continued even after I found freedom from pornography. I was raised a church culture that frowned on flaunting sin as they called it. People were discouraged from ever sharing the skeletons in their closets. There were cryptic code words used to allude to sordid pasts, but we never discussed what was done in darkness.

So, I was content to put the past behind me, never to be revisited. Like a bad test score or an old art project, the years I spent in pornography would simply be forgotten, packed away in a dusty old box in the back corner of the attic. I could move on with my life like a normal person. No one ever had to know that I was a girl who watched porn.

This book is proof that did not happen.

Growing up, I heard countless stories of missionaries who tried to tell God where He could not send them. Inevitably, every time someone prayed God, anywhere but China God sent them to China. This book is my China.

In fact, when I first felt like I was supposed to share my story, I told God He could send me to China. I would be happy to go to China. (I actually tried to go- many times.) He could send me to some jungle in the middle of nowhere. I would happily live life on the run with the persecuted church. He could do anything He wanted with me, expect this.

This perfectionist, acceptance-seeking, people pleaser wanted absolutely nothing to do with the idea of shattering every image and knocking over every pedestal. I did not want to be known as the porn addict. Dear God, please no. Anything but that. Anything .

In many ways, the book you hold in your hands is a broken promise. A promise I made to myself years ago and renewed countless times: I will never tell anyone.

This is what happens when you encounter grace. It gloriously ruins every last one of your plans, and reveals that it, not perfection, is the perfect antidote to shame.

The truth is, I was a porn addict. I cannot change that. It is part of my story. In shame, I could hide it, and pretend that I had my life together sexually and never deviated. But lies, shame, and cover-ups free no one. What frees, changes, and redeems people is brokenness, truth, and grace.

The pages that follow were not written with blood or sweat, but they were written with tears. Retracing that broken path is nothing short of painful. Even after years of sharing, there still is a point when hopelessness and shame creep up and cast shadows on my heart. I tell people I hate writing out the first part of my story-- but I love writing the second part.

The first part is filled with darkness, pain, and hopelessness but the second part explodes with grace, hope, and life. That second part is the reason I share my story. It is the only reason I share my story.

At times, I struggle with how much to share. I never want to seem like I am excusing actions, justifying sin, or gloating in unholiness. Call it a legalistic upbringing or a desire not to be misunderstood. I wrestle with those same issues every time I sit down to write.

By the time you are finished with this book, you will know more about me than I would ever care for you to know. You will know more about me than I probably would ever tell you had I been granted a normal life. You will know more about me than you would ever know if you just met me on the street. But, it is my hope and prayer that you will understand more about grace than you ever have before.