She sat across and to the right of him; this man who had
hurt her so long ago. They were in a
quaint café for breakfast and he was sharing a tainted memory. The sounds all around her became dull, all
she could hear was his voice, his words, his story. The tears created a pool in her eyes and when
the weight of them was too much to bear they slid down her cheeks and over the
cliff of her chin. He spoke, not as one
in pain, but of his pain, pulling back the curtain of secrecy and shame. Her mind’s eye unfolded the scenes before her. She felt it too, the pain, it cracked her
heart. She longed to rescue the little
boy he spoke of, wanted to gather him into her arms and cuddle him in a rocking
chair shooing away the lies he had just heard, soothing the pain.
His story over, he looked up at her and witnessed the stream
of tears on her cheeks. Tenderly, as
though speaking to a small child, he said, “Oh baby, I didn’t mean to make you
cry.” The gentle words brought fresh
tears.
No, dear man, you did not mean to make me cry, not then and
not now. What Satan meant for evil, God
has turned to good. Today’s tears are
tears encased in joy. Freedom infuses
each drop. To weep for the one who hurt
me speaks of a healed heart. The wound
of long ago was washed with repentance and bandaged with forgiveness. The path to healing was walked. Today what is left is a scar. A scar of love and compassion. Empathy for you, dear man. My tears are a gift, a gift from my healed heart.
