Long before I had my biological children, I had another child to take care of. Her and I were acquainted when I got to University. She had been abused in every way; she had been abandoned; she had been neglected; she had been told that no one loved her; she had been betrayed, her innocense stolen early in life. Her big, bright eyes sparkled with tears that she couldn’t shed anymore. Her body was charred with all that the world had given her, and she just wanted a place to hide, to be kept safe.
So I took her in. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I would keep her safe, no matter what. I told her that I wouldn’t abandon her. And most of all, I promised her, that I would never let those who hurt her, come to even know of her.
I visited her not too long ago, to ask her about how she feels about joining me in this journey. Where before she played with her toys in a scantily lit room (she doesn’t want to see her scars), she has now turned all the lights off. She lays in the corner, in a fetal position with all the lights off. She is terrified.
Where I want to show her the love of God to heal her, she is terrified of God. She doesn’t trust God the way I do. Where I believe that God has a plan for everything he does, a plan beyond my understanding, she doesn’t believe in any such plan. We all have her trials, all have our cross to bear; but her shoulders haven’t grown yet to carry hers.
And I don’t know what to do anymore. Do I drag her to God? Do I give her time and space? How long do I keep her enclosed, sheltered, away from God’s love and mercy that can heal her? How do I tell the little girl, with everything that she has been through, “to have courage?” I cannot lose her trust, I am all she has. I cannot abandon her. I cannot force this fragile soul. So I await, patiently, for her to be ready.