CrackedSapien

When Knowing the Law Still Wasn’t Enough As a teenager, I wore the uniform of a junior Police Explorer. My mother was a cop, so I grew up with the law in my blood. I knew what was right, I knew what was wrong, and I knew what the rules of protection and justice were supposed to be. On paper, I had the tools. But in my own home, with my own father, those tools turned to ash in my hands. I could recite the laws of the land, but I couldn’t enforce them against the man who ruled my childhood with cruelty. Abuse doesn’t bow to knowledge. It twists power, fear, and loyalty until even the strongest truths feel powerless. I wanted to call 911 more than once. My hand hovered near the phone, my mind screamed “this is wrong,” but my body froze. Because when the abuser is your parent, they’re not just a person—you see them as the ground itself. And when the ground shakes beneath you, you don’t fight it. You cling to survival. That’s why kids don’t always speak up, even when they “know better.” It’...

Christians love to preach. Some do it with kindness, some with fire, but almost always with the same assumption: that they hold the only key to truth, salvation, or heaven.But here’s the irony: their own scripture doesn’t back that monopoly.In Romans 2:14–16, Paul writes about the Gentiles — people outside the Jewish or Christian tradition — who “do by nature things required by the law.” He says these people “show that the requirements of the law are written on their hearts,” even though they’ve never known the law. Their conscience, their deeds, their very lives become the evidence.What does that mean? It means there’s room for those who live rightly, even if they’ve never read a Bible, said a prayer, or heard a sermon. It means morality and goodness aren’t chained to religion. It means the universe — or God, if you prefer — already inscribed truth within us.And if that’s true, then preaching becomes optional, not compulsory. Preach if you must — share your faith, your story, your con...

  What I Survived Would Break Most Adults There’s no soft way to say this: my father tortured me and my sisters. It wasn’t discipline. It wasn’t a mistake in the heat of anger. It was intentional, deliberate, and at times seemed to be his idea of “fun.” That word—fun—still stings, because it twisted something innocent into something cruel. What we endured was the kind of abuse most adults couldn’t handle. Yet we were children. And children don’t get the choice to walk away. We lived it. We bore it. We survived it. I want to be clear: I’m not writing this for pity. I write it because survival matters. Because telling the truth matters. Because too often, people shy away from naming what happened. They soften it. They say “abuse” like it’s a catch-all term. But sometimes you need the harder word: torture. And here’s the part that still amazes me — I survived. Not untouched, not without scars, but I survived. What should have broken me, shaped me instead. It’s why I don’t panic w...

 Son, I’ve been thinking a lot about you, and I want to write this because I love you and because you deserve to hear it from me. I wasn’t a perfect father. I yelled sometimes, I got in your face when I thought you were wrong. Once or twice, I even gave you a light smack on the back of the head when you did something careless. But I never wanted to hurt you — and I hope you know that. You weren’t the easiest kid either. I still remember the rubber bands, and how close you came to taking out your sister’s eye with one. You tested limits, you pushed buttons — but that’s what kids do. And through it all, I tried to guide you the best I could. I grew up in a home where pain was delivered for fun, where abuse was constant. I made a choice not to pass that on. If I ever scared you, I’m sorry — but I hope you can see I was trying to do better than what I was given. What I do know, without doubt, is this: I love you. That has always been true. And no matter what distance or silence may...

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