Long ago, in a land controlled by subversive forces, a little girl became a victim of a drunken stupor. As the morning light split the darkness of night, innocence had been penetrated, leaving a riptide of shame and betrayal eroding her soul. And so began the tale of secrecy and anger. And so began the love/hate relationship of protecting/ pushing away the more vulnerable and the weaker.
As the years passed, time did not heal all wounds but time did allow the wounds to fester. The passive-aggressive hate morphed into full on rage, scarcely concealed underneath the cloak of religiosity. A self-destructive cycle was set in motion in search of love and value. Signs of woundedness were obvious; rage was justified. The anger boiling just beneath the surface spilled over easily with the slightest provocation, often inexplicably so. A saviour complex began with personal crusades to rescue other victims. She became for others what no one had done for her. The secrets that she kept safely hidden away grew in power with leech-like abilities. Marriage offered the promise she had long dreamed of, a valiant prince ready for battle to defend her honor. In reality, the liaison continued the saga of an unsuspecting victim. Her only saving grace was the lifetime of rage that gave her strength to stand. Her mission in life became guarding her children as no one had guarded her and giving them all the opportunities that were stolen from her.
The betrayal of it all does not lie simply in the physical acts against her. The very nature of the secrets and the passionate need to keep up have held her hostage long after the violations have stopped. The perpetrator faced death decades ago; for decades the victim has faced the pull of the riptide, unable to reach a land of safety and security. Just beyond the swirling current of rage, shame and helplessness that threatens to take her under stands on yonder shore the One who has been waiting an eternity past to rescue her, to redeem her and to restore what the locusts have eaten. Unfortunately to remove herself from the riptide means surrendering those things which have been her strength and her identity since she was a little girl.
If I could write a letter to her, I would tell her that I am sorry that she suffered at perverse hands and a twisted mind. She is not guilty as the reason behind it nor is she deserving of this. I would tell her that I am sorry that her innocence was forced from her as was her childhood. What she has lost can be redeemed and restored. Love waits to complete His perfect healing. I would tell her that even though she could see no way out but to submit, thereby protecting others, that no human–much less a child–could ever have the power to withstand or to control evil in their own strength. I would tell her that there is divine beauty and value in her, just that the lifetime of rage and the fear of not being in control has pockmarked her soul such that the woman she was designed to be is almost nonexistent. I would tell her it is much less scary to walk in freedom in the Light than to hovel in bondage to the secrets of darkness.
I would tell her that I long for the day when she is no longer threatened by love, beauty or freedom. I would tell her that I love her.