I just want next weekend to come and go. I know the emotional toll it will take on my soul and the anticipation of that is crippling. I suspect I am not the only one who feels this way - I bet it is the same with any traumatic anniversary. "We now interrupt your perfectly unperfect life for this painful reminder of what you survived." Thanks.
People ask me various questions about the accident, especially around this time of year, but the hardest one is: Do you forgive the people responsible? Yes, generally. But not on the Anniversary. On the Anniversary, I have mini conversations with them.
I ask them why they couldn't have left wherever they were one minute later ?
I ask them if they have nightmares. And when they say yes, I am satisfied. Ashamed, but satisfied.
Forgiveness is a daily thing. We can make up our minds to forgive, and we choose to forgive each day. But on the Saturday of Opening Weekend, I give myself permission not to forgive. And it feels good. I can't believe I am admitting to that, but once a year, I let the anger out of its cage and it brings me to my knees.
Here's what the anger sounds like:
My mind screams and my eyes overflow with hot tears. I wonder if they realize that magnitude of that night, or if they file it away deep in their brains because it hurts too much to think about how something they did has left an everlasting hardship.
I think about how my husband will never feel grass or sand beneath his feet. I think about how every morning he works up a sweat just getting dressed. I think about all of the missed family vacations and outings. I think about how our youngest noticed that daddy has no feet. He has no feet. Imagine that. Imagine how hard EVERYTHING would be?
And I wonder if those thoughts cross their minds - if they even let themselves go there. I get pissed in a protective way, which is the hardest way to be pissed off because it's not about you. It's about someone you love.
And then it's Sunday. And I think about how God loved us and continues to love us. I think about where our lives were headed and where they are now. I think about all of the talented people that saved his love and in turn, created life. I think about how we didn't let the devil win. About how God battled for our hearts.
And my anger turns to thankfulness. Not thankful that it happened, but just thankful. I feel sorrow for the people responsible because of course they have "gone there," and I have no idea how that must haunt them.
On Sunday, I forgive.
People ask me various questions about the accident, especially around this time of year, but the hardest one is: Do you forgive the people responsible? Yes, generally. But not on the Anniversary. On the Anniversary, I have mini conversations with them.
I ask them why they couldn't have left wherever they were one minute later ?
I ask them if they have nightmares. And when they say yes, I am satisfied. Ashamed, but satisfied.
Forgiveness is a daily thing. We can make up our minds to forgive, and we choose to forgive each day. But on the Saturday of Opening Weekend, I give myself permission not to forgive. And it feels good. I can't believe I am admitting to that, but once a year, I let the anger out of its cage and it brings me to my knees.
Here's what the anger sounds like:
My mind screams and my eyes overflow with hot tears. I wonder if they realize that magnitude of that night, or if they file it away deep in their brains because it hurts too much to think about how something they did has left an everlasting hardship.
I think about how my husband will never feel grass or sand beneath his feet. I think about how every morning he works up a sweat just getting dressed. I think about all of the missed family vacations and outings. I think about how our youngest noticed that daddy has no feet. He has no feet. Imagine that. Imagine how hard EVERYTHING would be?
And I wonder if those thoughts cross their minds - if they even let themselves go there. I get pissed in a protective way, which is the hardest way to be pissed off because it's not about you. It's about someone you love.
And then it's Sunday. And I think about how God loved us and continues to love us. I think about where our lives were headed and where they are now. I think about all of the talented people that saved his love and in turn, created life. I think about how we didn't let the devil win. About how God battled for our hearts.
And my anger turns to thankfulness. Not thankful that it happened, but just thankful. I feel sorrow for the people responsible because of course they have "gone there," and I have no idea how that must haunt them.
On Sunday, I forgive.
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