The dragon and the human child

It is your choice to believe.

The dragon might have always been a dragon and the story might have been the simple gift of a child.

Or…perhaps the dragon was once a woman who was robbed of her human form by the usual wizardly enchantment. Had she been foolish or proud? Had she refused the wrong man’s hand?

The dragon is not saying. She has wrapped herself in a mantle of smoke. She is thinking about what is to be done with the lovely small thing wrapped in a soft blanket, somehow sleeping next to the warm heft of her serpentine splendor.

Surely no child should be raised by a dragon…
She thinks
And yet how could she bear to lose him?
How could she ever bear to live away from this bundle of light?

Epilogue

justcould have been a much longer book full of the things you find in successful memoirs–descriptions of meals and vacations and conversations in transit. It stops abruptly (except for the necessary introduction) two years ago at the end of 2009.

I did not put the rest of the story in because it was worse, yes, worse.

Our families, church, and many colleagues did not handle our story well. Our children were isolated and lonely. Out of everyone we knew, one couple confronted Charles about what he had done. Most people sent him cards and money. Some said unspeakable things.

Many long acquaintances just withdrew. Some old friends disappeared.

There was something good and valuable that happened.
Dozens of abuse survivors and rape victims shared their stories. We may have winnowed out family and friends, but we are deeply grateful for those who have listened, shared, and grieved with us.

And we now know that the only uncommon thing about our story is our willingness to speak out. Most families hide the story and ignore the damage.

It is time for that to change.
It is long past time.

Every family, church or community that turns a blind eye to an identified predator is responsible for the victims

All the innocent victims.

Imagine an ordinary dragon

Had a human child
She would hide herself
With clever disguises
A colorful kerchief
Or floral apron

She would
Measure her breathing
Careful always
To hide the wisps
Of steam and smoke
Rising from her armored chest

But you would know
You could tell
The little things
She could not hide

Her bloodshot eyeballs
And cerulean scales
The wrinkles of a thousand years of waiting
For the child she held
So dear

Who is

The man
Too thin to be real
Standing on the beach
With the sky behind him?
Endless sky
Endless sky
Mirrored in a shallow sea
To have time in your hands
And eternity in your eyes
With the sky behind you?
Standing on the beach
Too thin to be real
man

The stages of grief

I stay up too late. I am looking for meaning. I feel like an old woman rummaging through her things, longing for the people attached to them–
Tom’s chair
Ruby’s dress

The people I want back are mostly living. I want them to be braver or more honorable, kinder or stronger.

But they are not. So I rummage

For meaning
For hope
For the person I once was
This is my nightly vigil
My grief.

Unchurch

Last Sunday night I went to church. Nice church. Comfortable. Friendly. Relaxed atmosphere. Even stayed in the sanctuary for half the sermon. The rest of the time I hung out with the under 5 set in a very nice foyer. It was my best church experience in a long time.
A nice man said they had childcare. There was a moment when I thought about spilling my story.
I don’t leave my kids much because….
Because…
Well, once you realize you trusted a wolf in sheep’s clothing you realize you are a bad detector of sheep costumes

Everyone is except the other wolves.