05/25/2026
The reality that I woke up thinking about “Jane” this Memorial Day is not lost on me.
I do not know what “Jane’s” name is.
Jane is the name given to a woman who is a Jane Doe, unknown by her real name to most.
But the man who I believed abused this Jane Doe based upon all I have seen, felt, experienced, and what the man wrote about her in his book, he knows her name.
In his book, the man who abused her disclosed private conversations to his readers in an attempt to win them over to his side.
He disclosed that as a child, the woman’s father had sexually abused her.
He disclosed that Jane was in a marriage in which her husband didn’t love her. He wrote those words about Jane in his book. He wrote that all he was guilty of was singing “fun songs” to Jane as they spent numerous hours in the company vehicle together.
He wrote that he counseled her and he comforted Jane.
I thought about Jane this morning.
I wondered, again, what her name was. A part of me thinks the name of Jane Doe might be Mary, or Anna, Anne or Grace.
Grace, God’s grace is what I plead for her and all those after her who have watched as a man in power destroyed reputations simply because he was afraid of what would people think if they knew the truth?
What would they think if they knew that his version of comforting Jane was to touch her?
To touch her hair, her thigh, her hand, her arm, to hug her and hold her, to kiss her cheek, her forehead, and to be so close to her physically that she could feel parts of him, aware of him physically, intimately, and even sensually and sexually.
While he talked and sang and used the lyrics of songs to woo her thoughts and imaginations to himself, envisioning a life that he in what ifs, if onlys, and “if I weren’t” statements to her were impossible for her not to think about and want.
Yet, despite what he did and said, what he wrote was that Jane was the one with boundary issues?
Jane was the one mistaken for getting the wrong idea about being physically and verbally wooed and won over by a man she trusted?
Somehow, what Jane battled doesn’t make sense.
I reflect on Jane’s battle this Memorial Day - the battle of being physically touched and held and caressed and complimented and verbally and emotionally comforted and being expected to not assume anything inappropriate and I realize I would not have been able to think differently than Jane did.
As I find myself immersed in her experiences with this man as I am just trying to navigate my day this Memorial Day, I realize that to not think sexually about this man who was touching me and saying exactly what I wanted to hear would be impossible.
His words had created worlds for her, worlds where they were together and she was open, receptive, eager to receive his every attention and affection.
To expect Jane Doe not to like and love him would be unreasonable.
She believed what he said.
She longed for what he did to happen and keep happening.
The wounded boy and the longing for significance man knew what he was doing and he knew what he wanted to feel - wanted, needed, admired, and desired.
He wanted when he told her that she was beautiful to be told he was handsome, or a good leader, or a good boss, or a good friend.
He wanted the environments around him with women and men to see him favorably, positively, a man with a legacy.
This Memorial Day, I wonder who “Jane” is.
I wonder if I will know her name or the names of the countless women and men this man has physically touched, kissed, and a caressed creating an atmosphere where he got his needs met one way or another whether they understood what was happening to them or not.
This Memorial Day, we are, or I am, met on that battlefield and see the casualties of the man’s Spirit Wars, his own physical and spiritual battles, and I realize that what he put Jane Doe through likely cost “Jane” her life or livelihood.
Jane sacrificed to share her story, a story of her soul, a letter as Scripture’s sacred ancient text described that she was and is “known and read by all.”
I see what this man did to Jane, to his own daughters and granddaughters, and spiritual daughters, and spiritual sons, and to me.
Unlike what I believe is Jane’s reality, I am very much alive and asking “Who is Kris Vallotton’s Jane Doe?”
Who is this “Jane” Kris writes “anonymously” about in such a way and with the details to absolutely destroy her in a small town that knew her?
Who is Jane?
If Jane is alive I would like to ask her how often Kris pulled the company vehicle off the main road to hold her in his arms? To “comfort” her and what was her version or perception of his “comfort”?
If Jane is alive, I would like to ask how many times did the two of them sit by the water somewhere between Weaverville and Trinity Center?
I would like to tell Jane that there was no flaw or brokenness that read what Kris was doing to her incorrectly.
He said what he said.
He did what he did.
Jane was merely one of many.
Maybe knowing that she wasn’t alone might bring her the peace she deserves.
To Kris, I repeat a poem, a poem I wrote in 1994 to a man who had lost his way.
“Restless, your soul rages within you.
Storms of doubt invade your mind.
Come to the cross, let grace find you.
Leave the sorrow of sin behind.
Place your life in the hands of the Savior.
Say to God, ‘Not mine, but Thine.’
Through His Love you will find favor,
And a purpose that is Divine.”
