When you saw my sparkly diamond ring
your congratulations sounded hollow
as you clenched your jaw.
Yet you sat across from me
every day, sharing bits and pieces
of your life in conversation.
We illustrated autumn produce:
yours striped squash, mine pomegranate.
The first time we spoke
you approached me after our class critique
of illuminated letters.
Wowed you were by my velvety black lettering
by my gilded William Morris grapevines
by my lush Gustav Klimt flowers.
I followed God’s call to the mountain
and here I sit praising him
on a Sunday afternoon.
Adapted from my journal, written in Gulf Shores, Alabama
I’ve gone to many places where I feel hopelessly alone, a speck among the masses of life. I always feel bitterly afraid and angry, wishing there was something more, something real. And here I feel alone, but in a different way.
Forgiveness has been a long, necessary task, and it’s been essential in my healing as a child of divorce.
Most of my posts talk about the hurt I’ve endured and the healing I’ve experienced, but not much about forgiveness. The act of forgiveness has been an integral part of my healing process.