I hate talking on the phone.
I really hate it.

Not the people I talk to, though.
I like them.

But talking on the phone, listening really, wears me out.

Yesterday, I spent almost five hours on the phone.
Mostly listening.
Listening to wounded spirits...

And I'm not over it, yet.

It takes me much prayer to let go of the anger and tears and bruised heart during, and after, the calls.

The first two hours were spent talking, and listening, to a woman who despises her mother and doesn't know her father. She has three children, all out of wedlock, and from three different fathers. She was recently in a severe car wreck and has some serious medical problems from her brain injury. She's loud. She's been in jail for shooting someone. She uses language that would shock you. She's part of the biker crowd- the "real" bikers. Not those like my husband and son who ride for fun...

Don't threaten her, she'll call your bluff.
Don't swing at her, she'll lay you flat out.

As a child, she was pretty much on her own.

She was raped at 14.
Left home at 15.

Looked down upon by the religious.

But somewhere in her heart, she knows that God loves her.
She has a moral code that she sticks by but it's different from the average person's.

Her loyalty knows no bounds.

And when you talk to her, you can hear the wounded child inside.

But you have to listen closely....