I am on the computer today just searching and reading, looking to find some words of encouragement. I desire so much to move beyond my all too frequent desire to give up on life. I am a wife and mother, and also a survivor of childhood abuse, date rape, and now I have added to my hurt a one-time adulterous act. I beat myself up, and Satan is all too glad to join in and clobber me over and over again.
If you walked up to the temple in first century Palestine and saw a circle of men forming around a partially clothed woman, what would you do?
Would you seek to cover her shame?
Would you watch the ugly event unfold?
Would you repeat to your fellow onlooker the latest gossip you heard about that woman?
Would you pull out your phone and snap pictures to post to Facebook?
Would you go find a rock yourself?
Would you run back home, grateful it wasn’t you in that circle?
For about ten years now, Katharyn, Lori, and I have met for a girls’ weekend. Beach condos, New York City hotels, and even our homes have all played host to our once-a-year estrogen-charged escapes.
This year, we chose Kansas City for our latest installment. We arrived late Thursday night to discover our lovely suite overlooked the Country Club Plaza, yes; my expectations and excitement were brimming. The only thing I anticipated more than the shopping was the emptying of my brimming bladder; yes, it had been a long drive.
After checking in, I raced into our hotel bathroom and quickly shut the door. Well, I tried to shut the door. Something had lodged beneath it and the door was jammed. I reached down to dislodge the assumed washcloth, grasped a wad of fabric in my fist—and screamed. Katharyn and Lori rushed to the scene for a “sight” inspection. I knew for certain when Katharyn yelled, “Gross!” and Lori groaned. I held an anonymous pair of men’s underwear in my hand. We all marched from the restroom to the phone. I pressed zero and connected with the young man at the front desk.