I'm Listening

I thought it would be a fun idea to surprise my husband with tickets to a play at a local college. How about a fun romantic Valentine's dinner out and then a play? The play was The Vagina Monologs. It was the best play and the most unique play that I've ever seen. Unusual doesn't begin to describe it. Romantic? No! Inspiring and challenging? Yes!

We sat right in the front, the curtains opened and there were approximately 15 women on the stage. They were dressed in black and sat in a semi-circle. The first woman began to speak, she told a story about losing her virginity. The next woman told a story that was quiet funny and then the next shared about being raped. I caught on quickly that each story was to be told was from the perspective of their you know whats. Every other woman that spoke either shared something sad or funny. I was either laughing or crying with each story the women told. After the play, I was an emotional wreck.

As we were leaving the auditorium, we were guided to an area of artwork. The work had been done by children that had either been raped or abused as a form of art therapy. More crying for me, my poor husband—what a trooper. He never batted an eye, if he was embarrassed or bothered by the play or the artwork he never let on. As for me? I could barely function. And there was my husband, trying to comfort me as I was crying and thinking to myself what can I do to help?

I decided right then that I would volunteer to help out at the rape crisis center in my city. I trained for 18 weeks and coupled with previous counseling experience and a degree in psychology I began answering the hotline 3 days a week for the next 3 years.

Did I enjoy it? No. It was heart-wrenching at best. My job was to direct them towards immediate protection, health resources, legal advocates, and provide them a listening ear. And then I would pray. I didn't know what else to do. But I knew I had to listen, I had to be there for them. However, one of the hardest stories told to me was one that didn't come via the hotline. I received a call one day and although it was tough for this woman to share, she told me of how she was raped at 12 years old by a man that she knew at her church. He offered a ride home after church one day and raped her. He told her that if she ever told anyone, no one would believe her. She never told a soul until the day she told me. 12 years old. Unimaginable.

I worked for the crisis center as long as I could. There came a time when it began to affect the way I viewed society as a whole. I don't believe that mankind is essentially good, not after receiving close to 3,000 calls, and hearing what I heard—no way.  I believe that man is a sinner. And I believe that only God can save him.

In my own selfish way, I am thankful that I have never experienced what these women have gone through, I've never been raped or sexually abused. I am grateful beyond words. However, I do not have to experience something to feel something. I still wanted to help. And the only thing available to me was my ability to listen and to pray.

I still pray for the people I talked to on the phone. The mother whose 6-year-old daughter was raped by her neighbor, the mother whose 19-year-old son was raped at his college, the young girl who was raped by her grandfather first, and then her father and brothers. I will never ever forget the stories of these survivors. They are not victims, they survived and I am praying for them. Even now.