I told two people. Right after it happened. My mind and emotions were shell-shocked, still unprepared for what happened:
My foot stepped off the curb onto the street, and my eyes happened to glance into his car. It was in plain view, exposed, emboldened.
Was I seeing what I thought I was seeing?
I looked up at his face. He was smiling. His eyes locked into mine.
I stumbled through the crosswalk. He had done it on purpose. He wanted someone to see him. It happened to be me, but it could have been anyone.
Still, it was me.
I stepped into Portos, dazed. I blurted it out to the woman standing in line in front of me. Some man just exposed himself to me. She gasped.
I told my lunch date, too, when she arrived.
I had forgotten about the incident until the Harvey Weinstein story broke and I read the accounts of dozens of women. The memory flooded my emotions like a thunderstorm, and I immediately felt unsafe and wept. I wept for them. I wept for me.
I prayed that God would remove the internal residue from the event—residue I didn’t even realize was there.
I am hesitant to share this story, partly because it’s not as severe as rape or physical assault, and partly because I’m not writing to procure sympathy. I share it because I want us to realize that there are millions of women in this country and around the globe who are battling residue from sexual assault and rape. Some of them realize it; others don’t.
@@Today—right now—won’t you take some time to pray for them? Think of someone you know who’s been assaulted and pray for her (or him).@@