Day 129 [A Letter To The Daughters]

Daughters,

I had a dream about you last night.  It was one of the most vivid and real dreams I have ever had.  I was in a city.  I don’t know what city, what country, I know nothing of the location.  But I was there.  I was one of you.  There were twenty, maybe even thirty of us.  We were sitting in a room, and a man, I’m guessing he was the brothel owner, kept coming in and getting us and taking us away.  He never took me.  But I watched you daughters go and I watched you come back.  I saw the pain and despair in your eyes.  I saw the shame permanently pressed on your souls.  In the room, you could feel the hopelessness; it made me feel sick to my stomach.

Then, the room got smaller, and I could see that outside of the room there were twenty or thirty sets of parents, looking at us like you would look in a snow globe.  Except they weren’t filled with the delight that you have when looking at a snow globe, they were horrified.  Weeping.  Crying out to us.  They wanted us back, their daughters.  They wanted us to be those innocent little girls we once were when we were with them and safe.  They never, in a million years, planned for this to happen to us.  They saw the despair in our eyes.  They saw the hurt on our bodies and on our hearts and they hurt just as much. When they saw our tears, they cried just as hard.  They kept yelling out to us, “I love you” and “I am right here.”  They told us they were still looking for us and that they haven’t given up on us.

Then, things morphed again, like dreams often do, and suddenly there was a majestic man looking down on all of us, the daughters and the parents.  When I saw him, I knew he was powerful.  I knew he was wise.  I realized He was God.  And he watched the whole scene, us and our parents, and when we cried, and our parents cried, he cried just as much.  I think he cried harder, even.  And He too spoke to us, in a gentle and loving voice, “I love you.  I am right here.  I haven’t given up on you.  I haven’t left you.” He was desperate for us to hear him.

After that, the scene changed rapidly; I would see us, and our parents, and our Creator.  & then eventually I woke up.  & when I woke up I realized I was sobbing.  & I continued to sob.

& even as I write this almost 20 hours later, I cry.  I have never been able to remember a dream so vividly.  I can still see your faces.  I can still see the faces of your parents.  And that feeling of hopelessness, the one that made my stomach sick, I still feel that too.

I have this feeling in the pit of my stomach that what I am doing means nothing.  That even if one of you were freed as an indirect result of my efforts, there would still be millions of you left.  There are 27 million of you.  Sons and Daughters that deserve freedom but instead have been enslaved.  Children that have been kidnapped, tricked, or sold.  Adults that have been told that they aren’t worthy of a different life.

Unfortunately, this is not the first time that I have felt that no matter what I do, I cannot help you.  It breaks my heart.  I want to help you. I want, so badly, to find every single one of you and help you escape.  Take you someplace safe where you can know your Father’s love for you and not have to question it at all.  Where you can be a child of the King, restored of your innocence and faith.  A place where you don’t have to face things that would even make you question your purpose or existence, let alone the horrors of what you’re experiencing now.

Most of the past 129 days have been about you.  I willingly admit, a few were about me.  But most have been about you.  I love you.  I have grown to love you so much. I have cried for you.  I have told others about you.  I have prayed for you.  Prayed that you know that this life is not what God created you for, but the consequences of someone else’s evils.  That you would know that He has not abandoned you, but He is near to you as your hearts break.  That you would not feel alone in your despair, but know that Jesus weeps for you too.  & now, I will continue.  I will continue to speak, because you are silenced.  I will continue to pray, because you might not be ready or able to.  I will continue to fight, because you are worn down.  & I will continue to hope.  Because even though I have an overwhelming hurt about you and your condition, I know that our God is bigger than the evils of this world.  He is a God of freedom, redemption, love, and comfort.  He is a God that fights for His children, and never abandons.  He is a God that gives hope.  & in that, even though the feelings of anger, sadness, and despair are real and strong, there is a hint of joy.

I Love You,

Your Sister

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