Suffering for Priests: A Prayer I Didn’t Understand but a Grace I Still Carry

+JMJ+ Meeting (or even just hearing about) a priest who is also a survivor of clerical abuse stops me in my tracks. Their witness shakes me (in the best way). If they can still serve Christ with open hands and an open heart, even after everything they’ve suffered, then I know I can too.

Every survivor carries something sacred. Every story is brave in its own way. But when a priest stands at the altar carrying wounds like mine, I see the Gospel in motion. I see resurrection through pain. I see a pure and holy love that refuses to quit.

When I was little, a family friend who was going on a pilgrimage to Fatima asked if I had any prayer intentions. I took it seriously. I had already been drawn to saints like St. Thérèse of Lisieux. She embraced suffering as a way to love more deeply, and she loved priests. Somehow, I was inspired to ask God for the grace to suffer for priests. I didn’t know what I was asking—not really. But sometimes God plants prayers in our hearts long before we can grasp their weight.

Years later, I was sexually abused by a priest. The pain that followed was deep, disorienting, and long. There were moments I looked back on that childhood prayer and thought, What was I thinking? I regretted it. I wanted to take it back.

God’s grace is strange. Fierce. Unpredictable. Over time, I’ve come to see that prayer as a gift. A hard gift, yes, but still a gift. No, God didn’t want me to suffer. But He has never wasted my suffering. He met me in it. He carried me through it. And He refused to let it be the end of my story.

Now, when I meet priests who are also survivors, it hits a nerve—a holy nerve. Their lives preach without a single word. They’ve seen the worst, and still they believe. Still they love. Still they give of themselves without the need for praise or affirmation. That’s not weakness. That’s resurrection. That’s redemption. That’s what it means to overcome—not to forget the pain, but to be transformed by it.

These men—these brother-survivors—remind me that no one is beyond redemption. They help me believe there’s a place for me too. Not just to survive, but to serve, to give, and to live with meaning and purpose.

God didn’t cause my suffering, but He’s used it to teach me what love truly looks like. Love bleeds. Love stays. Love heals.

We are never alone in this.

I won’t pretend it’s been easy. Trusting priests (and the priesthood) again after what I’ve been through has taken everything in me. Even now, the sight of a white collar can still stir something painful in me. My abuser typically wore his clerics while abusing me. That image is burned into parts of my memory I wish I could erase.

There have been times I’ve walked into Mass and felt my whole body tense up just seeing a priest approach the altar. It’s not because I hate them, it’s because I don’t. I love them. Sadly, because the uniform that once gave me hope as a completely innocent child also became a symbol of betrayal. That’s a hard thing to untangle.

And yet… I’ve kept going. So many survivors have done the same, and some of us include priests. We have fought for that trust to be restored, not just because we believe in the Church, but because we believe in the men who still live their priesthood with humility and integrity. I’ve been blessed to meet many of them. I’ve been ministered to by them, and I’ve watched them love, serve, and sacrifice in ways that reflect Christ Himself.

They are our spiritual fathers and leaders. When they fail, my heart doesn’t just ache, it bleeds. Part of the reason I have stayed is for love of them—for love of what they do and what they represent when they live it well.

The devil works overtime on priests. When he drags them down, he so often drags the souls of their flock with them.

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To the Priests Who Still Stand: Thank You

Thank you to you priests who have held onto your vocation with faith and integrity, even when the Church has felt like a battleground.

Thank you to the priests who are holy, faithful, and devoted, not because it’s easy, but because it’s right. You remain steadfast through scandal, confusion, and criticism, even from your own brothers and sisters in Christ. You carry the weight of others’ sins without losing your own compass. You still believe. You still bless. You still show up.

To the priests who have suffered for victims, thank you. Thank you for praying when others were silent. For speaking up even when it cost you. For risking being misunderstood, admonished, or even pushed out just for standing with the truth. Thank you for not backing down, even when doing the right thing made you look like the problem.

You are not the problem. You are part of the healing.

Some of you carry wounds of your own. Some of you have defended the wounded. Some of you have done both. Your courage has helped keep my faith alive. Your priesthood—lived with love and sacrifice—has been a lifeline.

In a time when trust has been shattered and the Church’s credibility deeply wounded, you remind the flock to hope. Your lives make Christ visible again.

Thank you for being who you are—for continuing to serve, to fight for what’s good, to love like Christ.

You are appreciated. You are loved. You are needed.

Pray for priests!

St. Therese of Lisieux’s Prayer for Priests

O Jesus, eternal Priest,

keep your priests within the shelter of Your Sacred Heart,

where none may touch them.

Keep unstained their anointed hands,

which daily touch Your Sacred Body.

Keep unsullied their lips,

daily purpled with your Precious Blood.

Keep pure and unearthly their hearts,

sealed with the sublime mark of the priesthood.

Let Your holy love surround them and

shield them from the world’s contagion.

Bless their labors with abundant fruit and

may the souls to whom they minister be their joy and consolation here and in heaven their beautiful and everlasting crown. Amen.