The other day on my website I published a story titled Not Involved, about a little boy essentially forced to watch while his mother makes his sister eat a whole bowl of malted milk balls. It's not a very pretty story, but ... there it is.
A woman sympathetic to the little boy's plight wrote to tell me this:
"That poor, poor baby. My childhood hurts don’t really compare, but what has helped me is something I started a few years ago. As I’m falling asleep, I imagine myself as a small child, and place myself in God’s arms. I can feel His strong arms holding me, I can feel the warmth of His huge chest against my cheek, hear his heartbeat. He just holds me and rocks me and loves me, in the way I wish my earthly father had but couldn’t, for whatever reason. This has been very healing for me–the feeling of being utterly loved, safe and protected by a father (by THE Father). And of course, He could just as easily be a mother holding her child, if that’s what one needs Him to be."
Now isn't that just the most beautiful thing?
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