Before And After

There was always going to be a before and after in her life, even though she wouldn’t realize that until a very long time after.

She couldn’t remember the before.

When she saw pictures of herself from that time in her life, she felt as if she were looking at a stranger.

She didn’t recognize the pure joy in her own eyes.

She couldn’t recall ever feeling that happy or self-assured.

The only thing she remembered feeling was angry or scared.

Angry was better.

Angry felt more powerful, more in control, more able to protect herself from being hurt like that again.

Scared was too close to the truth.

So she did her best to keep it locked away, by forgetting or pretending or denying that she’d been affected by it all.

On the rare occasions that she told the story, she did so as if it were about someone else.

In a way it was.

Were you still the same person you used to be, if you couldn’t remember who that was?

She didn’t think so.

And she certainly didn’t feel so.

Sometimes she imagined what it would have been like, if things had gone differently.

Would her life have been better or worse?

Would she still be the same?

Would she have to trade everything she’d learned about acceptance and forgiveness and grace, for the hope and freedom and surety that she’d lost along the way?

Would she do it if she could?

There was no way for her to know.

All she could do was trust that all really was as it should be:

The before.
The after.
The person she’d turned out to be.