Please Lord, help me get one.
I woke at 5a this morning, ready to rise and shine. I’m staying with my bff in Madison, Virginia, near the base of the Shenandoahs. The house is quiet at this hour. I tip-toe out the room and start the coffee. I tip-toe out the front door with Justice. Good morning, world.
The sky is still dark but alive with singing. Crickets, cicadas, frogs? I wish I knew the source of my serenade. I stand on the front porch and close my eyes. The singing fills the air and wraps around me, amplified. I feel it penetrate my tired bones and rouse me gently. I take a deep breath in, hold… and let it out again.
I tip-toe back inside and pour my coffee. I settle myself at the kitchen table with my journal. The TV is still playing in the window room beside me, and I recognize the scenes of Hacksaw Ridge. The battle is just beginning. I know what happens. It’s brutal. It’s ugly. And in the face of defeat, the conscientious objector calls upon an unseen force, “What do you want me to do?” and “Please Lord, help me get one more.”
I see the faces of women, their bodies strung out on the battlefield. Wounded. Alone in their suffering. My heart cries softly, “What do you want me to do?” and “Please Lord, help me get to one.”
I had no idea when I went on walkabout that my journey would produce a book. I had no idea when I began my book that my journey would produce a movement. But as healing comes, healing gives. The more I speak with women, the greater my resolve to hear more deeply, to help dress the wounds, and to facilitate a move to safety, where radical healing can take place.
Are you the one?
As the morning rises, the night songs give way to the day. Birds call. The pattering of rain drops on leafy green. The porch swing sways. The dew hangs on the air. I tip-toe barefoot in the grass and welcome what is to come. My inbox is open and ready to receive you.