I cannot seem to slow enough for my thoughts to gel. And so many of my thoughts are not my own. Or mine to tell. This morning saw an errand to meet with an old ministry partner. Last night we spoke on the phone, and it turned out that the study she had written for women healing from sexual abuse is in the process of becoming a book. The final, or latest product, is in editing now with an expected release in six months. But I needed it now. Because there is a young woman who is trying to sort through her own nightmare, and she is using the pen rather than the sword to fight her way to freedom. I am just along for the ride.
The idea that one in four women falls prey to sexual abuse of some sort in her lifetime makes me ill. I feel the color leave my face even as a red haze tinges the out most edges of my vision with each new tale of pain and shame related by women who are each beloved of Christ. These are the children of God. How dare anyone take what God put in place as a mechanism of love, life, and the spark of creation in us only to twist it into a hideous image of depravity? Every single day it happens somewhere. And in the sense of being a drop in the bucket, I will walk alongside another sweet soul who searches for the living water that can wash her clean. How I wish there was no such need.