The words haunt me. Two little words. They scroll across my feed like a bad dream. Me too. You too. Her too. What happened to us? What happened to the baby girls who lay on their mommas’ chest, a life of promise before them? When did our dreams die? And what was left was this weight of shame? A shame that we never asked to bear.
I can’t stop the sobs.
I read the words of lament: “What words are there to describe the horror of what women go through in this world?” I bear the weight of bringing freedom into this world along with my sisters. I am reminded of my Jesus in Ann’s simple words: “…Christ never beat down a woman with harsh words or lusting eyes or sneering innuendos, but He stepped in and stopped a broken woman from the abuse of angry men.” There’s all this pain and all I can do is cry.
Abba, the weight of this is too much. How long must your daughters cry? How long must we endure this violation of our bodies, our souls, our spirits? How long do we have to endure before you say enough? The pain is more than I can bear to feel. Yet, in the midst of my crying I feel the fire of a warrior spirit roaring. Like Sarah Bessey, I will not quit. Like Demi Lovato, I am a warrior. Like Maya Angelou, I will rise. Like Susan Boyle, I dream a dream
The husband I are driving and I am quiet. He begins to talk. About our friend. Who is angry and sick. “Me too.” These two words have him undone. And slowly, I begin to talk.
Do you know what it’s like to know you are not judged by the quality of your character, but by the size of your breasts?
Do you know what it’s like to walk by a stranger and feel like you have to take a shower?
Do you know the way your soul wails while someone describes what they’d do to you?
Do you know the pain of not being enough simply because you won’t give in?
Do you know the rejection of speaking up only to be told you are too simple to understand?
Do you know what it feels to have every aspect of your body spoken of as if you are available for public consumption?
Do you know that my biggest prayer is “Abba, please don’t let my daughters feel this pain.”
Do you know what it’s like to be a woman?
I have been subjected, since I was a little girl, to having my body and my soul violated. Without permission, they took who I was and they used it up and when I cried, they blamed me. Every day we walk this earth, we are subjected to the pain. Can you feel the pain? Can you hear the cries? Can you see us?
I want better. Abba wants better. He’s heard our cries. He’s angry. He’s sad. And the ache is deeper than the deepest sea on the planet.
I dream of a day when a momma gives birth to a girl and she doesn’t immediately feel the weight.
I dream of a day when that girl walks confidently into a room and she doesn’t feel the stares.
I dream of a day when that woman, walks down the street and doesn’t look over her shoulder.
I dream of a day when Abba’s daughters are free to be who they are.
I dream of the day Brittany Packnett is not judged by the color of her skin but her beautiful smile and her sass and the way she makes me wanna be a better person.
I dream of the day when Malala’s sisters can walk with their heads held high and receive an education without the threat of physical harm.
I dream of the day when girls like Naison are not pressured to marry men who could be their fathers.
I dream of a day when we can send our daughters to pursue their dreams, and not have them tainted by the unwanted touch of a beloved coach.
I dream of a day when a little girl is nurtured and given the tools to pursue her dreams. When she is not judged as incapable just “because she’s a girl”. When she is confident, she is not labeled bossy. When she cries, she is not labeled weak. When she says “I can’t”, we say, “You can.” When she asks who she can be, we say “Whoever you are.”
I dream of a day when a young woman can fall asleep at night and not feel the fear of the night. When she can walk into a room and not feel the dread. When she can walk in a hall of boys and not feel the hands and the eyes and hear the whispers and the words and feel the shame. When she can choose to wear what she wants to wear without fear that it’s too tight, too short, too big, too long, too much. When she’s judged not by the gap in her thighs, the curve of her hips, the weight of her breasts, or the size of her butt but by the gift she has to share with the world. Where her words have just as much weight as a young man’s words. When her demands for justice are met with justice and not the pathetic excuse that “Boys will be boys.”
I dream of a day when parents biggest fear about sending their daughter to school is how to pay for the experience and not that she’ll be raped. I dream of the day when a momma gives birth to her daughter and the first prayer she doesn’t whisper, “Oh Lord, not her too.” I dream of a day when a woman is free to be the phenomenal gift she is. When her feminine voice sings freely and she lives, loves and laughs with no fear.
Abba’s daughters cry. It’s years of pain, oppression, slavery, abuse, poverty, violence, injustice and rape. Can you hear their cries?