As told by Tyne, written by Lauren Rose 

When Tyne first met her husband, she saw a man who seemed sincere—someone who shared her faith, her values, her dreams. He spoke her language of commitment and devotion, and for a time, it felt like she had finally found someone who understood her. She didn’t yet know that control can wear the mask of caring devotion, and that manipulation can sound like tenderness. What began as gestures of protection—his insistence to “lead,” to “provide,” to “make things easier”—slowly tightened into a grip of domination.

Their relationship moved quickly. Shortly after marrying, Tyne moved onto his family’s farm. Far from her own family and community, isolation settled in. The life she once knew quietly faded until their world became the only one that mattered. Her husband’s family, steeped in control, added another layer of scrutiny and manipulation. They monitored her every move, criticized her choices, and twisted her reactions to the abuse that was creeping in, into “proof” that something was wrong with her. Whenever she tried to express her sadness, they mocked her, calling her “crazy” or “a whiner,” using her suffering to discredit her. 

Bit by bit, her world began to shrink. Decisions were no longer hers to make. If her husband raged over finances, farm work, or anything that challenged his sense of control, his parents insisted she had provoked it. When he relapsed into drinking, she was accused of “driving him to it.” When he broke doors or damaged property, she was labeled “mentally unstable” for trying to repair the damage.

In desperation, she reached out to her church, hoping for clarity, support, and safety. Her church leaders called it a “marriage struggle,” focusing on her husband’s addiction instead of her safety. They responded by encouraging her to pray harder, submit more, and endure.

Over time, the gaslighting infiltrated every corner of Tyne’s life. Her husband, his family, and even her church convinced her that every bruise, every fear, every tear was something she could fix—that if she were just more patient, more forgiving, things would improve. Even the violence she endured was twisted into proof of her own instability. To anyone looking in, the bruises were visible, but the quiet, relentless control shaping every corner of her world remained hidden. Inside the farmhouse, fear and blame governed everything, silently rewriting her reality day by day.

“You weren’t safe, even when he wasn’t there. He held you captive—not just physically, but emotionally, mentally, spiritually.” –an excerpt from her journal

The longer she lived isolated on the farm, the more she began to doubt her own mind.

“Slowly, the light drained out of your eyes. You carried the weight in silence, longing to be loved safely and fully.” –an excerpt from her journal

Meanwhile, the abuse from her husband escalated on every front—emotionally, spiritually, and physically. One violent assault left her with a traumatic brain injury. With stitches across her face, she called her church from the hospital, desperate, hoping someone would come. No one did. Later, one staff member told her a meeting had run late. 

“It is not okay. How many wrist X-rays does one girl need? Not okay to be held captive in a room. Not okay to have your face torn open. Not okay to be manipulated, lied about, starved of safety and peace. You are not crazy.”  –an excerpt from her journal

“It felt like carrying an invisible ‘abused’ flag everywhere I went. Loud sound, flinch. Raised voice, retreat. Shaking hands, spinning thoughts—and somehow still wondering if I was the problem.” –an excerpt from her journal

She no longer knew how to speak up for herself—or even if she was allowed to. Where she should have been protected, she was questioned. Where she should have found comfort, she was blamed. And when she needed support most, the church excommunicated her. It was the final shattering: isolation cloaked in the name of faith.

She had lost her marriage. She had lost her community. But she hadn’t lost her worth—even if trauma had made her forget it for a time.

“You are not what he did to you. You are the survivor, and the one who gets to choose what happens next.” –an excerpt from her journal

Even then, God had already been preparing a way forward. That path would lead her to Called to Peace Ministries.

Church Partnership: From Spiritual Harm to Spiritual Safety
Dan Boeck, Executive Director of CTPM, stood beside Tyne when her own church had turned her away. He helped her understand that what she had endured wasn’t biblical discipline, but spiritual harm. He gently advocated for her and personally reached out to churches to find a place where she would finally feel safe.

Only one church agreed to welcome her—but that one became a refuge. Dan guided the church in understanding her situation and how to best care for her.

At this church, Tyne wasn’t rushed, pressured, or questioned. They listened, protected her dignity, and let her move at her own pace—and they stayed.

“The most painful thing from my abuse was the isolation, but my new church community removed that weight from me,” Tyne shares. “Having Dan by my side helped me understand my previous church was wrong—and not feel shame. It encouraged me to take advocacy classes. It gave purpose to my pain.”

The church that once isolated her has been replaced with a church that surrounds her.

Advocacy: Someone Who Saw Her and Stayed
The first connection Dan helped her make at CTPM was with an advocate—steady, gentle, unwavering.

“I didn’t know how to advocate for myself. CTPM helped me understand coercive control, gave me language, helped me document, and helped me see what I lived through. Honestly, at times it was hard to believe I endured this.”

Advocacy was never a single phone call. It was a consistent presence. It was the safety she had never known.

Support Groups: Community When She Had None
Abuse deeply isolates. Support groups began to restore what had been lost—community, understanding, and connection. She attended two different groups. Each session gave her strength, grounding, and a sense of belonging she hadn’t felt in years—slowly replacing isolation with compassion.

“I didn’t have to explain why I shook during certain topics or questioned myself. They already knew.”

Retreat: Worship After the Storm
A scholarship to the CTPM retreat gave her space to breathe, reflect, and worship again.

“We were all worshiping—survivors who still believed in God’s goodness. It turned my heart back to Him.”

That weekend restored something sacred within her: her breath, her spirit, and her belief that God still held her story.

Now: Survivor to Advocate
With safety and ministry support, Tyne didn’t just begin to heal—she became a voice of healing. After completing advocacy training and joining the Church Partnership team, she now helps churches respond to domestic abuse with compassion and wisdom.

Where she was silenced, she now helps other women find their voice.
Where she once felt discarded, she now helps build a healthy, supportive community.
Where she once merely survived, she now empowers others to reclaim their voices.

“Called to Peace Ministries didn’t just help me escape abuse—they helped me rebuild. They are the reason I am alive today.”

A Final Word From Tyne

“The reason I am still alive today is because of Called to Peace Ministries. They saved my life. Every single part of this ministry was something I needed. I couldn’t have survived without each one—advocacy, support groups, the retreat, church partnership—all of it. For the first two years, CTPM was my family. And now, God has given me a church that is my family too. I am here—I am alive—because they walked with me when I had no one else.”