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.