God's Huntress

Thank you for doing this work while there is still time for the children to inherit something different.

I know it costs you. There are people who would welcome your silence back with open arms. You could have their approval by evening if you would only say you had exaggerated, misunderstood, forgiven and forgotten.

Thank you for letting them be angry.

For naming incest when the family had spent generations finding other things to call it. For refusing to let another child carry the shame that belonged to an adult. For taking your love of God into the very room where everyone wanted the lights left off.

I think about what it takes to become a grandmother and begin this work. To look back across your life without looking away. To grieve what happened, admit what you missed, and still have the courage to change what happens next.

There is no applause for much of it. There is the phone call you have to make. The gathering you cannot attend.

Thank you for getting up the next morning and keeping your word.

Your grandchildren may never know the full cost of the ease they feel around you. They may tell you something frightening and expect to be believed. They may grow so accustomed to being protected that they think it is ordinary.

May God grant them that ordinary life.

And may He sustain you through the work still being done: the truth spoken, the hurled lies…the thankless, terror-filled nights. All these acts of faith made with your own tired hands.

You are changing what this family asks its children to survive.

Thank you.

B🤍

To My Mom, 

Thank you for doing this work while there is still time for the children to inherit something different.

I know it costs you. There are people who would welcome your silence back with open arms. You could have their approval by evening if you would only say you had exaggerated, misunderstood, forgiven and forgotten.

Thank you for letting them be angry.

For naming incest when the family had spent generations finding other things to call it. For refusing to let another child carry the shame that belonged to an adult. For taking your love of God into the very room where everyone wanted the lights left off.

I think about what it takes to become a grandmother and begin this work. To look back across your life without looking away. To grieve what happened, admit what you missed, and still have the courage to change what happens next.

There is no applause for much of it. There is the phone call you have to make. The gathering you cannot attend.

Thank you for getting up the next morning and keeping your word.

Your grandchildren may never know the full cost of the ease they feel around you. They may tell you something frightening and expect to be believed. They may grow so accustomed to being protected that they think it is ordinary.

May God grant them that ordinary life.

And may He sustain you through the work still being done: the truth spoken, the hurled lies…the thankless, terror-filled nights. All these acts of faith made with your own tired hands.

You are changing what this family asks its children to survive.

Thank you.

B🤍