This morning I woke up sore.

My legs and arms are cramped from fighting and kicking and protecting my little girl self. I spent the night doing what I could not do as a tiny bucktoothed kid.

Not a whole lot of sleep happened last night (so sorry Howard), but a battle waged.

I woke up weary and battleworn. And called my sister.

Often when I am haunted by these memories, my sister is, too. It's like we share the same cycle of sleeplessness and grief. She lives far away and we are both busy so we aren't talking about history. It happens. And I wonder about my oldest sister who is far away in so many ways. And my brother, Pat, who met Jesus face-to-face far too young. Does she share these cycles? Would he wake up in a cold sweat, too?

Anyhoo, my sister is the one person that I know I can go to when the evil of a long ago age poisons this good day. She has been fighting for sleep lately, too.

By 8 am, I got up and stumbled towards the coffeepot with a quick scratch onto Charming Charlie Dog's head. My plans for a quick run in the rare cool morning were robbed by a night of sorrows. I began to get angry.

Then I called Mimi-sita again and asked if I could write this blog. 

Originally, the words and blog came from a broken heart. I wanted vengeance - something I've avoided these years. Now, I am just wanting to make a last thing clear (because frankly, I'm tired of this thread in my life):

Kids are assaulted each second and each day and each night.

And there is something they need - they need help, rescue, and for people (us) to have the kahonies enough to speak up. 

Your reputation

Your job

Your precious club pals

are not worth the internal destruction of an abused child. 

Your delay

Your denial

Having your kids defend you rather than you protect them

causes the death of hope, joy, childhood, and life.

Yep. 

When you are silent

death wins.

When you speak up

life has a chance

though often trudging through high waters and wild winds.

You don't have to go to Cambodia or Thailand to stop the sale and rape and tossing into the refuse pile of beautiful children.

Childhood sexual abuse does not end at childhood.

I'm 45 years old. 

Memories and smells and nightmares and fear and vulnerability follow me into my sleeping.

So when you step aside and turn your face away from what you see happening...you are allowing generations to suffer the strains of death and abuse.

Pray about it.

Do you see something that causes you to wonder? Pray more.

Ask if God has something for you to do-to step in.

Then please please please do it.

Your strength and courage could save more than one life.

*the image is a reflection of my childhood nickname on an old tombstone from Tennessee. That tiny tow-headed kid died a long time ago. But God is bringing to life something else - new life and hope and mischief and merry childhood. When I was in my tweens and teens, I was more of an old granny adult than I am now. I am having fun. And so thankful for the people in my life. No longer isolated and alone. Unprotected. 

New life. 

please note that the persistent sexual assault was not initiated by a person related to me