I couldn’t believe what I was doing.
I sat in court for what had to be the thirtieth time in the previous three-and-a-half years. The battle had been long, and exhausting, and the most harrowing experience of my life.
I felt defeated, and unheard, and pushed aside by a system that seemed to cater to men. A system that appeared to allow bad behavior to the point of terrorizing victims while the victims themselves had to claw and fight for their very safety.
It was unreal.
It was no different than the other times I’d been in court. Except that each time I sat there, I became more numb to it all.
I’d learned to position myself directly behind my ex. Enough rows that he couldn’t eye me without completely turning around in his seat—something I hoped that even the judge would notice. My restraining order was still in effect, though the power it actually held seemed minimal compared to what I’d gone through.
My faith was nearly shot. For the first time since I’d become a Christian, I was seriously starting to reconsider it. Wondering if God really was in it with me. If He even cared. If anyone did.
And as I sat behind my ex in court—again—watching his body language and wondering what the day would hold . . . I felt God nudging me to pray for him.
I bristled at the very thought.