She always remembers the park of glass…
If you sat on the park bench and looked to the right, you would have a good view of the old Catholic church. It was three blocks from the house, and she loved to sit and smell the air. It was the only green area in the neighborhood. The three stories wall to wall houses that were built block after block surrounded the park.
Sadly, the park was in serious deterioration. The neighborhoods had been part of protests and riots which caused many buildings to be burned. Therefore, the park was infested by addicts, and broken beer bottles. Pieces of glass lay all around the park benches. However, she used to love sitting there on Sunday mornings after church. It was quiet.
Her life was full of violence. It had increased exponentially since she had turned 12. The human trafficking, starvation, and beatings were making the thought of death extremely appealing. That’s why she would get up early on Sunday morning to visit the old Catholic church. She longed to see him. Oh, how she wished she could find him!
She would walk alone on the cold mornings with her heavy coat and hat expecting to find warmth and love as she entered the building. The church had big steeples and pretty benches and as she repeated the liturgy, she tried to find comfort. Many families sat around her with children her age and older. No one spoke to her. No one acknowledged she was there. As she watched the priest in the walkway greeting the parishioners, she would sneak behind him not wanting to be seen.
After crossing the street she would sit on the bench, waiting for reassurance. People crossed the park hurriedly on their way to afternoon brunch, but she was not in a hurry. No one would miss her. No one cared.
Her brokenness and the weariness of living would increase her sorrow and lead to dysregulation. She was not able to bear the pain, but she would not cry. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her dismantle. She was always surprised by the time she spent on the cold bench watching the families walk by. Amid her despair, she felt safe.
He never said a word. He just held her and kept her safe while she played with the broken glass under her feet. Nobody would believe her if she ever acknowledged him. However, she knew he was there. The angel. The messenger the Lord sent to keep her safe, Hebrews 1:14. As he ministered and comforted her broken heart, she would find the strength to leave the bench and walk the three blocks home. Always knowing what awaited her but having hope, for he was always there.
Addendum: The Park of Glass… She had not seen it in more than 40 years.
Walking with Trauma 