http://NotThisGirl.com Just another WordPress weblog Fri, 16 Apr 2010 20:37:47 -0500 http://wordpress.org/?v=2.9 hourly 1 http://NotThisGirl.com/share/comment-page-1#comment-2 Not This Girl » Five Hours Tue, 09 Mar 2010 15:08:52 +0000 http://ntg.de.spearia.com/?page_id=224#comment-2 [...] Contact The more I think about “those five hours,” the more questions I have. The circumstances that brought us there on that night and what happened since offer an unbelievable number of issues to be unraveled. I’m working through them from the beginning but it’s those five hours, those are the ones that changed everything. Those are the ones I want desperately to reconcile. My deepening faith only adds to the confusion. I imagine sitting across from Jesus, confessing that while I can understand anger, even comprehend violence, I cannot reconcile this evil, not those five hours. Why? Where were you then? Were you there? In that room? In those moments? Did you hear my pleas? Did you hear me when I asked to live? Did you know when I resigned to die? Why didn’t you do something? All the heartache, frustration and anger overcome what I have been taught; I forget “Who am I to question Him?”  Sitting there, I don’t speak of what has come since then, all that’s been born from those hours.  This conversation is about me, my pain.  These are selfish questions laced with the fury of that which I cannot comprehend.  These are the sobs-on-the-side-of-the-road questions that a hurting daughter with a heart angry in its most wounded places asks of a Father who loves her. Hundreds of hours of counseling, dozens of self-help books, infinite and continuing conversations of faith, still I have no idea how He might answer my questions…but I believe it’s okay to ask. Memories of “those five hours” still lure my mind from important things, less now but still quite a lot.  I catch myself thinking about how that man, once my friend, engaged in kind conversations and thoughtful sympathy.  I dwell on the choices I made, evaluating each circumstance.  Over and over, then again.  I think about the exact moment it all changed and how he leered at my naked hopelessness, heard my cries, smelled the sweat of desperation and continued to bruise and bloody my body while filling the room with vulgarities. I still wince the moment those memories enter my thoughts and my body aches if they stay too long. Those five hours are why I will never see or experience anything in the same way again. I have wished it away, desperately tried to forget and when that didn’t work, I created dramatic distractions in an attempt to ignore an evil I now intimately know. With faith and through counseling (resource link) I am learning how to lean into the right things and people, finding the strength to choose different on a daily basis and slowly coming to accept what I cannot understand.  I haven’t yet, but maybe someday.  I’m hopeful. Until then, I’ll find peace in the comfort that comes with calling out… [...] [...] Contact The more I think about “those five hours,” the more questions I have. The circumstances that brought us there on that night and what happened since offer an unbelievable number of issues to be unraveled. I’m working through them from the beginning but it’s those five hours, those are the ones that changed everything. Those are the ones I want desperately to reconcile. My deepening faith only adds to the confusion. I imagine sitting across from Jesus, confessing that while I can understand anger, even comprehend violence, I cannot reconcile this evil, not those five hours. Why? Where were you then? Were you there? In that room? In those moments? Did you hear my pleas? Did you hear me when I asked to live? Did you know when I resigned to die? Why didn’t you do something? All the heartache, frustration and anger overcome what I have been taught; I forget “Who am I to question Him?”  Sitting there, I don’t speak of what has come since then, all that’s been born from those hours.  This conversation is about me, my pain.  These are selfish questions laced with the fury of that which I cannot comprehend.  These are the sobs-on-the-side-of-the-road questions that a hurting daughter with a heart angry in its most wounded places asks of a Father who loves her. Hundreds of hours of counseling, dozens of self-help books, infinite and continuing conversations of faith, still I have no idea how He might answer my questions…but I believe it’s okay to ask. Memories of “those five hours” still lure my mind from important things, less now but still quite a lot.  I catch myself thinking about how that man, once my friend, engaged in kind conversations and thoughtful sympathy.  I dwell on the choices I made, evaluating each circumstance.  Over and over, then again.  I think about the exact moment it all changed and how he leered at my naked hopelessness, heard my cries, smelled the sweat of desperation and continued to bruise and bloody my body while filling the room with vulgarities. I still wince the moment those memories enter my thoughts and my body aches if they stay too long. Those five hours are why I will never see or experience anything in the same way again. I have wished it away, desperately tried to forget and when that didn’t work, I created dramatic distractions in an attempt to ignore an evil I now intimately know. With faith and through counseling (resource link) I am learning how to lean into the right things and people, finding the strength to choose different on a daily basis and slowly coming to accept what I cannot understand.  I haven’t yet, but maybe someday.  I’m hopeful. Until then, I’ll find peace in the comfort that comes with calling out… [...]

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