How can you tell when you’ve crossed the meridian that divides hatred and forgiveness? Is it when the dirt path beneath your feet, frozen hard by winter’s bitter wind, softens under summer’s grace? Or is it when words you’ve worked so long to free stroll out of the prison of your heart without your help and to your amazement speak themselves?
“I wish you well,” I whisper.
Jesus, My Father, the CIA and Me; 252.