Anna’s story

We held our mutual breaths as we watched last night, sick to our stomachs, knowing that our beloved Anna was going to be hurt, terribly hurt, by a man to whom she had been nothing but kind and welcoming.   And she was, brutally raped and discarded.

Shamed.  Unable to speak the truth because of her need to protect her husband, fearful of what he would do to her offender, knowing he would be taken from her if he defended her honor, she was silent.

Downton Abbey is a story, a pure piece of fiction, yet this grand story carries within it the small stories of all of us.   We dream, we love, we are envious and angry, we make mistakes, we learn from those mistakes, and we have our hearts broken all too often.

There are many Annas among us.   Every two minutes, every 120 seconds, there is an act of sexual violence in the United States.  60% of those assaults are not reported, and of the ones that are, 97% of the offenders never spend a day in jail.

We need to protect our Annas, and our Alfreds, and all the ones who suffer in silence.   We must surround them and encourage them to tell their stories, to help set them free from the shame that binds them.

Don’t watch another episode and forget them.

unlikely heroes

My heart is full of gratitude this Thanksgiving morning.   Gratitude for healthy family – parents who loved me unconditionally, a devoted and caring spouse, sweet and kind adult children and delightful little honeybuns who call me “Nana.”   I have a warm home, a job and plenty of food on the table to share with friends.

Every day, however, I am privileged to walk a journey with dear ones who have experienced very little of the things I have often taken for granted.   There are so many children who have never known a safe and loving home.   Far too many little ones, in homes both poor and wealthy, have never known the safety of being tucked into bed with lullabies and bed time stories.   Their reality is the nightly terror of sexual abuse.

Into this world have come the most unlikely of heroes.   These saints come in all shapes and sizes, colors and walks of life.  Most of us, however, would be quite anxious to be in the same room with many of them, as they are usually rough, tough, tattooed, pierced, grubby, loud and on bikes – big ones, like the Harley variety.  Or at least that is the stereo-type that we may have learned to believe is true.

Yes, these are “biker saints.”   I cried when I read the following article.   What wonderful, wonderful people.   Bless each one of you this Thanksgiving morning.   I’d be honored to have you at my table.

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Bikers strike fear into the hearts of many. They’re seen as rough thugs… but there is more to a biker than you think. This gang, for instance, is happy to intimidate people. However, they only intimidate people who dare hurt children. They are the Bikers Against Child Abuse International. And they mean business.

These bikers stand out because of their soft spot: innocent victims of child abuse.

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You may be taken aback by their kind and generous attitude, but there are more to bikers than just leather and chains. These bikers act as guardians for abused children.

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The girl chewing on her lip was abused by a relative, according to police reports – someone she should have been able to trust. He’s not in the state any longer, but the criminal case is progressing slowly, so he’s not in jail, either. She still leaves in fear, but this unruly-looking mob in her driveway is there to help her feel safe again. They are members of the Arizona chapter of Bikers Against Child Abuse International, and they wear their motto on their black leather vests and T-shirts: “No child deserves to live in fear.”

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A biker’s power and attitude can help a vulnerable child feel safe… and BE safe. If this little girl has to testify against her abuser in court, they will go, too, walking with her to the witness stand and taking over the first row of seats. Pipes will tell her, “Look at us, not him.” And when she’s done, they will circle her again and walk her out.

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The bikers even welcomed this little girl into their gang, making her a denim jacket with the name “Rhythm” on it, for a girl who dances and loves music.

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The bikers are all volunteers, giving five, 10, 20 or more hours a week. There’s no reimbursement for gas or the time they take off work. The bikers must be tough, not only to protect the kids but to be able to stomach knowing what their young charges may have been through. An 8-year-old beaten by Mom; a 6-year-old molested by his mother’s boyfriend. A girl, 10, raped. They are trained by a licensed mental-health professional affiliated with the chapter. Each biker must be fingerprinted and undergo a thorough criminal-background check, the same one required for state child-welfare workers and law-enforcement officers, before they can join the group.

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These bikers aren’t looking for trouble. The only thing they want to do is make sure innocent children don’t feel so alone, or so powerless.

“It’s scary enough for an adult to go to court,” he says. “We’re not going to let one of our little wounded kids go alone.”

every statistic has a name and a dear, dear face

Those of you who read my blog know that I counsel victims of domestic violence.   Every day, these precious women come into my office and tell me their tragic stories.   They have been beaten, throttled, raped, burned, had boiling water poured on them, had their family heirlooms broken in front of them, watched their animals tortured, and have been helpless as they knew their children were witnesses to most of these.

Unless you have walked this road, you have no right – repeat, no right – to criticize or comment negatively in any way.   You have no idea the journey these dear ones have taken, or how hard it is to get off this road.

Well, one of my dear friends has made it!   No longer is she hiding under a pseudonym.   “Ida Mae,” whom many of you have met before in much earlier posts, has come out into the sunshine.   Her divorce from the brute she married will be finalized in two weeks.   My friend’s name is CONNIE.   She is beautiful.   And one day she will show the world her face, when she feels it is time.

Well done, dearest.  So proud of you for crawling on broken glass to freedom.   I am honored to know you.

I think I’ve been given a glimpse of Heaven …

These last few months have been really hard.  There have been times that I’ve just wanted to crawl under a blanket and never go out of the door again.

Some very painful things have happened.  A very precious friend died years before her time.  Someone I trusted with my life betrayed the confidences I had shared.  I discovered that other friends were bigoted against certain people groups, and refused to even consider looking at these dear people in a different way.  Another friend cut off relationship with me completely when they found that  I chose to vote differently in the last election than they did.    I have been grieving for the different kinds of losses that these each represent … that of the loss of community.

Sometimes remaining anonymous, sitting in the back row of a new church or ignoring people at the grocery store, is the easy way to go.   And sometimes it is necessary because smiling & chatting with strangers – and even more so with people you know – can be absolutely draining when you are experiencing grief.   It takes SO MUCH ENERGY to put on a happy face and look relatively normal.   It takes everything you have to reach out to others and offer hospitality or assistance.  Sometimes it feels like you do all the giving.

So, it was with utter delight when precious new friends reached out to us and invited my husband and I on an adventure, and what a delight it was.    They took us to their favorite place of worship, a small (as these glorious works of architecture go) but beautiful cathedral in Cleveland named University Circle United Methodist Church, lovingly known as “the church of the holy oil can” because of it’s spire.   I’ve lived overseas and have seen many cathedrals, but this one was unique to any I had visited before.

The first difference was that in every single entrance stood a young person, probably around college age, welcoming us.  There was life here!  Within seconds of entering the beautiful building, it was pretty obvious that this was a colorful venue … every single hue of the human race was represented, and it was glorious.   Different ethic groups were wearing gorgeous garments, there were babies & children, lots of white heads & loads of young people, well dressed individuals and many people from the other end of the social scale, all equally represented.  I saw people in wheelchairs, or with walkers, and some who had mental disorders, and caring people around them, making sure that every one of their needs was met.

And I was welcomed, perhaps like I have never felt welcomed as a stranger in a church for a long, long time.  There may have been one or two people who didn’t give me eye contact, or reach out and take my hand and give me a glorious smile, but I didn’t see them.   It didn’t matter my color, my age, my social standing, how I was dressed, my sexual orientation … I was welcome.   In fact, the sign outside the church said it all:  “where all are welcome, all the time.” They weren’t kidding.

There was the bit at the beginning of the service where I normally cringe.   You know, the bit where you are asked to greet your neighbor … oh joy … but this time was different.   These people really meant it.  They came from all over the church to welcome us, not just from the surrounding pews.  Even a lady in a wheelchair made an effort to give me eye contact and beckoned me over to offer welcome.

There was glorious singing by the choir & the people.   Some of it was in foreign languages with translation provided, some was relatively new to me, some was of the dear old hymn variety.   There were liturgical dancers, and both women & men took part in the service.

The pastor modeled sensitivity and grace from the get go.   As the men and women who were to serve communion gathered around the table to receive their communion first, the pastor went to each one, calling them by name and offering blessing.   A young woman, obviously new to the church and a little confused, walked to the front and joined the others around the table, oblivious to the fact that she had gone up with the servers.   She stood next to them and the pastor, without blinking, moved to her and blessed her, calling her “my sister.”   She wasn’t known by him, but she was welcome at the table.

There was a very elderly couple in one of the pews ahead of us, and the woman was struggling with getting up and participating in communion.  There was a strong sense that she had Alzheimer’s and her doting, loving & distraught spouse couldn’t get her to move.   No matter … the pastor brought communion to her, and to all the others who were unable to walk to the table.  And.there.was.gluten.free.communion for Celiac types like me.   Wow.  I FELT WELCOME!

The sermon was on Luke 17:5-10, having faith “like a mustard seed,” which I had heard a hundred or more times before.   But this interpretation was different.  On too many occasions, believers have been erroneously told by perhaps well meaning people that their faith “wasn’t strong enough” or their cancer would be cured, that they wouldn’t be in financial crisis, that their child wouldn’t use drugs, or whatever.   If they just believed it would all magically go away!  This passage isn’t about magic, it’s about the promise of God’s presence when we are in the pain.  God can transform our attitude, our view of life, if we just have a tiny bit of faith to trust him, not that the cancer will go away but that he will be with us when we or cured of it or if it takes us.  The pastor said, “No matter how small you evaluate yourself, in God’s eyes, you are enough.”

When the service was eventually done, and the people were slowly leaving, I noticed that the two enormous flower arrangements up front were being taken apart, little by little, and the flowers shared with children, the elderly and, perhaps, the ones who don’t have loved ones to give them flowers.

I whispered to my friend sitting next to me, “I think I have been given a glimpse of Heaven today.”   Surely that is what it will be like when we get there …. people of every shape & size, color & hue, sexuality & political persuasion – because NONE of it will matter any more!  All running to greet one another, give eye contact and glorious smiles and making everyone feel welcome as we gather together to worship our LORD.   Praise be to God.

“Good morning, moon”

  Beginnings.  For all of us, every new day is an opportunity to start again, to look at things with fresh eyes and, hopefully, a good night’s sleep.  My favorite place to get a healthy perspective is at the beach, where all of life is refreshed & restored.   There has been a long stretch of silence on this blog that needs to be formed into words and shared with others,  but for today this space returns to life at the ocean’s edge.

I awoke this morning before daybreak, made coffee, grabbed a beach chair, and walked down to the water.  Not another soul was in sight.  Just me, the moon and an incredible ocean.  What a way to begin the day. 

As I sat in gratitude, blessing our friends who had gifted us with the use of this beautiful place, I realized I was far from alone.  A heron made his flight my way and landed, literally at my feet.  We stared at each other for the longest time, checking out the marvel of another life species.  Soon four strikingly white egrets flew in formation over the water, followed by the “three amigos,” a trio of pelicans in search of breakfast.   A mass of seagulls chased them, hoping for leftovers.

As I watched the sun come up, I didn’t think it could get any better, but I caught a glimpse of a little head in the water straight in front of me.  As I held my breath, I was joined by a dolphin, cresting the waves, and teasing me with his presence.

Yes, life events need to be processed and shared, hopefully so that others will receive comfort and encouragement as they experience similar experiences, but for today I rest in the beauty of this place and heal.

 

this is why it matters

I had the most amazing telephone call this week while at work.  Normally I would never have answered the phone at that time of day as it was during a session hour, but my client had just called in sick and I was available to respond.

The caller ID said it was from a southern state, one where I knew no one.  When I answered, a man’s voice spoke to me, something that is not part of the ‘daily’  in my practice as my counseling center is only for women.  Occasionally a male doctor or a spouse will call, but this was not a voice I recognized.

He gave his name, and his wife’s name, and shared that I had counseled them briefly, almost two decades before when I worked in another practice and saw marital couples as well.  I had a slight memory of them. He shared that, for a reason unknown to me, he had been looking at my website and had been both struck and convicted by the statistics shown there on domestic violence, because he realized that he had contributed to the statistics.  He was a batterer.

We knew that then.

Somehow they survived.   Somehow they managed to raise a family.   Somehow this man’s wife has had the strength to demonstrate healthy boundaries and yet still has patiently loved him as he has been dealing with the demons of his past, working hard not to pass them on to his children.   This man loves his family.   For all these years he has been working on changing the monster he was.

He called to thank me and, in tears, wanted to bless me for the ministry and the work that I do.

I will never forget that phone call.   This is why it matters.   One person at a time, one family at a time.  There is hope.

$1.49 day … a walk down memory lane

Out of the blue, in the middle of getting ready for church this morning, a little ditty from my childhood burst into my head.  I opened my mouth and (will spare you the music) sang, “$1.49 day, Woodwards!  $1.49 day, Tuesday!”

Woodward’s department store, one of the places in childhood where adventure could always be found.  My Mum loved the place.   Dad and Mum both worked for them shortly after their arrival as new emigrants to Canada from Scotland, and my parents were loyal until the doors closed forever.

My dad was paid every other Friday night, so on those evenings, after supper, the gang piled in the car and headed down to Woodward’s to buy groceries.  We hung onto the cart as Mum or Dad pushed it, generally making a nuisance of ourselves but loving having dad home after his week of traveling for work.  We were together, and it felt safe & warm, especially in Woodward’s.

Many a treat got thrown into that grocery cart, unknown to Mum until we got to the check out counter.  “Now how did that get in there?” she’d grin, and dad would just shrug his shoulders, ally to the end.  There were cream biscuits with jam at the center, and special “sweeties” imported from Scotland.   I’d look longingly with jealousy at the older teenage female clerk, a neighbor from up our street, who checked us out and filled the brown paper bags marked with the famous logo,  wishing I was old enough to do her job.  To me, a pre-teen, there was nothing more wonderful than being a check out clerk at Woodward’s on a Friday night!

After the groceries were placed in brown bags and these were placed in plastic bins that were sent out to the pick up area near the parking lot for collection later – a marvel now reproduced by one of our local grocery stores – the clan headed up to the top floor to check out the “bargain basement” …. yup, on the top floor … where we rummaged for treasures.  I still have a terrific bread knife I bought there when a young teen for only 19 cents.   I loved that department, trying to supervise my younger siblings as they hid between the racks of clothes, driving my mother to distraction.

It was $1.49 day that got our Scots blood pumping, tho.  Hearing that little ditty on the radio made my mother & I grin.  I remember being so jealous that she could go without us, as she only once (and it was a very special morning!) allowed me to stay home from school so I could go with her.  I still remember her purchasing a large bag of oranges, a fine china tea cup, or so many loaves of bread, each for $1.49.

Woodward’s gave me one of my first jobs … in the fabric & notions department.  I measured out miles of yardage for women.  Despite my best attempts, I never could get to be a bagger in the grocery department.   Instead I learned about selvages and different weights of yarns, found great buys on knitting patterns and made my Nana’s day when I could talk “shop” with her at her little house in the evening, over a cup of tea.

Contentment and gratitude for good memories of a dear gathering place, for that’s what Woodward’s was for us.  We rarely went through the doors without seeing someone we knew.   As a child, I remember going to the luncheon area and getting sandwiches cut into four little triangles.   What a marvelous treat.   Sometimes my Nana would take me for lunch there on a Saturday, and I in turn took my siblings, one at a time, for the thrill of being made to feel special, just like Nana made me feel special.

Economic “progress” brought with it the outlying malls and the demise of our family’s favorite store.   Woodward’s closed its doors forever in the 1990’s and with it came the end of an era.  In one of my memory albums I have a little paper bag from the store, alongside one of my mum’s treasures, her Woodward’s credit card.

We all need to walk down memory lane occasionally, and journal what was dear to us.  Maybe a ditty is inside your head, waiting to be sung!

Marabel rides again … the sexy wife who can’t be

Waaaaay back in the day …. when I was a brand new wife and hearing from every angle that I needed to put my husband‘s needs first in every way, an author named Marabel Morgan came along with her book “The Total Woman,” and instructed me to wrap myself in saran wrap, yes – just saran wrap – and meet my husband at the front door.   Just my luck it would be the UPS man.  Needless to say, Marabel’s book got dubbed “The Totaled Woman,” and became a great doorstop & conversation starter.

There is still a strong mindset in the fundamentalist Christian world that it is my duty to be a paragon of virtue on one hand, and a hot sexy mama on the other.  All well and good for those who happen to have a good self image and a healthy view of relationships.   But what about the women – one in every three or four women – who have experienced sexual abuse in their childhood or adolescence.  How can someone who feels that her body is shameful, dirty … downright disgusting …. how can she ever contemplate filling her belly button up with strawberries for her knight to nibble?

The message apparently isn’t out there LOUD ENOUGH that there is a huge segment of women, young/old/and everywhere in between, that are hurting.   Where are the sermons on sexual abuse & domestic violence?  Where are the lessons that the guilt we carry isn’t ours to bear, that it is the shame others have placed upon us.   That it was NOT OUR FAULT.  As the following article “The Sexy Wife I Can’t Be” by Mary deMuth suggests, a healthy view of sex is something that needs to be addressed from the pulpit, the stage, the internet … everywhere.  Sex as God ordained … safe, beautiful, passionate, hysterically funny and GOOD.

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I sat in the audience, taking notes, my heart sinking deeper into itself. Failure hollered so loudly I wondered if others could hear it. Women laughed, turned redfaced, then laughed some more. I sat quiet, alone with my condemnation.

The woman at the front of the conference talked about sex, about being a hottie for your honey. She spoke of livening up the marriage bed, that God made sex to be amazing, fulfilling. That it was our duty to make it a joy, to lavish our husbands with our sexuality. Maybe he could eat strawberries from our bellies, or we could sneak little hot notes to him.

I looked around the room, wondering if I was the only one who felt unable to do any of these acts. I felt like a skinny girl sitting in on a sumo wrestling seminar, wholly incapable of carrying out the tips and tricks offered.

I remembered the statistics, that most likely a large swath of these laughing women had been sexually assaulted at one point in their lives. That as I listened to the speaker share her story, fifteen people had experienced unwanted sexual touch (one every two minutes).

And then I got mad. It was one of the first times I’d ever considered interrupting a speaker. But of course, there were hundreds of women, and they were laughing, listening, making sexy lists, and engaging.

If I’d had the gumption, this is what I would’ve said: “Could you please address those of us who find this impossible? Please don’t place yet another yoke upon us. We’re just trying to work through the past, barely able to understand sex as ‘beautiful.’ To many of us, it’s dirty, and it serves as a constant reminder that we were violated against our will.”

…

Have you ever felt this way? Am I the lone voice calling out to adventurous spouses who don’t at all struggle with this? When my husband and I wrote an article for Marriage Partnership about the marriage bed and past sexual abuse, the response was overwhelming, so I’m guessing I’m not writing to an empty internet here.

When I speak one on one with people who have been sexually abused, a great majority of them have a difficult time with sex. They either border on addiction or have sworn off sex entirely (even in marriage). Some divorce because they simply cannot have sex with their spouse. It’s a real problem, but so few talk about it.

My own story and journey of healing is chronicled in my memoir Thin Places. I was molested at five years old during my kindergarten career by neighborhood bullies, who eventually brought their friends in on the violation. I told my babysitter. She said she’d tell my mom (but never did), and the boys continued to violate me, which led me to believe that not one adult on earth would protect me. I grew a fierce determination to protect myself, so I feigned sleep to get out of the attacks. Providentially, we moved at the end of that year, far enough away from those boys that I didn’t have to endure their violation any more.

But boy did they stay with me. They haunted my dreams. They obscured my view of sex. They made me think that my sole purpose in this life was to be used and violated.

I don’t know how I was able to walk the aisle of marriage a virgin–it’s truly God’s grace. Technically, of course, I wasn’t. All those violations from the past ensured that. But when it became my choice, I found the strength to say no.

Truth be told, I walked a strange line between yearning and utter terror. As a fatherless girl, I wanted nothing more than to have a boyfriend fill up all the empty spaces of me, but when my love interest became interested, I ran one thousand miles away, completely terrified. I worried they’d try to make me do things I didn’t ever want to do.

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When I got engaged, I worried a lot about sex. My wedding night was not something I anticipated with joy or expectation. The terror refrained inside me. I felt five again.

I shared those fears with my husband, and we made it through. And I’m frankly quite surprised (it is the gift of God) that I can enjoy sex.

But it’s taken many years over the past twenty two to get to a healthy place. I still disconnect. I can’t seem to engage my emotions or my whole self. If I enjoy sex, I still have the feeling that I’m legitimizing the abuse. I’ve come to a place of acceptance, too, that I may never be the sexy wife who is “all that” for her husband. My growth has been tremendous, but I still have scars.

We’ve learned to talk about it, not an easy thing to do. My husband knows I’m trying, that I’m not giving up. I’ve been able to communicate my triggers to him, which has helped a lot.

And through it all, I honestly have to cry out to Jesus to give me a healthy view of sex. It absolutely does not come naturally to me. My fallback is revulsion.

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All this stinks. It’s not fair what those boys stole the most precious part of me. It’s not fair to me, and it’s not fair to my husband. They violated, and I’m left to navigate the minefield of memories and feelings.

I walk with a giant limp in the sexy wife arena. I still feel outright rage when I read that for the sake of my husband, I’m supposed to be adventurous and wild, that to be this way represents true spousal godliness. Because honestly? Those words just make me feel less than. Those are a set of guidelines I’ll probably never meet.

I haven’t given up. I press on to be whole. But I also know my limitations. And I know that many of you are reading this and saying, yes, yes. Mind if I offer you grace?

It’s okay to struggle in this area. It’s normal. I give you permission to say it’s frightening and bewildering. I pray you’ll find the words to communicate with your spouse how you feel, how this is hard for you. I hope for an understanding spouse who loves you utterly for who you are, not how you perform. I want to tell you that it does get better, but that you won’t improve by simply trying to on sexy clothes or offering your body as a fruit plate. True sexual liberation comes from the inside out, where Jesus walks into those terrible memories and mourns alongside you. I don’t have the answers. I still can’t reconcile my own sexual exploitation with a loving God, other than to say He has used those awful events to make me more empathetic to those who have walked similar paths. And the thrill that comes when I’m able to offer words of encouragement and truth salves the wound a bit. Whether you’re a man or a woman, hear this: You are beautiful. You are worthy of being cherished. You are worth healing. Stay on the course. Holler your anger if you have to. But keep asking Jesus for healing. And keep offering grace to fellow strugglers.

v day … the movement has begun

My beloved is not known for his romantic ways, but there are moments where I am completely surprised, like yesterday when a lovely floral arrangement of two dozen roses arrived at the door.   As a friend commented, “how does that man know that you like pink?”  Hardy har har.

Valentine’s day, February 14th, the day for lovers all over the world.  A day for the males of the species to buy their women the chocolates they really don’t want to eat, as the Christmas poundage is still very evident on certain parts of our anatomy, and where a certain martyr is remembered by hearts and cupids when, in fact, there may have been up to a dozen gentlemen with the same name, including a pope.

But today, February 14, 2013, marks a new way of seeing this day of romance.  Today thousands of women from all over the world will be meeting on their court house steps, or wearing pink and red and marching in their Main Street, all of them celebrating “V Day”, not the public holiday celebrated in May 1945 to mark the end of World War II in Europe, but a global movement to end the violence against women and girls.

The V Day website reads:

“In 1994, a play called The Vagina Monologues, written by playwright and activist Eve Ensler, broke ground, offering to the world a piece of art like nothing it had seen before. Based on dozens of interviews Ensler conducted with women, the play addressed women’s sexuality and the social stigma surrounding rape and abuse, creating a new conversation about and with women. The Vagina Monologues ran Off-Broadway for five years in New York and then toured the United States. After every performance, Ensler found women waiting to share their own stories of survival, leading her to see that The Vagina Monologues could be more than a moving work of art on violence; she divined that the performances could be a mechanism for moving people to act to end violence.

On Valentines Day, 1998, Eve, with a group of women in New York City, established V-Day. Set up as a 501(c)(3) and originally staffed by volunteers, the organization’s seed money came from a star-studded, sold out benefit performance at the Hammerstein Ballroom in New York, a show that raised $250,000 in a single evening.

V-Day’s mission is simple. It demands that violence against women and girls must end. To do this, once a year, in February, March, and April, Eve allows groups around the world to produce a performance of the play, as well as other works created by V-Day, and use the proceeds for local individual projects and programs that work to end violence against women and girls, often shelters and rape crisis centers. What began as one event in New York City in 1998 today includes over 5,800 V-Day events annually.

Performance is just the beginning. V-Day stages large-scale benefits and produces innovative gatherings, films and campaigns to educate and change social attitudes towards violence against women.”

Our local university had a free performance of The Vagina Monologues last week, requesting that the attendees donate goods to the local domestic violence shelter instead.   My beloved and I attended, not having a clue as to what was in store for us that evening.  Three incredibly talented young female actresses, delightfully ‘ordinary’ women with less than perfect actress bodies, presented what it is like to be a vagina.   Yes, you read that right.   I don’t know what I was expecting, but there you go!  There were more than a few moments when I was uncomfortable, but I believe that was part of the purpose of the evening, because the underlying theme was the violence and rape of billions of women all over the world.   These three actresses made me squirm in my seat as I pictured the sexual abuse of my ‘sisters’ and heard their bodies’ cries.

Unusual, yes.  Shocking, oh my, yes.  And, did the writer of the play manage to get her point across, you betcha.   So today, watch the news, and remember the women who have been sexually victimized for centuries, and get involved in your communities, your churches, perhaps even your own families, and let your voice also be heard that it is time to make sure the violence stops NOW.

hibernation: rest or denial?

It’s only January, but it seems like winter has been here forever.   More snow this morning, and bitter cold.  Sometimes it is hard to get motivated and get on with the busyness of life, as it seems the earth itself is hibernating and resting.   Maybe a time of hibernation and rest is good for all of us.

But I think too many of us hibernate most of the time.   We hide in our dark caves of denial and pretend that our little world is the only one that really matters, and everyone else’s problems are not ours to carry.   We, like the ostrich who is terrified of his own shadow, stick our heads in the sand to hide, little realizing that the larger part of us, the derriere end of us, is sticking out and is just as vulnerable as our neighbor who is just as fearful as we are about the economy, the safety of our children and where we will all be in five years.  None of us are exempt from trouble.

I read a wonderful post yesterday on Facebook, shared by my First Nation‘s friend, Kimberly Medicine Horn Jackson, which reads “I could see that the white man did not care for one another the way our people did …. They would take everything from each other if they could …. Some had more of everything than they could use, while crowds of people had nothing at all ….. This could not be better than the old ways of my people.” (Black Elk)

We are a generous people at our core, and give when we hear of Tsunami’s and earthquakes, and starving children in other parts of the world.   All of us are touched by the faces of tragedy, and give to those who are far away.  Frankly, it is easy to donate with our credit cards, and say we are praying for people, but we can do that at a distance.  There is so much tragedy in our own neighborhoods that we are loathe to address because it is SO CLOSE.   It might touch us, contaminate us, or hurt us in some way.

At Thanksgiving and Christmas the food banks were filled to overflowing.  Today the shelves are sparse, but people still need to eat.  One of my local friends is a medical coder, and her heart breaks so many times a month as she enters “child sexual abuse exam” and notes that the suspected offender is a family member.   Another friend is a courageous female cop who daily deals with the battering of women & children in our community.  Another friend wrote a book about the challenges of domestic violence in the church – OUR churches (“A Cry for Justice,” which was just recently reviewed in CREDO, but they removed it due to pressure from folks who don’t agree with some of us.  Jeff Crippen, the author, has republished this review on his own blog).   I’d recommend everyone read the review, and then buy the book for your pastor!

We have hungry & broken people all around us.   We can’t feed everyone, we can’t house everyone, we can’t protect every child …. but we can LISTEN.   We can admit that we don’t understand what it might be like to have lost your job, or have lost your home, or have experienced sexual abuse by your daddy, or be locked in a closet by your mama.  We can admit that we haven’t got a clue what it is like to realize you are attracted to a person of the same gender and are terrified to tell your friends & family because you are sure they will look at you with disgust and cast you out of the fold.

Until you have walked in the shoes of someone who has experienced pain, you cannot judge them.  Micah 6:8 tells us:    “Oh people, the LORD has told you what is good, and this is what he requires of you: to do what is right, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.”

Do what is right.  It is right to be kind and listen.   Love mercy …. that means we have to BE merciful, and stop judging.   Walk humbly with your God …. remember who Jesus walked with – dirty, confused, argumentative disciples and women who society scorned.

Hibernate and rest, but we have work to do when morning comes.