So often I am asked, “What’s it like at the shelter?”

“What’s it like for who?” I usually ask in return. There’s no simple answer because the experience of the shelter is drastically different for each person.

Its rural beauty breaks the mold of a “typical” domestic violence shelter by being a fully-furnished, beautiful house with all of the comforts of modern appliances, and full cupboards. Each guest is given a room of her own (space permitting) clean bedding, a carefully planned “welcome bag” full of simple but necessary items. We make every effort to meet her immediate needs with our own resources and from the gracious donations from our community members. This place can feel like the sanctuary it was intended to be but it also can be reminder of the home she just left and the injustice she feels for being the one who had to leave. No matter how pretty it is, it’s not a day spa or a ladies weekend retreat, but a shelter for abused women.

I love the women and the work. I am truly passionate about the cause and my role in supporting it but I’m sure it can seem as if it’s just another day at work for any of the staff …another day to get through until the weekend comes and I can take a day off and sit on my own couch with my own family and friends and watch my own choice in television programming, complain about how the economy is failing and how the Seahawks lost again. When I return from the weekend criticizing how short it was or how my husband still hasn’t installed the garbage disposal; she is still there living her own experience of the shelter.

It’s a humbling experience to be given the opportunity to help my community and the families affected by domestic violence. Sharing the information and resources I have as a professional and offering the support and love I have as a woman. It’s an honor to be trusted with the personal stories, laughter and tears of the women and children, especially at such a vulnerable time. I spend my days surrounded by the most diverse and wonderful women and staff. We are all blessed by being part of each other’s story. To us it is never “just another day.”

Now, while she is still thinking to herself, “How are my children and I going to survive another few weeks of uncertainty? How am I going to get a job without a car, and could I even afford gas every day? Maybe I should go home. It wasn’t as bad as that other girl. He only hit me a few times and only when he was drunk and it’s not like he drinks every day, just on the weekends.” Sometimes she is wondering how long he is going to be in jail and what he’ll do when he gets out. He knows the few friends she has left and they are all afraid of him. “How long did the doctor say I will have this cast on for? I could finally visit my parents when these bruises are gone, I’d hate for them to see me like this.” There are challenges of dealing with the realities of communal living among strangers and the potential shame and insecurity of “parenting under a microscope.” Then, there are the days she is just afraid to come out of her room because she cries all day long and doesn’t want to upset the other women and their children. Still looking for the one good reason she can’t argue with to return home because she can’t help but feel things that make no sense to her logical mind. “Why do I miss him so much? Do I really still love him? My future was planned with him so what do I do now?”

While I am dealing with the logistics of the shelter, our sister is just trying to find her own strength to survive another day. While I am talking to a co-worker about details of the day, she is trying to find her voice so that she may speak up – possibly for the first time. While I am hurrying about too busy to notice my own feelings, she is overwhelmed with emotion wondering when she might feel human again.

We witness miracles and victories on a daily basis. Every day, she makes the decision to face another challenge head on and makes the tough choices that are hers to make. Daily, she calls upon the strength of her spirit, her family and the creator to put one foot in front of the other so that she may keep moving forward. Today she gives every ounce of energy she has to the difficult process of starting a new life, yet still has enough to reassure her child in a way he can understand, “don’t worry, you are safe. We are safe.”

While a sister we have not met is praying for strength to leave; there is an inspiring group of women, who have lived her story and beat the drum in prayer for her, for they know the healing power of solidarity and camaraderie.

Each day at the shelter ushers new blessings into each life that passes through its doors. Each night under its roof can bring new challenges. Each story that its walls hear has its own heroes. Every footstep that falls on its floor heralds the sound of victory and each day is a miracle. I am continually amazed and inspired by the spirit of my sisters. Though it means something different to each of us, the shelter is ever-changing with all the fluctuation and currents of a wandering river and will continue to be a place to celebrate the victories together and sanctuary for the miracles to materialize.

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I Am Mute

By Megan Schell

I am mute. My body has exacted poetic justice on my soul. As the last hours of 2011 approached, my voice began to painfully fail me. I brought in the New Year speechless. It has been four days now and I can only whisper. In reality I had been speechless for a year or more, the only difference this time was that it was my Body’s turn to silence me, rather than my Self’s turn to silence me.

In 2011 I used my voice irresponsibly. I pressed my lips tightly together and swallowed words whole. I could not bring myself to say in the simplest, child-wise way, “I don’t like that,” “you hurt my feelings,” and “I’m alone,” “I’m afraid.” I whined and moaned about the things I had the power to change, but continued to refuse to do anything about them (through silence). I feared the consequences that may result from speaking up, but failed to appreciate the truly awful penalty of NOT doing it. This physical inability to speak is a powerful and appropriate lesson for me to begin 2012. So, my resolution this year is to speak when the words come and not to swallow them whole. My resolution is to use my voice in all the ways it was created for. After all, I’d hate to lose my ability to sing at the top of my lungs, comfort a friend, or tell people I love them, just because I didn’t have the courage to exercise my voice in the complementary ways that make it strong.