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In the middle of the night, He calls.

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I still have nightmares.
I still wake up in the middle of the night and need a couple of hours by myself just to know nobody is going to steal my safe place and impose something that leaves anxiety and panic attacks into my spirit.
I still want to ask young women if it has happened to them—ask little girls if it is happening to them.

Last night, the dream was different. Someone asked me what I must talk about if given a platform. I thought. All the things I have ever given talks about came to mind. And there was still a blank space to fill in, like an answer on a test.

This, and this, and … oh, something more.

What is it, I wondered.

And then I knew. I need to help them heal. I need to take all of this MeToo-ness and gather it up.

And carry it to the Cross.
“Mary, these little ones were denied a chance to give a Fiat, or hold it close and say no.”
“Suffering Savior, these little ones have suffered by the powerful and those who have control.”

That was what I needed to say. That was what I needed to do.

And then I woke up.

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