*In light of Ravi Zacharias’s surfaced sexual assaults, I wrote a piece with the abused women in mind. They remain at the forefront of the abuse as well as in the prayers and hearts of Christians around the world.
*Events such as this one will always trigger pain and hurt in the millions of alike women around the world and in our own communities. While their stories vary, their pain and aftermath impact every day of their living. May the peace of God, the healing of the Spirit, the presence of the Son, and the circling of the Church gather around them in their lifetime onward.
Sexual abuse hurts. Its memory doesn’t fade with time. It leaves wounds that cauterize long enough until a new smell of flesh opens it up. While some layers heal, many still fester quietly underneath. Sexual abuse ties up inner womanhood with ropes of weakness, shame, and suffering. She lives and breathes, but no one knows her…
Life’s own trials rock an assaulted woman into remembering her trauma gently, softly, consistently. Time doesn’t heal these darn wounds. Time has a knack for bringing them out when least wanted or expected. They show up at certain times, roaring within and voiceless without. Who can hear them anyway?
Silence is not this woman’s weakness: it is her gathering strength. Silence, for a while, is her hiding place. She sits and waits. In silence, she learns to whisper. Silent prayers. He hears her in silence. Prayer leads her to God’s heart. She is heard in there.
Sexual abuse in spiritual sheets is being twice abused. It doesn’t make it lesser. It doesn’t just make it bigger, it makes it double. An assault while under the false premise of Heaven’s decree rapes the body and the soul at once. It hurts beyond the veins of flesh. The silent screams echo loudly in the open skies. God hears.
A man with a god is not the same as a man of God. It is not God who sends men to assault and rape; it is the god of a sinful man charging them to drag the flesh into indecent assaults. Don’t assume the god of those who abuse is the God of those who are eager to protect. They are not the same.
The memories of sexual abuse show not in the eyes, but all over the body. Few know where to look for them. The birth-moles know the touch of the forced hand. The pores have drunk the stench of the aggressor. As the walls know the story of the homes, so does the skin remember the story of each assault. She dies a piece at a time whenever she remembers it. She must’ve died a million times already since it happened: through all the rememberings…in all the days…this lifetime alone.
In the darkness of the room, in the loneliness of nightmares, the heart races and the body shakes. Safety is a word she teaches herself over again—an exercised act of faith, a daily choice of mind. When all else prepares her to flight, she’s paralyzed into fighting. And fighting she must…
Time doesn’t heal abuse; only God does.
In Christ, there is healing against all this ravaged sickness. Peace against tumult. Hope against defeat. Renewal against tearing apart. Cleanliness against dirty stench. Safety against dangers. Wholeness against fragmented womanhood. New mind against painful memories. Divine voice against silenced threats. Holy justice against assault. Life in Christ through all the million deaths.
Jesus is safe. Very safe.
So, Climb in Him. And Rest.