My body could tell you stories my lips never could.

My body could tell you the story of a child. A child being touched in places she didn’t even know the names of. It could tell you the story of a brain. A brain far too small, far too simple and innocent to even begin to comprehend the enormous, complex evil in the world around her.

My body could tell you stories of a girl. A girl who was slowly starting to understand what was happening to her. My body could tell you about the guilt, shame and self-loathing that girl felt.

My body could tell you stories of a preteen who punished her body for a crime it didn’t commit, taking the role of abuser from the actual abuser. It could tell you the story of a preteen who forced herself to throw up in hopes that maybe she could rid herself of the poisonous shame deep inside her. The shame that permeated every fiber of her mind, body and soul.

My body could go on for days about this preteen. The one who wanted her body to look as fragile and broken on the outside as it felt on the inside. Because maybe if she could show everyone what happened to her, she wouldn’t have to tell them.

My body could tell you stories about a teenager. A teenager who absolutely hated herself. A teenager who was desperate to lose weight because she couldn’t bear the weight of her past. My body could tell you stories of pain. Physical pain, because that kind of pain was tangible, comprehendible, bearable. My body could tell you stories about a teenaged girl who would rather see blood running down her arms than tears down her cheeks.

My body could tell you stories of a young woman who thought she couldn’t say no to a man. Who thought she didn’t have the right, the leverage to do so. Because she was already dirty, damaged goods. My body could tell you stories of a young woman being taken advantage of in backseats and in basements. Stories of a young woman blackmailed with less than modest pictures. My body could tell you stories of a young woman who believed, with all her heart, that her precious body wasn’t worthy of respect.

But my body could tell you other stories too…

Stories about a woman rescued by the grace of God. A woman who should be dead, who shouldn’t have made it past 17. But instead was rescued, carried into safety where she found refuge in God’s love. My body could tell you stories of a woman who values herself, defends herself. A woman who treats her body like the sacred temple it is.

I can tell you that I was that little girl. I was that child, that preteen, that teenager. And now, I am that woman. That woman who was set free. That woman who was redeemed and restored. That woman who was washed clean, forgiven. I am that woman who was divinely delivered from the darkest depths of the universe to the highest mountian top, amidst the brilliant sun.

I am that woman, and I’m the keeper of that body. And I tell that body, my body, that I am sorry. That I am so, incredibly sorry. I’m sorry it was abused and even sorrier that I continued the abuse. I tell it that I’m sorry for not respecting it, for not treasuring it and treating it like the holy temple it is. I apologize to it, every day, for not loving it the way it deserves to be loved.

And I tell my body thank you. I thank it for carrying me through this life. I thank it for not fighting back when I waged war on it. I tell my body that I love it. That it is beautiful and clean and holy and worthy and flawless.

And I will continue preaching these invaluable truths to my body all the days of my life.