Helping a child's life, and maybe your own

By MARY JANE HOLT
Contributing Writer

My name is Sarah

I am but three,

My eyes are swollen

I cannot see,

I must be stupid

I must be bad,

What else could have made

My daddy so mad?

I wish I were better

I wish I weren't ugly,

Then maybe my mommy

Would still want to hug me.

I can't speak at all

I can't do a wrong

Or else I'm locked up

All the day long.

When I awake

I'm all alone

The house is dark

My folks aren't home

When my mommy does come

I'll try and be nice,

So maybe I'll get just

One whipping tonight.

Don't make a sound!

I just heard a car

My daddy is back

From Charlie's Bar.

I hear him curse

My name he calls

I press myself

Against the wall

I try and hide

From his evil eyes

I'm so afraid now

I'm starting to cry

He finds me weeping

He shouts ugly words,

He says its my fault That he suffers at work.

He slaps me and hits me

And yells at me more,

I finally get free

And I run for the door.

He's already locked it

And I start to bawl,

He takes me and throws me

Against the hard wall.

I fall to the floor

With my bones nearly broken,

And my daddy continues

With more bad words spoken.

"I'm sorry!", I scream

But its now much too late

His face has been twisted

Into unimaginable hate

The hurt and the pain

Again and again

Oh please God,have mercy!

Oh please let it end!

And he finally stops

And heads for the door,

While I lay there motionless

Sprawled on the floor

My name is Sarah

And I am but three,

Tonight my daddy

Murdered me.

With this poem by an author unknown to me came this statement: "There are thousands of kids out there just like Sarah. And you can help."

With the e-mail also came a request that I pass on this poem "because as crazy as it might sound, it might just indirectly change a life."

Reading this poem almost made me ill. I wanted to vomit for a few seconds. To turn away from the e-mail. To not even finish reading the whole poem.

I suppose it made me feel a little bit like I do when I'm about to have a nice dinner and suddenly I glance toward the television and see the empty eyes and emaciated face of a starving child in some place far away. Some selfish and self-centered part of me resents that child being brought into my living room.

Yes, that is exactly how I felt when I read this poem. Now the poem is inside your home and at this point, perhaps it has made its way into your heart. Individually and collectively, as a community, if we resolve to do so, we can make a difference.

Sadly, I suspect that thousands may be a conservative estimate when it comes to child abuse in America alone. We must try harder to recognize needs that maybe be just outside our own back door. We should be open to opportunities to encourage, mentor, and care enough to make a difference somehow. Some little child's life may depend on it.

Beyond that , your own life may depend on it, if that abused child becomes an adult who chooses to abuse the society that permitted his or her childhood misery. But no matter what our background we all must remember that we always have choices.

What's done is done. Painful acts cannot be erased only prevented in the best of circumstances. So no matter what your background, regardless of where you've been, in spite of all that's been done to you and all that you have done to others, know with certainty that each day is a new beginning. Each new day offers you the chance to change your attitude and therefore change your life.