“I’ve been told I’m just a body.”
“I struggle feeling like I’m too broken for God to actually use me.”
“I think God sees me as a piece of dirt.”
“I look so ugly unless I wear makeup.”
“I never want to be raped again.”
Heartbreak, over and over again. I am sitting across Starbucks tables, carpet floors, couches, cups of tea and coffee when I hear these words. My spirit is continually rent by the twisted lies coming out of the mouths of these women, young twenty-somethings who have been repressed and depressed and caged by various turmoils.
I am small. So. Terribly. Small. What on earth am I supposed to say, when the backstories come out and I haven’t lived through half of the nightmares of half of these voices? What do you offer souls that have been busted? How can I reverse a lifetime of degradation at the hands of an abusive father,