The last article I posted was heartbreaking–this blog post gives more information and is unbearable.
No one should treat another human being with that kind of savage cruelty.
All we have to look for a–a red truck with a paint splotch.
So start looking. This little girl deserves justice. The children who found her will need help to carry this terrible memory.
And none of us are safe.
Wait a second, we all remember what we are talking about, right?!
I mean so close on the heels of Kermit Gosnell’s house of horrors…we are all clear, right? We are advocating for or against a process wherein a living baby is forced out of her mother’s uterus in cut up pieces to be reassembled like a bloody puzzle…
I mean, with all the well-heeled ladies thumping their augmented chests over women’s rights and all…
It started to sound like y’all have forgotten that half of the human beings who go into abortion mills come out in bloodied pieces.
The report gives little information–a young woman, Brookelyn Farthing, has not been seen since a fire in the house where she was staying.
As with so many of these stories the answers are out there somewhere with someone’s little girl.
But she was 18! You will say–hardly a little girl?
Our beloved daughters are always
Our little girls.
Help find Brookelyn.
Let me say this straight off–I am a disenfranchised Texan. This happened several years ago at the end of a long and fruitless battle to keep children safe from identified sex offenders.
But last night helped.
I applaud every elected official who stood up for children’s rights in Texas last night.
Funny how the national press has focused on Senator Davis’ shoes. I focus on Ernest Hemingway’s. I have always loved the story of the six-word short story, not so much because it had to be Papa who told it, but because my heart has been broken more than once by the shoes never worn by babies–babies I lost to miscarriages or adoptions. I miss the children who should have worn the shoes.
Over 84 thousand babies lost their lives last year in Texas. Too many empty pink sneakers.
If you think that is a tragedy there is something you can do–
Trace the outline of a pair of baby shoes on a piece of paper and send it to Ms. Davis.
A six-word story is amazing. A picture is worth a thousand words. But the world entire is in the eyes of a child.
Speak for those who have been silenced.
From the beginning her name was spelled wrong–Charish, Peri- and Perri all were thrown into the horrifying chronology of a little girl taken and murdered.
I first saw “Charish Periwinkle” and have not changed it on my original post. I have not edited that post for several reasons–it reflects the tumult of hours in which there was a report, an Amber alert, a traffic stop, an arrest, a missing child, and then a confirmed tragedy.
If you go back a bit you might say the tragedy started May 31, the day Donald Smith was released from jail–seemingly without restrictions. Or more than a year before, when a court of law sentenced him very lightly for yet another egregious felony after over 30 years of dangerous aggressions toward young children.
The story says nothing about how the state or the country expected this predatory man to avoid his dark actions.
No one but his neighbors and his victims really cared about that.
And yet now we know what should have been addressed before–he was always capable of monstrous harm.
And now we have just a name–Cherish means to greatly love, prize, or esteem and yet she was not cherished by the man who treated her like a cast-off rag doll.
And I still maintain–if we cherish our children we will do something to ensure that every child is safe–at a dollar store, a Walmart, a McDonalds–each symbols of our drive-by, fast-food culture.
Now symbols of everything that can go wrong in the life of a dear little girl named after love and flowers.
In the months before I lost Veronica I refrained from listening to ordinary love songs. I remember those months too well–waiting in hope and fear.
I had so much faith. I knew–knew He would bring her back. It has been 14 years. 3 to go…
I have felt that fear so many times since–the fear of loss and grief and love.
Perfect love casts out all fear.
Imperfect love clings to the scarred feet of Perfect Love, praying for flat out miracles.
When I think of the brutal tragedy at the heart of this Cleveland story I think of several other stories of law enforcement failing miserably to do their job.
In the Castro story neighbors claim they called the police. They said they reported strange situations at the house. The Cleveland police say they don’t remember those calls.
Okay. But was there anything about this Castro fellow that should have have raised alarms? Did he say, do, or not pay anything that would have warranted the intervention of the public trust?
Were these women the victims of police indifference as much as their monstrous captors? And if it can happen to them, if they were not saved by entities paid to ensure their safety, how safe are you?
I remember people exclaiming that I had lost weight. When I told them why I had lost weight they would look stricken. It was a striking story.
But the truth was worse than I ever could explain.
I could get past the discomfort of being punched, kicked, and bitten by my adopted daughter. I could mitigate her curses..and her violent imaginary friend.
I could push through the shock and discomfort others felt when I told them our children had been abused by her brother, my adopted son.
I could live beneath the heavy weight of the years my children spent in the company of a child abuser.
But I could never adequately describe the devastation created by our own family and others we had known for years.
Family was the worst. They made excuses. Coddled the perps, lashed out at young, very young victims.
Some were dismissive. Some skeptical. Some cruel.
Even after years and deliberate distance, their reactions still shock me.
I can still describe the diet.
It is simple:
Eat sorrow where once there was bread
Eat loss where there used to be community
Eat anger in the place where the family should stand
In a circle around their littlest victim
Dogs for children.
Dogs. For. Children. Indeed.
Dear Sir,
You are my dad’s age. He died after a helicopter crash a few years ago. Actually, around the time little Ethan was born. And pretty close to Newton–he died in Dothan.
You need to know that God has an answer to what is troubling you. A peaceful answer.
I am praying for both of you.
Please, Sir, let this little boy get home safe. His mama needs him back safe.
When I pray for you I see my dad. You traveled in a truck. He traveled in a helicopter. He flew over Dale County all the time.
Both you and Ethan are scared little ones to God. He loves you. And you are both precious to God. You are both in my prayers.
Please sir, move this mountain so Ethan can hug his mama soon.
Please.
So the Super Bowl is a magnet for sexual slavery and child abuse. What can you do about it?
1. Pray. God honors our prayers.
2. Contact the NFL. Tell them you are going to skip the commercials.
3. Contact the sponsors Let them know that you plan to watch the game but boycott their increasingly violent, sexualized ads.
4. Tell your friends. I did not even realize this was an issue until a friend posted it on a social media site.
5. Contact the teams directly. Tell them you are concerned about forced sexual slavery in New Orleans surrounding the Superbowl.
6. Contact the NOPD Ask what they plan to do to fight sex trafficking during this event.
With the exception of prayer (free and universal), most of this personal activism can be made through online email forms or social media.
Just imagine what it would look like if we all raised our concerns on Facebook or Twitter to say let’s stop the abuse of children and the vulnerable this year at the Super Bowl.
There is an awful lot of money at stake. But one child saved is worth every penny.
And please….spread the word.
Carrying Light 