I am a strong woman. Pride is an issue, sure, but still, I am strong. Not physically, but emotionally and rationally. I can absorb a fairly high amount of hurt. But this week, I couldn’t even bring myself to watch the video. I was shocked at the anger and sheer pain that bubbled up from deep within my soul. Because I have uttered these exact words #icantbreathe at the hands of someone who hated me.

I know that cry. I know what it feels like when #icantbreathe. I felt the knee in my back and the backhanded slaps on my head. I have felt the hands that were created to care, surround my neck and #icantbreathe. And I was shocked how quickly this story fell heavy on my soul with the simple cry of one man, created in the image of God, speaking the cry of millions of abused at the hands of those with darkened hearts and twisted minds.

Early this morning, while the roosters crowed and Ranger, the chicken dog, clucked looking for her fellow dog-buddies, my dear man and I broke words and tried to solve the worlds problems in this quiet space and time. And in an instant, the tears came. I couldn’t even talk about it; I couldn’t say his name. The pain was too great. The sorrow too real. The life too evanescent, too gone.

Time and space unraveled and #icantbreathe.

I gather my wits, my thoughts, my work, and head into the office. And ugly cry most of the way there. Ugly cry to the point where #icantbreathe.

Through the sobs, my mind listed the reason these tears fell. Honestly, for most, only God knows why. But some, I knew. The hurt, yes. The injustice, absolutely. The wasted time, deeply. The ignorance, certainly. The reminder of that abuse and the consequences, more than I can count yes.

I never thought that PTSD was a thing I’d experience. I never thought my trauma would react to a news story. I never thought that three simple words would resonate so deeply and undo my whole being. #icantbreate.

But the one who is Breath knew. He knew before I understood the depths of how this man’s life affected mine. And how I grieve his loss though I never met him. His killer was my abuser. Not the same person, but the same demon. That god that thinks they are “law enforcers and not law abiders”. That think people, those nameless and faceless chattels, are meant to serve them, obey them.

Before my dear man gets his coffee, I open the Bread of Life and chew on a few morsels. All week, I have read the letter Paul sent to the Ephesians. They were a diverse bunch. There were gentiles, foreigners, strangers, Jews, and this new sect – Christians. And Paul spoke mysteriously plain to them.

He told the gentiles, the foreigners, the strangers, the Jews that because of Christ, who is their peace, these factions, these hated groups, these racially diverse differences were united. That this Christ reconciled the varied groups into one body.

The wall of hostility torn down.

And a man is dead, a woman wounded, a nation divided. No answers are adequate. Why should the abuser live to abuse again or, worse yet, find peace? Why should the cop be allowed to live and spread his hatred or, worse yet, find forgiveness? Why should a nation rage and burn down or, worse yet, listen to the warnings and be healed?

I suppose because of this Christ I profess. If Christ can redeem sinners, He can redeem my abuser. Some days, #icantbreathe understanding this. But it isn’t me that will answer for my abuse. It is his to answer. Ever and always and only his. I have walked in forgiveness for twenty-five years. And I will walk a bit more today. Rough road. But trauma doesn’t know time. Only the space I need to grow. Or remain hateful.

That rage is real particularly for a fiery redhead. The passion of protests is fueled from unanswered injustice. And I scream at the God who moved time and space to save. And I destroy property, the right and trust from this God who gives good gifts. And I set fire to pictures and memories. Only the smoke of what was remains lingers long after my anger subsides.

I called my dear man before I left the office. He snapped at me. Oh, that temper started to swell and I hung up the phone. When I got home, he held me tight. He kissed me long. He repented of his shortness and reminded me how he holds a deep and sincere love for me. And I melted in his safe, gentle arms. He’s never harmed me, never raised a hand in anger, never forced himself on me, never caused me to say #icantbreathe. For some reason, I am still amazed that a man can be gentle and good with me.

For twenty years, he’s been my safe place.

I want to cry with this dead man’s mom, his family, his friends. I know his cry; it resonates in my soul. I understand abuse and injustice. I want to scream with them because of these men who treat people as chattel, who have no respect for those who are different for reasons only their darkened hearts believe.

I want to bring my only gift I can – a safe place. To cry, to scream, to release. But I can only do so much. So, I struggle again with forgiveness. It’s wrestling match I sometimes lose. I struggle with trauma. Sometimes, it overwhelms me. My broken heart can only lift a hurting family to this God of love, of breath, of HESED. I will be a safe place because of this God who knows pain and injustice and will not let the guilty go unpunished. Because this God who took on flesh came to save the oppressed, the broken-hearted, the poor, the sinner, me.

And you.

Christ’s love is overpowering yet brings strength to the weak.

Christ’s love brings justice yet is forgiveness for those that repent.

Christ’s love brings reconciliation yet offends those who refuse.

Christ’s love brings conviction yet grace all the more.

Christ’s love is suffocating yet brings breath so #icanbreathe.