Morning Has Broken

 

  “All these people died still believing what God had promised them. They did not receive what was promised, but they saw it all from a distance and welcomed it. They agreed that they were foreigners and nomads here on earth. Obviously people who say such things are looking forward to a country they can call their own. If they had longed for the country they came from, they could have gone back. But they were looking for a better place, a heavenly homeland. That is why God is not ashamed to be called their God, for He has prepared a city for them.” Heb 11:13-15

 

  There won’t be a painting today. Sleep has brought some perspective. Perspective has brought joy and gratitude for all God has done since this challenging, heart wrenching, angry and grief filled journey began. I can be grateful for Bruxy today.

  There’s something to find by re-reading the posts backwards by date. I can see the seeds of thought God placed in the writing. His slow and careful preparation enabled me to sit in the first memory I have for longer than I ever have before. Usually, historically, I shut ‘er down at the first hint.

  Finding His presence in those moments, in those events, has liberated my soul.

  Complex, seeming-at-odds emotions swirl around. There’s Cricket’s grief that, I pray, validates the grief of other little girls who have been violated. This child-woman mourns the losses these terrible things leave in their wake while acknowledging other child-women have suffered far more than she did.

  There’s no comfort in knowing this. This doesn't minimize what we went through, either. That's gone on for far too long. Until yesterday.

  Most of all, a deep sense of peace is in this mix of emotions. God has reconciled me and Cricket. She is me. I am her. In telling her, our, story I have embraced my inner child. My arms were closed; I turned my back on her for a life time. Like others, like Adam, I blamed her.

  It’s hard, this unraveling of blame. Yet, now I know it had to be unraveled because it existed.

  My dad was building a canoe in our car port, in and around the time of the closet monster. He sat me on a stool so I could watch him patiently working away at smoothing the outside. The stool meant I belonged there, safe, away from the worst of the dust.

  I loved to watch him build things. It was softly raining. The fragrant aroma of cedars always brings me to this memory, one of the good ones. Not all triggers are bad.

  God sat me on a stool made of words. Like my dad, He wanted me to be safe while being present to His sanding away of the rough spots. God’s Spirit fills my being with a fragrance not unlike rain washed cedars and sawdust.

  I am sure if my dad knew what had happened, he would have killed the baby sitter. God, in His infinite mercy, wouldn’t.

  There may be those who deny that I could remember what happened at such a young age. God saw fit that I wouldn’t ever forget. He does that for some people, you know, lets them forget. In His infinite mercy, it is His gift to them.

  There will be those who are hurt by my story. It is time for me to let go of the responsibility for how they feel as I share my truth. God, in His infinite mercy, will heal them of their pain.

  I am more than happy to sit on my stool, my place of belonging and safety, watching God do His work.

  He is, you know, working. It’s why so many women are finally telling their own stories. He heard our prayers.