She looked out of place standing alone among the men in their suits or black leather jackets. Everyone was introducing themselves and shaking hands. There were a few other women but they had come with someone. This woman was elderly, alone and looked a little bit lost. She timidly asked the woman tending the sign-in table if this was the correct meeting. Yes, it was, she was in the right place. Yet, her eyes were wide with a kind of innocent fear. Her clothes were mismatched; blue sweat pants, black flats and several sweaters layered over one another. Her red-colored hair frayed about her head in all directions. I was curious about her. Why was she here? How did she feel? We were all waiting for the facilitator of the meeting to arrive. We milled about the lobby exchanging small talk and making introductions. But the little red-haired woman seemed to know no one. When the facilitator arrived he began saying his formal hellos and shaking hands as he made his way across the room. I stood in the back observing. He was larger than life, dynamic and almost always with an entourage of people wanting to speak to him or ask him a question. He wore a steel gray suit and had the air of someone used to being in public, used to the naked eye of world upon him. I expected him to ignore the little old woman, to pass by the unimportant on his way to the podium, the soap box upon which he would occupy. But he did not pass her by. He turned when he saw her and strode across the room to shake her hand. The scene in front of me was unlike any I had previously witnessed. There he was, his six foot frame bent to meet the old woman at eye level. He rested a sturdy hand upon her shoulder.

“Is that an angel pin on your sweater?” he asked.

“Why yes it is,” she said proudly.

“I like it.” He was sincere.

The room was still buzzing with chatter, but for me, the big man in the gray suit and the little old lady were the only two people in the room.

“I think your angel is upside down. Can I fix it for you?” he queried.

“Of course.” She smiled at him and puffed her chest out a bit so he could adjust the tiny silver angel into its upright position. I watched him carefully turn the angel’s wings and once it was righted he  patted her shoulder tenderly.

“There,” he said still bent eagerly toward her. “Much better. I am so glad you could make it tonight.”

He walked away from the little woman with nary a thought of his actions. I realized suddenly that I was weeping when a tear rolled off my face and onto my folded arm.  There was nothing that man could say or do that would have impressed itself into my being greater than what he had already done. I found me a seat and listened to the two hour presentation. His booming voice and energetic words were stimulating and the meeting was productive. But the lesson he taught me with his actions, in those few moments when no one was looking, was a gift greater by far than any word coming out his mouth, or any idea imparted from the intelligence of his mind. It was a small thing made large by the gentle recognition of one human soul to another.

I saw love when I entered the funeral home. It was arrayed in red roses and ferns, it was dressed up in a mini tuxedo. I saw love when it packed the pews and spilled out into the lobby. I saw love in the beautiful music coming from the grand piano and the voices over the microphone. I saw love in the arms that wrapped around the grieving mother and in the hands that patted the child’s father on the shoulder. There was love in the hushed tones that expressed condolences and in the tender glances of care. Love drove miles and stopped in a cemetery; a great field of many bones. There it gathered into hundreds of individual faces looking at the deep hole that would hold the tiny box for eternity. Love stood silent with the wind blowing skirts and tousling hair. Love carried the little white coffin to its final resting place. Love said good-bye. Love let the little boy go to his home in heaven on his mother’s tears. Love lives while all else dies.

I was abused as a child: physically, sexually, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. I knew even as a child that some of the things happening to me and my siblings were wrong. What I didn’t know was how to draw a line between corporal punishment and abuse. As an adult I came to understand the scope of the abuse, the trauma and scarring that resulted from repeated beating, belittling, humiliation, starvation and neglect. These are the more common aspects of abuse but what is often overlooked and is one of the most desperately painful types of abuse is witnessing the abuse of another and feeling helpless to prevent or stop it. Being forced to witness abuse has haunted my life in ways that no other experience has or could. There is also the abuse against the self. I perpetrated acts of violence against myself including induced loss of consciousness, self mutilation and violent or suicidal fantasies. But what stands above them all were the many acts of self betrayal. I did not defend or protect myself from my abuser and in many cases participated by submission and obedience to my own abuse. Paralyzed by fear I accepted the contempt, hatred and scorn as my lot in life. I succumbed to the self loathing and inner judgement that proclaimed me a curse on the earth. I fell prey to the utter dehumanization and deprivation of my soul. I had withered, suffocated and was dying on the inside. Time alone could not heal these wounds. Only when I began to forgive myself for these acts of self betrayal and sins of omission did my heart begin to mend. Ultimately it is not what others do to us that has the greatest destructive power but what we do to ourselves. When I stopped abusing myself, I would not, could not allow others to abuse me.