I rarely read the news or watch the news… because it breaks my heart. I suppose I should do it more… then I could post more of the injustices I see that drive me to my knees and cause me to cry out “MARANATHA!”
I read Ann’s post and I was back, back there again… tears brimmed my eyes and my heart pounded.
I remember it well…
The day that I laid on that bed, my belly full of a living soul. I lay there in absolute terror that I would hear “it’s a girl“. I should have walked out of the room rejoicing. I should have been smiling from ear to ear knowing that growing inside of me was a healthy heart beat, but my heart stopped.
I could not smile, fear doesn’t smile.
My husband didn’t understand… and I couldn’t explain. I chose to refuse to believe the ultrasound. It would be a boy. I refused to believe until the very moment I held that baby in my arms… that baby who was clearly girl… clearly beautiful blue eyed girl. She was beautiful and perfect and I was broken… so very broken.
All I could see was a little one who would never be strong enough to fight them off. Never strong enough to keep the eyes, and hands, and minds, and hurts away. And I knew that I would never be strong enough to protect her if someone came to hurt her… I knew.
To this very day I hate being held down, even in play, I hate it because it is a reminder that I am too weak to get away. Too weak to set myself free. Claustrophobic. The fear of having no escape.
I wanted everyone to go away. I wanted no one to hold her. No one to damage her. No one to touch her in a way she didn’t want to be touched. No one to play with her heart and crush it again and again in their cruel hands to the point that her choices were made out of desperation for someone to value her… or even just appear to value her.
I cried.
Then, I met my Jesus. Six months later, six months after laying in that bed birthing this beautiful blue eyed wonder from my body, I met the One who knit her in my womb. Fear began to be cast down by Faith.
Faith is stronger than fear.
Then again, almost three years later, another girl.
Now a new creation in Christ. A woman of God. A mother of future women of God. I stood there in the middle of another church building’s fellowship hall. One daughter of God at my feet. One daughter of God in my arms, not even able yet to walk, my arms and hands full of beautiful treasure. I stood there with my sisters in Christ and sisters of the flesh by my side. I stood there and he walked up.
I stood there, arms full of the one’s I fought with faith over the most and with both my hands full, in the presence of everyone, he violated me. Here in this place where I was supposed to be safe. I was abused. In front of my daughters, my sisters, my Jesus.
I went home afraid. Afraid that when I told what happened, my husband would blame me. They always blame the girl… don’t they? It was and has always been Eve’s fault… right?
My husband was angry.
BUT NOT AT ME.
Relief washed over me. I had a defender.
We went to the elders…
I walked in there, in that room, three old men sat in front of me, my husband beside me. I sat there and I sat there trembling, feeling so very small. My stomach was in my throat and my throat struggled to speak. They talked about fishing. Crappy. My stomach is in knots, they know why I am here, yet they discuss fishing.
Rage begins to boil in my gut, rage and fear and doubt all mixed.
Finally the point of our visit breaks through the fishing lines of chatter… I share my side. I open my mouth and pour out the violation that I experienced… and they asked me… they never said they were sorry it happened… they asked me,
“what were you wearing”
As though the clothes I had on my body gave this man permission to do what he did while I stood there with both hands full of another daughter of God who could not fight for herself…
My heart sank and I knew they did not care… they then defended him. “He was just a cut-up.” “He didn’t mean anything by it”
They defended him and accused me.
It’s always Eve’s fault… right?
My husband and I walked out that night from these men and I knew nothing would be done.
I prayed.
I turned it over to my Avenger. To the One I am in eternal covenant with. The One who judges the secrets and intentions of every man’s heart. I could have pressed charges, but I knew I could let it go, because God would not. I tried to find the letter I wrote to the elders that were there and the man that did what he did, but I couldn’t find it. That is just as well. God knows what it said.
Dear daughters of God… I have been there.
In every way.
Before Christ and after Christ, I have been there.
But know that there are defenders.
There are more than a few good men, Son.
Real men like their Father — who laid down His life for His daughters. (Ann Voskamp)
God gave me one for a Daddy
And another for a Husband.
I remember well the night my husband lay there and looked into my eyes. He stroked my hair and my face and he never looked away from my eyes. It was as if for the very first time I was seen. A girl never forgets the day she was seen.
So daughters of God know… they exist. There are men who are the Church and don’t just go to church. There are elders that won’t defend the attacker, but defend the attacked.
And Dad’s and Mom’s of sons of God… please for the love of the daughters of God… raise up more defenders.
I can’t share this post enough.