I walked away that night not in anger. Nor do I feel animosity toward anyone now.
I walked away because–just as a storm awakens the pain from my once broken ankle–the storm of words that night aroused the demons that lay dormant inside of my once broken soul.
Indignation brought an explanation to my lips, but my pride held it in like bile on my tongue until I could swallow it back down. And I walked away.
I walked away as the sounds of praise echoed behind me, praise for my new found bravery and changed life. But the truth is that she–the one misunderstood–was the brave one.
With each setting sun–though years removed from the battle–she returned to the trenches. She’d lock the doors, check the windows and peek in on her sleeping babies, in hopes of finding a peace strong enough to keep the nightmares away.
Her peculiar rituals and perceived weaknesses were her greatest strengths as she bravely survived the only way she knew how. She–the one misunderstood–is the one I’m most proud of.
I’m told that I’m braver now but the truth is, I’m not brave. Through the loving grace of my Savior–I am healed.
I walked away that night into the darkness,
because now my nights belong to me.
