Miracles are like seedlings, slow. Take for example an event many consider a miracle, the birth of a child. After the sperm and egg meet, it takes approximately nine months for the baby to show up. Nine months of development for the fetus, nine months of waiting for the parents. It takes nine months for a child to be born and even longer to make it happen. There’s the idea of having the baby, planning, and some people try for years before there is a successful conception. Like a seedling, a miracle often takes a long time, but you know it will eventually turn into a tree; this is called belief or faith.
Miracles, or acts of God, are like anything else. They too take planning, waiting, and persevering. For some reason, I, like many others expect miracles to happen instantaneously. Time after time I’ve hit what felt like rock bottom, and expected God or something more powerful than myself to help me find (or think of) the missing puzzle piece, only to hit rock bottom again and again. I think there’s a plausible explanation for this and it lies in scientific fact.
The Beach Boy’s “Let’s Me Go Home,” Clapton’s “Blind Faith,” Denver’s “Take Me Home Country Roads,” and countless other ballads sing about going home. These rock songs keenly capture the sense of longing through their message, while many other Gospel songs on the same topic refer entirely to death. I think anytime I feel like I am in a rut or even just having a bad day I get this sense of wanting to go back in time, to revert to a place that gives me more comfort than the the world, the environment I call my home today.
Some of the places we long for aren’t places. Some of them are times, and some of them never even existed. Will a spurned child ever have a mother who loves them? Probably not, but they still hope for one, and spend their whole lives wondering why she hated them; why they were never good enough. They will spend their whole life trying to find the gift of unconditional love; a package that never arrived. They bumble, and tumble and fail and fall until one day, if they are lucky, they might realize that the unconditional love they seek must come from within and can’t be gotten from another person. Not exactly what they wanted. It doesn’t replace the love they missed out on from their mother. No one ever gets over something like that.
Someone once told me that rapists scope out their victims and deliberately choose certain type of person; who they view as easy prey. By sizing up their victim in this way, they gain control of the situation. When I heard about this, it really upset me, and I wondered if my persona could make me the victim of this violent crime once again. Once a rapist selects their target, they stalk him/her and plot their attack. Then they ambush their victim in a variety of ways such as coercion, date rape drugs, and violence.
There is a common misconception that rapists rape for sex. This is wrong. In fact, it is noted that rapists have access to legal sex; many of them have wives or girlfriends. Rapists rape for power. Serial rapists might even do it for sport, for some type of twisted thrill, that is perhaps comparable to the jolt of excitement kleptomaniacs cite to explain their addiction to stealing. After committing a rape, the rapist does not care that they just traumatized and possibly destroyed a living and breathing being. The rapist didn’t even consider that their victim was an individual with thoughts and feelings. The rapist only cared about one thing: getting what they wanted through control and domination.