Not to a Child.

All of this session I have worked in writing class to receive high grades and recognition, terrible self-centered motivations which mirror my heart of pride. Last Friday, I wrote from a different part of my heart. The part God is creating in me.

I wrote my emotion when I learned that a child I have learned to love spends half of his life being abused. He has no choice; he's four.


God Help

I stumble numbly in
toes sinking into carpet
the door slams.

Dazed, blank, hurt, I stare
numbly at the wall.
I let go.

The pit of my stomach boils
not to a child.
No! God help.

Eyes narrowed, chest tight
I clench my fists
and pray

Send that monster to jail.

Then I see the child smiling
victim of his father's hate
and I collapse.

Curling up fetal position
clutching fistfulls of beanbag
I choke back sobs.

Mascara streaming, snuffling snot
salty tears burn slowly,
I whisper

Not to a child!


I don't know what to do except to pray. I struggle with anger and the desire for vengeance. The only place I can turn is to God. He is the Just Judge, yet Compassionate, and I will trust Him.