She was a sweet, six year old girl – a skinny, freckle-faced little thing with long bangs and pixie short hair. Cute as a button, but then, all little girls are.

By day she went to kindergarten, in the afternoon she either played with her dolls or hung out with the neighborhood boys, who after some begging and negotiating would allow her to join in their game of marbles.

Life was good. But not always. Soon it would be nightfall.

As her parents finished a late dinner and moved to the veranda to converse in the evening breeze, she would lay in bed pretending to sleep, yet frightfully awake. Perhaps if she closed her eyes and sought shelter in the dark, she would not see the tall man appear at her doorway.

Contrasted by the bright hallway light, he was a dark, unrecognizable shadow. Yet she knew full well his identity: he was the strong, menacing man who would rob her of her youth, her joy, her self-esteem. But regardless of what he did, he could not steal her innocence, that part of her innermost being that she would not let him have, no matter how many times he threatened to kill her if she told a soul about his transgressions.

She pretended it was but a bad dream, one in which she was being punished for some wrongdoing – obviously, for otherwise God, and her parents, would not let this painful thing happen to her again and again.

During those nightly visits, she would buy moments of peace by pretending – Penelope she called herself – and she would imagine a field full of beautiful yellow wildflowers where she would run wild and free, warmed by glorious sunlight, protected by the wispy flowers that grew as tall as she. Her reverie only interrupted by his harsh commands and warnings.

This little girl, now a woman, has taught me how painfully difficult it is to heal these scars. Having no knowledge or frame of reference, and limited to the understanding of a child, the chance of perspective and normal reasoning disappear, only to be replaced by deep feelings of lack of self worth, inadequacy, and self-interrogation.

To hear her tell her anguished story of abuse is almost unbearable. And to realize how many years she has fought to regain what was stolen from her – one small step at a time through a journey of internal struggle, forgiveness and prayer.

To this day she speaks of the need to release herself from being bound by the painful stories of her past, so her future may not be determined by her history.

Penelope's story affords us a remarkable definition of inner strength and hope. And she offers encouragement to all who have experienced loss and sorrow. She has won many a battle in the war to reclaim herself, and the admirable struggle to rid herself of her fear of vulnerability.

Watching her today, a devoted mother and accomplished professional, you would never know of her battle scars. She is ferociously committed to living the ordinary life in an extraordinary way, continuously mindful not only of what enhances her life, but what enhances the lives of others.

When moments arise in which her position weakens, she relies on the understanding that all of our stories have a beginning, a middle and an end, and that following the requisite mourning of the termination, there will always be a new beginning albeit often not easy or apparent.

She has cultivated the field and planted her seeds, realizing that before the flowers bloom, the garden must be weeded. And she continues to create her own field of wildflowers where she finds peace and joy.

Last month was not only Mother's Day, but National Missing Children's Day. Let us honor our children, and hold them near and dear.

For they are gifts from God.