That’s the thing about summertime romances…” she mused out loud to herself as they sat wrapped up together on a ridiculously large, lush lime green beach towel. She sat between his outstretched legs, toes in the sand, tracing her hands up over his hairy knees and back down to his shins in time with the cerulean ocean waves. Cerulean, with a “c” not an “s” and deep blue like the color of her heart knowing he was going to leave again. She watched them gobble up the beach before their retreat into the burnt orange horizon. As the waves pulled back into the water, her fingertips slid up his legs, languidly, repetitively, occasionally flicking sand from her fingers or his leg hairs. She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to. She knew this part of the summertime too well already. The thing about them was that the page turned, or the credits rolled, and the guy or girl left with well-meaning promises, but the two words, the end, sealed it all into a melancholy memory of what had been and will be no more. Evidently he did not remember how this part of summertime romances went. “What’s the thing?” he asked, tightening his embrace around her shoulders, drawing her back further into him. He shifted forward suddenly and grabbed the other towel still folded neatly beside her and wedged it between his back and the abrasive volcanic rock he was leaning against. He wiggled a little to find the right position, and she wiggled a little to tease him, then remembered his injury. “Oh, sorry. Are you OK? Is your leg OK?” she asked, finding and tracing the still-fresh rigid scar that ran the length of his knee. “So OK,” he said into her ear in his sexy lover’s voice before nibbling at her neck. “Mmmm!” she sighed, closing her eyes and exposing more of her neck to him. She couldn’t put a finger on what made that tone more arousing than his normal voice. It wasn’t deeper, it was maybe almost higher but with a want in it that melted her. She leaned her head back onto his shoulder basking in the bliss of the moment, letting out another audible sigh of delight. She arched her head back a bit more and looked up at him wistfully. She stared, wishing, hoping, willing this to be anything more than what it was always fated to be. He stared back caught up in the passion of the moment. She knew what they had was special. There was definitely some kind of love that passed between them. They couldn’t have spent all these summers for all these years together without it meaning something… even if it was only ten or fourteen days of each year. She was probably still too young to know what true love was, but maybe this was it. She turned her face into his cologne and neck. She breathed every bit of his essence into her soul, stealing some of who he was right then and there. Keeping it just for herself. She wanted to remember him, here and now, mixed in with the color of the sunset. Not the water. He was too much like the earth to mix with the water. He was warm and hard and bold. Orange, yes, orange like the fading sun in front of them, leaving so beautifully she almost forgot to be sad about it even though she feared their summertime romance would end once and for all this summer. She worried about it every year but his letters always promised he’d return and so far he always did. But things were changing for them both and something inside told her the sun was setting for them. She feared more than ever before, even more than that first summer, that this would be their last summertime romance. He was gorgeous. A ripped, stacked and muscled guy from a far away place, and to the place he belonged he would return. He was here, now, with her on a beach in paradise. They shared so much history together in their brief summer visits. It was a bittersweet but true, honest connection and in all truth and honesty, she knew their lives were nothing alike. He was too old and idealistic for her, she was too realistic to see how it could ever be more than this. He was away from home and real-life for two weeks and she was home. This was her real-life. He found a lovely distraction in her like a lot of guys found in the local girls and vice versa. She didn’t mind being a summertime escape, but he was lying to himself and her when he said it could last longer. He told her that their love could conquer all the obstacles they faced and overcome all the odds. He promised that one day, some way, they’d live happily ever after… or maybe he was only telling her that because he thought it was the right thing to do. She supposed, as she mused over telling him the thing about summertime romances, that he could really think this would last. She remembered their first summer together, oh how magical that summer had been, fresh and new and full of fun and exploration. For all his big tough football exterior, he was a pure romantic. She knew he’d fallen hard and fast for her. Maybe she helped him notice her at first but she didn’t have to work very hard to keep his attention. Maybe she lied about how old she actually was at first but she couldn’t help it, he was great and she wanted to be with him. If he’d known the truth upfront, maybe he wouldn’t have pursued her, but it didn’t matter now. Here they were years of summers later and in some kind of love that made sense to them both every time they reunited. This time they’d spent ten glorious days of the summer together. They were nowhere close to inseparable because of her work and his play, but as often as they could be together they were. This was his last night in paradise, so she snuck away from home and responsibility and brought him here… to do it! They were miles away from the mountain village she called home, and cuddled up together at the edge of the ocean for one last long good-bye and her first time. He had never pushed her, though it was obvious he wanted her. She had never been ready before. She hated her parents and preacher’s talks about waiting to have sex and her being too young to even think about it, but still they sunk in. She always kept him at bay each summer, not quite ready to go all the way. All those times before she was afraid he’d either never come back, or find some other girl that put out. But he kept writing her letters promising his return. He kept coming back summer after summer to this mountain place… and to her. Even after he found out her real age he stuck around. This time, though, she was sure he’d never come back and just as sure that she was finally ready and she wanted her first time to be with him. She might be young but she was old enough for that and she wanted it to be with him even if this was the end. “What’s the thing about summertime romances?” he whispered, lips on her hair, rocking her a little, snapping her out of her forlorn conclusions. He scooped her even closer, nestling her head under his chin. Ever attentive, he wouldn’t let the musing go ignored. He wouldn’t make her bring it back up, he would draw her out. Yeah, it was definitely some kind of love. Should she tell him or let him live in a make believe land of “this-will-last-once-I-leave” mumbo jumbo. “They don’t last.” “Why do you always have to be such a downer? Ours can last.” “Are you going to give up everything you have and come down here?” she asked, “Because I can’t leave.” She heard him breathe in, felt his shoulders sag. There she went, Miss Realistic, killing his sweet summer fantasy along with the sexy vibe they had going on. That’s not what she meant to do this time. She meant to make it the most amazing memory ever, better even than that very first summer. She turned around quickly, kneeling right into his face, leaning closer and closer and closer until their noses touched. “Never mind,” she said playfully nipping at his lips, “I didn’t mean to say it out loud. We’re here now and I want it to be perfect. I want to remember you just the way you are right now.” Wispy, straight strands of her thick dark hair shrouded their kiss, though there was no one on this beach to hide from. The tourist beaches were elsewhere. This one was too remote to find easily, locals made sure of that. She knew this beach, this time of night would probably be deserted, or close to it. It was too tricky to amble out of in the dark. Considering his leg, she wondered if it was the best idea but ignored the caution and moved on with the plan. Her mouth covered his. Their kiss, more than familiar to the both of them, tasted different mixed with the salty brine of the ocean on their lips. She willed him to know she was ready without her having to say it and make the moment awkward. His hands cradled both sides of her face for moments of delicious tasting and teasing, but then he pushed back her face ever so slightly and looked at her with all the love and sincerity she’d ever seen come from him, or anyone. Gorgeous brown eyes searching, penetrating her, willing her to love him, to want him forever. “I don’t think this has to end.” She knew the truth but she wanted the moment so she smiled and made him lie to her, “Promise me Preston.” “I promise,” he answered and bucked her backward deftly and laid her down on the towel and sand under them. She giggled at the maneuver and their kisses deepened. She loved feeling the weight of him press her down and into the sand under the towel. She was smothered in all that was him and she pulled him into her soul. Maybe he could keep the promise and there would be more summers and moments, but just in case not she gave herself to him this time fully and completely. “Are you sure?” he asked when she didn’t resist. He looked at her in the dusky dimming light, gauging her movements and response. “Yeah, I’m sure,” and she was pretty positive she was sure. No matter what preachers or parents said, she needed this memory with him. As the sun went down and the orange darkened to twilight, she promised herself she would never regret this moment no matter how it ended. It was a chore to amble up and out of the rocky local beach, but their kisses and giggles and half caught stumbles kept them amused along their way. Neither wanted to say goodbye, but it had to happen. Ever the romantic, he fished a letter out of the back pocket of his soft surfer shorts and gave it to her at the smooth wrought iron and stone gate to his opulent hotel. “Do not open this until next week,” he demanded, holding it up between them and whipping it out of the way when she tried to swipe it. “Give it to me,” she smiled. “Not until you promise. Don’t open it until next week. “I promise. Not until next week.” He relinquished it to her eager grasp and pulled her into his bare chest, his big broad arms enveloping her, one hand threaded into her hair. She was in heaven, at least for a few more seconds. She wrapped her arms around his waist and they stood in the light of the entrance amidst the muted evening bustle of the other tourists and town. His heart beat slow and steady in her right ear and she could actually hear the air enter and exit his lungs. It sounded hollow-ish and reverberated through him. It was an interesting sound she doubted could ever be visually represented or reproduced. She refused to let go and evidently so did he; but it had to end, all of it had to end and so reluctantly she eased back out of his embrace to look up at him. One last perfect kiss on his lips. One last kiss on the letter as she walked backward away from him promising again to wait until next week to open it and then she was gone. Page turned. Credits rolled. Summer ended.
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Here's my struggle; I’m a writer and I think my words and stories should be shared. They were never intended for me. With the exception of diaries, I’ve always written with an audience in mind. After I had legitimate books, the idea of “sharing” my stories somehow morphed into “selling.” It seemed to me that if I had books, I needed to sell books. I started to daydream about winning the book lotto. I fantasized about each one, or just one, hitting it big! I dared to dream that writing could be a job that sustained me. I would say good-bye to whatever title I held and my profession would from then on be: “Author!” It was a dreamy dream and I was quite caught up in it... until I realized books don’t magically sell. Like any product they need to be marketed, and a salesman I am not! I will more often talk people out of something than into something. Selling makes me queasy and uneasy. I needed help! I interviewed and researched marketing companies and chose one. Next thing I knew it was a whirlwind of money out, and things to do on my checklist, and projects to get done. It overwhelmed me, it confused me, and on Independence Day, it stopped me. This is nothing new. Other things have stopped me dead in my writing tracks. Other things other than writing. Always “something” gets in between me and creating things to share. Doubts arise: What am I doing all of this for anyway? What is the point, the purpose, the reason? Do I even have a right selling? Surely I’m not good enough, the stories aren’t good enough. But why? Why would these thoughts, ideas and stories come to me, if not to share?! Why, God why? I’ve prayed over it, agonized over it. I’m currently on a private spiritual journey that revolves around future writing. Yes, I’ve been here before, and since I’ve paid so much to have my website resurrected, really, rebranded, I might as well dissect and post my newest writing dilemma here! Ugh! Marketing! First and foremost have I said that I hate selling?! I do. I can list off plenty of personal strengths, I’m not self-deprecating, but selling is not my strength. I am 43 and getting older every day. I’m not interested in pouring time into pursuits that do not give me pleasure or fulfill the call God’s given me. At this stage in life, I’d rather focus on and refine my strengths and honor the strengths of others by trusting (and paying) them to do things I do not want to do. I don’t want to “do” marketing or sales, so, I hired it out. In my head marketing is selling. Turns out it’s not! Marketing is a different beast, another one I’m not interested in pouring time into learning. Instead, I poured money into my marketing company. It was probably a laughable amount of money to them, but to me it was a lot of our household disposable income each month, honestly more than I could realistically justify. Rebranding was in full swing, but no sales were realized. Four months in, I started stressing about the money. I felt like a thief robbing my already financially strapped household to fund a fantasy that “my books will sell!” We needed that money for “real-life” and I was playing make-believe with it. I *thought* book marketing was like hiring an editor; you give them a manuscript, they correct your mistakes and send you a bill. I thought the job I was paying marketers for was making and posting ads. It’s not. It’s other stuff to get these darn seven books I’ve already created "ready" to sell, before actually selling them. Some of these books have been published either as indie, or under my former publisher for over 6 years... I understand why one book isn't worth advertising, because there's nothing else to sell. I *thought* once I had an inventory of stories and series it would be time to sell. Unfortunately, right when my 7th book/second series was finished, the infringement lawsuit happened. I finally paid that off and *thought* again that it was time to sell. I really thought that's what I was buying. If I’ve learned anything out of this, it’s that marketing isn't putting a book up for sale and paying for ads... it's thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours of prep work "first." The reality is I will not have that kind of time until I retire. Hopefully at some point in my life before retirement, I'll have enough of a disposable income to pay someone without hurting our household finances, but I don't right now. What's more, and what's bigger, and what stopped me in my tracks on Independence Day is that I genuinely LOVE the process of writing and making up worlds and stories! It's therapeutic, it's refreshing, it's meaningful to me. Writing makes me feel good! Writing is my reprieve, my oasis, my confidence, my make-believe playground to run and be free and create in. It’s also a humbling honor. I know everyone can’t write. The fact that I can and that stories evolve in my head is an honor. I try not to sound all woojuu-y spiritual, but sometimes it feels like a Divine gift. I can create worlds and concepts with words! I don’t take it lightly. Writing is my calling. It gives me purpose. It helps me understand why I’m here. All of the sales and branding and marketing and hullabaloo turns something I adore and do for stress relief into drudgery, confusion, disappointment, stress, frustration and pain. No matter how much I'd like to see my books make money, I'd rather not sell or “market.” I just want to get back to writing for fun like I used to. I'm not "me" when I'm not writing. I feel like I have to have things "just so" with these seven before I can get back to being me, and they're never right! They’re never ready! They’re never enough! I'm tired of these stories! Don't get me wrong, I love them all for what they are and where I was in life when I created them, but I'm ready to move on. I have so many other thoughts, ideas and stories bubbling inside me or drafted and waiting for revision and polishing. Even if I only write for myself, I want to get back to writing. But there’s that struggle again, it’s not only for me. Writing has never been only for me. That, to me seems selfish. Spending money on marketing also seems selfish. I’m depleting our finances for my silly dream. Equity is somewhere between stroking my ego and hiding the stories away from the world because someone has deemed them “not ready.” It's fair that these seven stories have space on an Amazon shelf. I can give them that honor and move forward with my writing. And... who knows... if God wills, and the wind blows the right way, maybe those who are meant to read them will happen upon them, forgive the covers, and the unknown author with no newsletter or platform, and slide into a world I've created for them! Marketing isn't for me, not any of it! It stresses me out, confuses me and takes time away from the loves and joys in my life. If you tell me I can pay someone or some company money and not have to do anything BUT write... I'm in! I thought that’s what I was paying for, but it turned out I had to do so much "other" than writing and paying (and I over estimated what I could pay). So, I’m out! Maybe I'm lazy, or ignorant, or stubborn, but I don't want to learn the skill of marketing. I just want to get back to writing for joy. I need this escape back in my life; reality is too much! Now, three days later, I'm embarrassed that I misunderstood what I was buying into and what writing is to me. I'm mortified because I made a fool of myself to a reputable marketing company and highlighted my ignorance. I’ve been surly and sour with my husband and my grandmother because I’m embarrassed about spending so much without realizing what I was paying for. I've agonized over all of this BUT I learned some things. I figured some things out. I processed, I refreshed, I accepted… all in written words. I got dirty, dug deep down to the roots. At the core, I am a wrtier! If all of this is good for anything, it’s that I’ve worked up fresh new words to share. This is my first blog post in over a year! THAT makes me happy! I'll never “give up” writing. The truth is I can’t! Writing is part of me. I do think I’ll give up “marketing.” No more “please oh please buy my book,” no more embarrassing launch parties, no more ego stroking. I'll just write. I’ll share the words and stories that God, whimsy, the muse, or life prompt. I’ll hire an editor, hire a formatter, hire a cover designer, share on social media, pay for ads I can easily understand, release what I’ve created, and write some more (with pictures I know are royalty free haha). Whatever will be will be and at least this way peace can return to my soul because I can get back to the craft that calls to me. May you too find your calling and your peace! Whelp, I've worked to take care of my body and get fit since I made a promise to my dying Grandpa in 2008. I’ve come a long way with this body of mine. I’ve used her and pushed her to do things I didn’t know she could do and have built muscle and endurance and made her well. But, just like the remnants of my former life as a drug addict still haunt me sometimes, there are remnants in my body of my poor health and wellness decision that I cannot shake. Some body damage from excessive weight gain can't be undone without help. I’ve asked trainers to fix me and they confirm that the “leftover” skin won’t go away on it’s own, or even with the most dedicated workout and nutrition regime. A tummy tuck is the only solution for me. I've been cleared by my primary care practitioner for one but my insurance won’t cover the reconstructive surgery because my skin doesn’t hang low enough. They say it’s not medically necessary. Maybe not, but for me it is, if not medically necessary, at least psychologically necessary. I hate looking at my pouch, I hate that I can’t do anything about it. I hate having my panties fall down below my fat flap. I hate running and having my fat flap jiggle out of my workout pants. I feel like I’ve honestly done everything I can do to get rid of it and it just won’t go away… so… I am resigned. It is a tummy tuck. Maybe it’s cheating but it’s the only way I’m going to get the flat stomach my work ethic dictates I should have. What I’ve got now is a false representation of the work I’ve done. I’ve spoken to may people and heard that this is a most painful procedure, but I was undeterred. I’ve looked for a doctor who was both highly recommended and affordable and found Dr. Jonov. I did the consult and I got my flat tummy price: $8,200!! Ouch! It’s pretty much an insurmountable expense... but not entirely impossible. Last year I decided to work extra part-time jobs to make my dream come true. I've given up time & activity with friends long before covid’s isolation rules kicked in to save money. I've dropped frivolous expenses to "save up" for this surgery for a long time. It's been scheduled and re-scheduled due to family health concerns and covid, but this week it happened and I can show these pictures now without shame because this pocket of fat I've referred to as "my best friend flab" for the last dozen years is finally GONE!!!! From what I understand, about three pounds of skin and fat were cut out, my abs were tied back together, my skin was stretched and I will have a flat stomach from here on out. I’m not exactly sure what I’ll look like after all the recovery, swelling, and healing is done, but my fat fanny pack gone!! And I have absolutely NO debt to show for this frivolous surgery! I do have a significant amount of pain that has made me question my decision to do this a number of times over the last few days. I do have a big HUGE thank you to my super awesome hubs for all the support to do this!! His help has been amazing… turns out Chicken Farmers can be great nurses too!! I’m grateful for all of my friends who have checked in and even prayed for me. I can't wait for the healing and swelling reduction and to get see what my new, flat belly actually looks like! I honestly feel like I earned this as much by paying for it as I did in the last 12 years working out for it (and, no, I won't quit exercising now that I got what I wanted). My word to the young... get fit before permanent damage is done!! And a word to the well-seasoned like me... Just do it!! Even with this discomfort I’m having now, I feel like it'll be so worth it to have a body that actually represents the work I've done to fix some of the mistakes of my youth! On May 14th 1804 a Corps of Discoverers set out on an overwhelming expedition to chart and map the newly acquired western United States of America and see if there was a singular water route from the Missouri River to the Pacific Ocean. We know this band of merry men primarily by the two main voyagers, Lewis & Clark. These men, well, actually President Thomas Jefferson and explorer Meriwether Lewis, had their plan in place and assembled a crew of able bodied men to join and assist them. Along the way Lewis and Clark got up close and personal with, the flora, fauna, geography and the Natives of the land, they talked to foreigners who had found their way to hunt and live in the land. They used a volley of interpreters to communicate with the Natives and were diligent in mapping and identifying the land they explored. My exploration of sex and Jesus will intentionally parallel their epic journey. A mapping, a searching, an asking and discovering of what’s out there. I’ll observe and immerse myself into the lay of the land. I’ll take celestial calculations, I’ll collect specimens, I’ll measure the peaks and valleys, the length of the rivers and heights of the mountains and all the miles from here, my St. Louis, to there, the Pacific Ocean. Just as many spaces and places within the territory they traveled through are still largely unpeopled, undeveloped and unexplored, my trek will, of course not be exhaustive. I have no idea what lies before me, I imagine I’ll marvel and wonder and discover things that take my breath away. I’m sure I’ll brave dangerous rapids and shiver through snow and rain and probably have to unload my boats and maybe trudge because the way was quite unexpectedly impassable. And at the end of the journey, if I don’t have any answers, at least I’ll have a better map of how sexuality relates to Christian spirituality. The journey, as all good journeys do, will start at the beginning. Lewis and Clark’s journey started years before the 1804 embarking. Jefferson and Lewis dreamed of the exploration for years as I have dreamed of and prepared for this one. Lewis invited Clark along well after the dreaming and planning was afoot. There was training and teaching and prepping and building and packing. I have planned and prepared for this journey. I’ve used the The One Year Chronological Bible in the New Living Translation, published by Tyndale as my jumping off point. I admit this is not my favorite translation of the Bible but I had a lofty idea of having the whole thing read through again in a year and its daily sections were a great motivator. This biblical translation has been generously supplemented with clarifying readings from my favorite translations; the old NIV, ESV and NKJ. I’ve sprinkled in translation clarification from studylight.org, and looked at the good King James version of the Bible itself because it has my respect even if its English is outdated. From this beginning point (the Bible in chronological order) I’ve done my best to document and note each sexual, sexualized, or intimate interaction so that they can be classified, explored and weighed against God’s biblical commands, the church’s historical and popular teachings and modern society. Like Lewis and Clark were focused on finding a water route from the Missouri to the Pacific, I’m fixed on sex and sexuality, but understand that gender, feminism, misogyny, birth and birth control and similar strands of exploration will likely surface along the way. I’m ok with that, I’m just going to see where the river and the exploration takes me. Each chapter will be separated into three sections; His, mine, and ours. MINE, of course, will be my own unique take on the sexual subject at hand, shaped and formed from the early, untreated sexual abuse I experienced, my teen and young adult sexual explorations and the culture shock I stepped into when I got “saved,” and my current notions and ideas, largely influenced by my study on the subject. I will admit up front, this section may just be a cathartic exploration, good only for me, and possibly most of the books metaphorical analogies but hey… this is a journey of discovery, so it works for me, and if anyone doesn’t want my own opinions, it’ll be easy to identify and skip over. Ours will be what “we” think, where “we” includes a presentation of thoughts, ideas and opinions of the Corps of discovers. This is where YOU come in, if you so choose! I will present topics and questions and will gladly welcome your feedback. I will also be consulting with the others I mentioned before: Natives, foreigners and fellow sojourners, or in real life: the experts in the field, those from different cultures and others who have written or spoken on the subject at hand, sex and sexuality. I will explore what “we” say and have said about sex. What is, if there is such a thing, as normal or acceptable sex. What is deviant and what is cultural? Are there common beliefs “we” all agree on? How do we react to the topics at hand. The final say on each subject will be HIS. God gets the final say. This section will be my best effort at scouring the Bible, taking the measurements, mapping the territory and doing my best to see, hear, smell, taste, touch, feel and know God’s heart on any sexual matter. I am no fool, I know it’s impossible, but I will do my best to honor God and the Word and present the God’s honest truth about sex and sexuality with as much fear, respect, integrity and honor as I can. I will also endeavor to provide global church perspectives on the sexual topic addressed in each chapter and present the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the God’s honest truth according to the Bible and generally agreed upon sexual rules within the historical and modern “church” where the church is described as the body of believers who claim to be followers of Christ and subscribe to the Apostle’s Creed, irrespective of denomination or nationality. The plan is to research, record, explore and dissect the Bible, to find out what questions arise from my personal Biblical study and to ask others what they want to know, or have always wondered about in order to to assemble a list of questions to investigate. This is the journey I’m embarking on, a great expanse of known and unknown territory filled with story, legend, folklore and preconceived notions. I am excited to begin. I have built my boat, I have packed my bags, I have assembled my crew and venture on into a great adventure! Come with me if you will! From this setting off point I'll be honest. I have NO idea what I'm doing. I've never written non-fiction like this and it's proving to be a challenge. I have so many cares, concerns and responsibilities in life that always seem to jump, push or sneak in line ahead of my writing. I ask for your patience with me as I trek along, but definitely welcome you to keep me accountable! Today a little girl was sexually molested in front of my eyes and I couldn’t stop it. I did what I do in traumatic situations and froze… stone cold still, inept, weak, worthless. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t make it go away and neither could the people hosting the {insert a Washington State government program here} informational video meeting for seconds, or was it minutes? It doesn’t matter anymore, her little face and victimization has haunted me for hours now, and yet I can’t even remember the color of her eyes, but I know her hair was brown. The only time I’ve ever wished for the dementia my grandmother has is now. Please God can I never remember this? Can I never see her again. But I can’t unsee her, like I can’t unsee the other things I’ve seen that make me want to fit and faithfully keep kids safe. I can’t make it go away, not the memory of what I saw, not her violated image now seared in my mind. It is still there playing over and over again, he is evil, pure evil and he ought to rot in hell. I am glad there is a hell and I am so angry, so violently angry with the God I serve for allowing this. Why God why? And she is still out there. And all the questions and tears and sorrow will still not save her or brutalize him the way he deserves. I did what I know to do, after breath came back, rapid heart beats exploded in my chest, I was alive even if I was ruined. Time to run, but run to where? I was not in danger, it is a little girl I do not know and cannot run to save that is in danger. Time to fight, but fight who, he held the camera below his face and though I try to remember any thing distinguishing, there is nothing but his brutality and her innocence ravaged. I immediately contacted my chain of command and reminded myself of all the good men out there. Yes, that’s what I did and have spent the afternoon doing. Finding my heroes, men that can fight and do protect and will save children. Men like Tim Ballard, founder of O.U.R (Operation Underground Railroad), Ashton Kutcher, co-founder of Thorn, Travis Norwood, foster father extraordinaire and author who has murdered evil men in story in such a satisfyingly brilliant way. I remember good men, I focus on them and pray for them and for more of them, brave, courageous men who will stand up against sexual exploitation and speak out against this evil. I must hope for and believe in good men because every time I hear of another victim, or man who has sexually abused or exploited someone I think they are all like that. I believe for a moment that all men are sexual deviants and evil. But they are not. They cannot be. There are heroes, there are protectors, there are good guys and Captain America will always be my favorite hero, because he is purely good, with no if, ands or buts about it, but I am OK with heroes having their moment of shame and awakening that fires them up to rage against the evil in the world too. I need to believe in redemption, in forgiveness, in good men and heroes and in big, strong arms where little girls can be safe. I need to believe we can find her and rescue her. I need to believe she will be saved swiftly but at least before she’s much older and used to being exploited on camera. By then she’ll be a somewhat more mature age, and her victimization may not appear so blatantly pedophilic and repulsive. By then men who might jump at the chance to beat the vile devil that molested her at the age she is in the video, would more likely get aroused watching her violation, and tell themselves she was doing it because she likes it. I hope you think of the little girl if you’re tempted to watch. I hope you’d rather protect and defend than be party to the depravity that got us here, because no one starts with kiddy porn. It starts with “You know she wanted it” and “She doesn’t matter.” But she does matter. And she must be saved, she just must! I have made my report to The National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and I will believe that Thorn or other good guys and gals will find him and rescue her and good will win in the end. This I must believe! |
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