Rachel Peterson
There once was a little girl named Rachel. She wasn’t me, but she loved me because we had the same name and we both wore glasses. Rachel’s speech wasn’t always very clear and her intelligence seemed lower than the rest of us, but her smile suggested she didn’t notice or mind.
I wasn’t old enough to understand, but there was something wrong with Rachel, there had to be for all of the grownups seemed nervous about her and her sister. They came from a bad family, but no one talked about it. I remember wishing Rachel didn’t like me so much, for I feared if I associated with her the grownups would disapprove of me too. But despite my fear, I couldn’t shun her, I couldn’t hurt her like that.
Though I didn't realize it when I started writing my first book at the age of 12, I've always been an advocate writer. My joy in writing is being able to share the story of the hidden lives that have touched mine. Rachel was the first of many people whose pain and hardships, joy and beauty drew me out of myself and into their world; to see through their eyes what life was like. I have often told people I don’t feel worthy to speak out for someone until I’m willing to feel their pain.
On this journey I have been humbled by the honor of meeting some of the most amazing people! I’ve held the hand of the forgotten widow, I’ve played Legos with homeless children, I’ve heard the pain in the Sexual Assault victim's story, and I’ve marveled in gratitude at the lives suicide couldn’t take. I’ve shaken hands with the life that could have been lost to abortion, and I’ve wept over the life that was. I’ve voiced the orphan’s plea for a family and rejoiced to see their dream come true! I’ve seen the devastation caused by divorce, alcoholism, and child abuse. Yet I’ve also seen the healing work of love on a heart wounded by neglect, abandonment, and rejection.
I’ve cradled the little girl whose body held her physically captive but couldn’t touch her joy!
I’ve had a cop look me in the eyes and tell me in choked up words that he’d lay down his life for mine. I’ve heard the suspect's venomous rage as a lifetime of bitterness spilled out. I’ve heard the quivering voice of a frightened mother calling for help and teared up at her innocent daughter’s trust. I’ve rejoiced with a once incarcerated man’s freedom when his parole ended. I’ve seen through the eyes of the blind man and wept over the child whose life lasted for only a moment.
These people have changed me and shown me that the purpose of our life isn’t to build up treasures for ourselves, but to give our lives away to love.