The couch was uncomfortable that night and I squirmed at her words. Intimate walls closed in, leaving no space for the superficial. Her story sat heavy, making it hard to breathe. By looking at this brave woman, I would’ve never imagined that wounded lived inside.
She was a Jericho Girl. Yes, Jericho Girls is what we call ourselves—warrior women who gather to listen, encourage and inspire. Together we release fear, hurt, shame and regret into an ocean of safety, allowing the tides of forgiveness to carry them out of our lives.
Standing in shallow waters. Safer than swimming in the deep. Yet that night, she decided to swim. She told her story, hesitating for a split second as a fear of rejection washed over her. She floundered, but continued into the deep—too far from shore to return. “When I was a little girl, my mother gave me to men in trade for drugs.” She swallowed hard, “That’s why I don’t believe in God. How could He let that happen to me?”
A rising tide filled my eyes and my heart sank into sorrow. Suddenly, I wavered in my own faith. How could you let this happen, God? Why didn’t you rescue her?
Yet doesn’t faith have little meaning without some doubt?
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