The question wasn’t about forgiveness. That was a done deal. It was a question of dealing with secrets, and how secrets made her who she is now.
In all this time, no one in the family knew. The greater pain was that secrets meant no one truly understood her.
No one, not even she, could guess what had come from 30 continuous years of protecting, hiding, shielding, avoiding, pretending innocence, and compensating. Her need to put on the face of cheeriness, her need for order, and her cowardice – there were roots in these beyond sin and personality.
Questions arose. Was everything a reaction… just scar tissue? She finally surrendered permission for Him to unravel the tightly wound ball of who she was, who she is.
Somewhere, a thread
Into my flesh.
He gentles out,
Raises the ugly, twisted
With beautiful pain.
Into the redness,
Pressing over non-sense
Healing scars define,
He knows a wound existed,
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