(Found in RAR, Second Edition):

In Ojibway Indian stories, we are told that the Creator held council with all creatures to announce the imminent creation of humans. The Creator said that humans would be unique among all living things because humans would possess imagination, which would equip us either to build or destroy; pray or prey. The animal beings discussed the importance of hiding the secret Truth of Life so that humans would not discover it prematurely and abuse it. But no idea seemed workable: whether the Truth of Life was hidden in the depths of the oceans, the edges of the prairies, or even on the moon itself, human imagination would devise a way to travel there and seize the secret treasure. It seemed there was no way to prevent humans from imagining new ways to fail, to be cruel, or to miss out on life's truths.

I never intended to grow up and do this work; the work chose me. But here I am, and I love what I do. I love the people I help. You are not "patients and cases" to me, and you are not products and treatment plans. I love each of you. I love because more than anything, you each need and deserve to be loved, and you are so eager to do good and to be kind to others who are hurt.

Hundreds of times, women have told me the worst stories of their pain and trauma, their heads bowed before me in shame. When they have the courage to look up, they don't see the disgust in me that they expect: I can't help but look back at them in love and respect. It's not pity, and it's not superficial platitudes; it's that I truly feel a genuine sense of reverence. I, too, know what it's like to feel inadequate and to doubt myself, to fail, to falter, to err, and I haven't forgotten when I've felt that way. If there is any detail of a rape you can imagine, no matter how grisly, how explicit, or how vile, I have heard it shared with me out loud. Women who have felt completely valueless have turned over everything in their stories to me, every secret, in trust. They have trusted me not to shame them. Trusted me to know what to do next after they finally pour out their hidden pain. This is a deeply personal and intensely spiritual act; it's not merely an academic exercise in therapy. It's not something a book can teach you. It's not something you receive like a social work diploma. It's something you have to feel or you can't understand it.

I can't help but bond with some of the very special ones. There are very strict ethics to guide this bond so that people aren't hurt by any misunderstood affections or messages, but there is also no way around that bond. Frankly, without that bond the recovery wouldn't happen. Rape isn't something you can recover from by bouncing ideas off a stoic, detached "expert" in a seat across a room. It's a crime that impacts your soul--your very sense of connection to others--and reconnecting your spirit through an act of trust is more than merely possible, it's essential.

This is not work in which I imagine myself a rescuer or hero; this is not work where narcissism guides. I do not see myself as having a higher life and stooping to assist others to elevate to it. My faith tradition teaches me that we encounter God in the stranger, and by keeping that in mind I see resurrection every day. This is not about seeking God down the end of some tunnel, but about realizing that life is the process of God seeking us, and for our lack of attention we miss a million forms of wonder every day. But we also manage to notice a few:
I think of Cassie, the young woman who joined my group feeling invisible and small, but who showed the much-older adults a new way to be strong. Cassie's intelligence and wisdom seeped through her disguises, and I watched that tiny slip of a girl transform into a proud, confident woman, head held high, with "SURVIVOR" proudly tattooed after her transformation.

I think of the young patient of mine who overdosed right in front of me, stumbling to her seat as I tried to appear calm while scrambling for medical care. I remember holding her hand and ordering her to look me in the eye as she faded from consciousness, while medics scurried about fastening tubes and machines. I remember sitting with her in ICU, holding a hand with tape and IV tubes wrapped around it, reading to her and holding her hair as she threw up. This was the one I nearly lost. But I remember her surviving and thanking me for not leaving her, and pledging that she would beat her trauma. And for the next month, she toiled and cried and struggled until she succeeded.

And I also think of sadder moments. I think of the young, bright girl who I respected with immeasurable worth, but whose anger, disillusionment and hurt against my own human fallibility caused her to dissolve her work with me. She slipped away, back into the distant world, unconvinced--or perhaps fearful--of my care.

Or the time a teen-age girl was assigned to my caseload, who did not speak a word of English. In fact, we never did discover what language she did speak. With no way to communicate, and with her dread terror at being in a mental health facility in a foreign country, what was I supposed to do? There was nothing I could do, but abandon all the usual academic training about therapy and simply try to express with eye contact, "you are safe. I will not hurt you. I understand how scared you are."

Or the very gifted and brilliant woman who made powerful gains in her recovery, becoming happy and proud and comfortable againâeven speaking with me at conferences packed with therapists who left in tears of joy at hearing her story. And I remember her calling me, months later, at 4:00 AM to tell me that a stranger had just broken into her home and assaulted her again. She had just finished talking to police, and was about to break down. We cried together until dawn.

Itâs times like that that we put aside social work textbooks and just become humans in connection with other humans.

Some of the most priceless treasures I have are the cards and lettersâsome up to four pages longâfinally telling me what it meant for someone to open up and trust me, give themselves over to hope, and not be pitied or treated as "broken" by me in return. Those of you who have amazing partners, allies, or therapists, please do not neglect this part of the relationship; s/he needs to hear your thanks more than you know. It's something beyond a handshake; it's the time you take to sit down, think about that connection, and deliberately express what it means to you. This isn't an act of politeness; it's a ceremony, a cleansing, to devote your time back to reflecting on what that connection means. You need it, and so do we who try to help you. It is our oxygen.

If I feel weary here at times, this is why. In survivors, I see right before my eyes the most awesome, invigorated, worthy, lovable, respectable, and clean people I have ever found. Sometimes you will see others who take your tribe for granted; they drink and cut and kill themselves out of the very tribe that they are meant to be in. Can you see why this is painful for me? You have the right to inclusion in this circle, this interconnected web of powerful peopleâpowerful womenâand yet some of you hang your heads down and feel ashamed of who you are. Don't disregard your status as a survivor. Holocaust survivor Elie Weisel once wrote, "Just as despair can come to one only from other human beings, hope, too, can be given to one only by other human beings."

Rape work is not a curriculum; it is a spiritual and deeply personal process of bonding, sharing pain, and rediscovering personal strength. We are all in constant resurrection through this work, me included. Do you see why this interconnection is so vital? Do you see why it's something that transcends academic therapy techniques, sitting and talking in a circle, spilling your guts to a stranger, filling out worksheets, and reading books? It's not something a workbook, seminar, college course, or documentary could show you; you have to experience it and make it part of your being to truly get it. It's something that even scares those therapists who have never approached this work or seen this community. Victoria wrote to me, "We, all of us (including you), share strong common traits. We have all been injured, we have all stared down the pain, and we have all chosen to come out into the light. We are all brave and strong. We all believe in each other's worth. We all love each other. These are the binds that tie us together. These are the things that make us a tribe."

Do you see why it hurts when this living tribe of survivors has among its members women who are ashamed to even be part of this? Can you be proud of who you are as women surviving rape? Can you proudly belong to what so many others are ashamed to be part of? That pride just might mean holding your head high, opening your mouth, and declaring, "I am a survivor, and this is my story. I am not ashamed of my story, for it proves me worthy of the strength I carry."

This work has brought me into the lives of many women and men who have felt they had nothing good left inside to give, and yet you have all taught me something: a new way to love. This, to me, is real spirituality: finding and loving God not as a spirit in the sky who craves hymns, candles, and memorized liturgy, but as a Creator that reaches to and connects us through our encounters with the bruised and brokenhearted. If you have no eagle feathers to give as signs of honor to wounded warriors, can you give hugs and make deliberate choices to let your mentors, inspirations, and life-allies know how much they mean? Every person in this community needs that.

When the Creator and the council of living creatures were trying to solve the riddle of protecting the Truth of Life, it was the hawk who struck upon the solution and found the one hiding place where humans would never look until we were ready to find the secret:

"Hide the Truth of Life inside them."

Do something.
Hope.
Live.