It was her voice. Breathy and seductive, but trying… trying too hard. The coquettish laugh and flirtatious intonation conjured an image in my head of what the woman standing behind me looked like. Her conversation made me ill and I teetered on the verge of an instantaneous FleshFlash in terminal 2 of Oakland International Airport.

The security line wrapped in continuous S formations in what seemed to be the longest identification checkpoint I’ve ever stood in. As serendipitous sovereignty would have it, I am in front of a women engaged in an adulterous affair with a married man. I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, I just had no where to go.

Her breathy voice and gait changed while I was having an internal monologue with myself, debating whether or not to turn around and body-check her MMA style for pilfering from an object that wasn’t hers.

Her laugh changed. Her breathy voice became vulnerable. And before I could be Judgy McJudgerson and throw stones at this woman, I heard it. I heard desperation in her voice.

But you said you would leave her. You promised me, she said into her cell phone. The conversation continued intensely until I heard a male voice yell through the phone obscenities I will not repeat. The anger I felt subsided as I heard the silence of the breathy woman stop breathing. In the oddest turn of events, the woman who was demeaned and belittled and cursed at apologized to the man on the other end of the phone.

I had to do it. I had to turn around. I had to see with this woman looked like. I had to.

I peered over my shoulder to see a buxom blond, middle-age woman with a low cut shirt and sparkly purse hang her head in broken pain. And shame. And isolation. And I felt sympathy for her in the way Jesus felt sympathy for the woman caught in the act of adultery.

Before reaching the agents at the airport security check point, she explained that she didn’t want to make him angry and she would call him back after going through security. I told myself not to say anything, this wasn’t my business, I can’t care. But I had to do it. I had to turn around. I had to let this woman know who she was. I felt impressed to remind her that she was a child of God.

Me:Β You don’t know who I am, but I just really need to tell you that you are a child of God and you don’t deserve this.
Her:Β Β Wha—
Me: I’m not trying to be all up in your business or judge this situation. I just heard how you were spoken to and the names he called you. I need to tell you that you are a child of God and no one—NO ONE—should ever speak to you like that.
Her: Oh my god, I just don’t know what to do.
Me: Yes you do. Child of God, you know what to do. You don’t call this fool back! You delete his phone number and you find that woman inside of you who is strong and bold and worth more than his sloppy seconds. Listen, if he treats his wife like he treats you, he’s a jerk. You are worth more than that. Do you hear me? Child of God, you are worth more than that.
Her: I know, I know. I just wish I had the chip that’s inside your head and put it in mine so I can be strong.
Me: You can do it. God can help you. Jesus loves you. Even though what you are doing is wrong, he wants to help you.

The security agent waved me forward and the buxom blonde began to cry. Before moving forward I touched her hand and told her that Jesus loved her more than anyone ever could. And left.

When we forget our identity, we loose sight of who’s we are. When we don’t know where we came from, we don’t know where we’re going. And sometimes, a reminder of who we are is stronger than a rebuke of what we are not.

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