One afternoon my daughter was running out of diapers so I called my abuser. It had been days since he had stopped by but maybe he’d bring his daughter some diapers? Boldly, I took a chance at calling him knowing full well his way of handling his daughters’ health situation was to drink and ignore us.
I can still feel the sting as I relive the obscenity-filled NO that came across through my cell phone. No, I am not driving over there (5 miles away) with diapers. His tone was so degrading. He ended with a stern “figure this out yourself” as he hung up the phone. 

     As I sit in church Sunday after Sunday mornings, I often leave discouraged and jealous. Surrounded by a thousand perfectly dressed, smiling, loudly singing, and actively listening to the sermon people causes me to feel unworthy. Unloved. Not good enough for God.
     Over and over I ponder the same confusing thought: If God truly loved me, He surely wouldn’t have let the abuse get so bad, right? If He really loved me, then the horrors of the night my abuser held me in a chokehold with my feet dangling inches off the ground wouldn’t have happened, right? If God truly loved me, I wouldn’t be feeling so alone and isolated.