I won't share this picture

But the memory still haunts me.

The memory popped up amid Epstein file disclosures. And I couldn’t look away from it. Because something deeply puzzled me. Why did no one protect little me?

I am four years old, far as I can tell. I sit on an unclothed man’s bare lap, looking down at a children’s book. Apparently, he is reading me a story.

I, too, have no clothing on. I do not know the man’s name, but he is a friend of my father’s.

I have no real look in my eyes, no shock, no horror, no lick of uncomfortableness. That’s what happens when you’re groomed to believe all is normal by people who truly don’t love you.

My father’s house swam with nude people. Often. And I was thrown into the mix, clothesless.

Not one person thought this horrific. Not one person swept me away, rescuing me from all of them. No one stood up to my father, said, “You should protect your child from this.”

They all played their sick, depraved game. They were a cabal. A mafia. An evil, cultic club whose only moral was their own self-satisfaction.

As a victim, I was collateral damage, too young to stand up for myself. What would I say? Do? I was stuck there.

I needed one brave adult to do the right thing. None did. Certainly not my father.

So when I watch hundreds (thousands?) of p*dophiles revel in their cabal, their insulated, protected sphere of debauchery, I remember that picture of little me sitting on an unclothed man’s lap.

I ache for every single victim who tried-tried-tried to bring down this evil cult, only to be gaslit, shunned, maligned, broken down, and ridiculed.

I rage at the abusers, yes, but I also rage at the sophisticated systems they created to protect themselves. Theirs is an arsenal of coercive silence, and that tact has preserved folks like that for millennia.

I didn’t experience rescue. I still bear the scars of that. But today we have an opportunity to collectively rise up, tell the heinous criminals their time of anonymity is up. And finally do the right thing.

Children (like me, like you once were, like our children, like our grandchildren) deserve protection. They deserve justice. I’m tired of having to say the obvious, but I’ll keep at it. Because I can’t bear the thought of yet another little child, sitting on a bare man’s lap, thinking that’s normal.

…

…

My heart is heavy. Does no one care?

Why do the powerful get away with this? My friend David once said, “R*pe is murder that leaves the victim alive.” And he’s not wrong.

And still? We pay far more attention to the soul killers than we do to the ones they kill.

This is wrong.

Jesus would expose. Grieve. Judge the murderers. Gather the children, heal them.

Eschatologically I know those who did such horrific deeds will get their comeuppance. But why do we settle for waiting? Our nation should simply enforce its existing laws. Do the right thing. Protect the innocent. Prosecute the guilty. Come what may.

So it topples those in power. So what. Do we really want those who harm children to be decision makers? Policy creators?

When I was a little girl, all I wanted was just one person who cared enough to rescue me. I grieve that no person came to my aid. But now that I’m older, I cannot abide a system that protects the predators and ignores the cries of their victims.

This is wrong.