I have hesitated to write my own tribute to Jennifer Lyell, and instead have found comfort in reposting the writings of others who were close to her. Though I call Jennifer my friend, and she was, we didn’t share the kind of friendship marked by intimate times of fellowship and joyful shared experiences. In fact, all of our interactions over the past few years have been through online messages or by phone. We never met in person again after she disclosed her abuse—the timing was never right—and I didn’t want to impose on her and add weight to an already heavy load. It was enough for me to care deeply for her and for her to know that (and she did). I was a friend to her, and she to me.
Like so many who knew and loved Jennifer, I’ve wept bitterly for her on more than one occasion—for the abuse she endured, for the ways she was vilified and mistreated instead of cared for, and now for the heartbreaking loss of her life. Jennifer and I were in seminary at the same time—she in the MDiv program, I in PhD work. We were acquaintances, fellow students, and even then, I knew that she was brilliant. She operated at a very high level, and I admired and even envied her capacity and intellect. Even after we both graduated, I looked at her accomplishments and secretly wished I could operate at her level. Years after seminary, the last time we were together in person, I asked her for personal advice on how to grow in my own capacities. I remember her gracious encouragement and kindness in that conversation.
Back in school, she seemed to be favored by a professor I looked up to and tried hard to please. After she bravely came forward and disclosed that this man had abused her, I realized that the attention I once envied was, in fact, the setting of her abuse and exploitation. The news was shocking and devastating. Even before I understood trauma the way I do now, I knew she had been deeply harmed. I carried a sense of guilt about that for some time, until Jennifer graciously relieved me of it.
When people ask how I became involved in advocacy around abuse in the SBC, the truth is: I was drawn into it mostly because of Jennifer. I had already been advocating for survivors in my own community—for my foster children, for a close friend, for people in my circles—but Jennifer’s experience pulled me into a broader fight. I remember being at the Caring Well conference after the Houston Chronicle report came out. Rachael Denhollander spoke of “one of your own”—a survivor who had come forward and was mistreated and silenced—Jennifer Lyell. That moment, along with others at the conference, changed everything.
Fast forward to the 2020 annual meeting—when the motion for an independent investigation was brought to the floor—it was Jennifer who filled my thoughts. The reform movement needed that moment, but my heart was fixed on her. She deserved justice. She deserved care. She never really got that from those who were responsible to give it. She sacrificed everything to protect others but did not receive adequate care in return. She suffered greatly, and now she’s gone. She died 12 days ago, right before the SBC annual meeting, largely unnoticed by the very Convention she served and fought to protect.
But Jennifer’s life cannot be measured by the abuse she suffered or how others failed her. As one friend beautifully said, Jennifer was a “truth-teller, image-bearer, woman of valor, beloved.” She was brilliant and incredibly gifted. And she was kind—kind to me. She allowed me to stand beside her in small ways, but every time we talked, she was more concerned about me and my family than about herself. She carried burdens no one should have to bear. She lost everything to protect others from abuse. And yet, in every interaction I had with her—even in brokenness—her faith was evident. She loved Jesus and wanted to honor Him, even as she was fighting for her life.
I’m thankful she was surrounded by a core of faithful, loving friends who walked closely with her. I wasn’t among them in proximity, but I cared for her deeply from afar. I was her friend in these past few years from a distance. I know she knew I cared about her. I hope she knew the affection I had for her as a beloved sister in Christ. I believe she did. Today I weep for her. And yet, I know she would want me to walk in hope and in joy. Jennifer, I will indeed remember you with joy. Your pain is now over. You are loved. Rest now in the arms of our Savior until we are reunited to spend eternity with Him.
