The verdict is in.

So I opened another one of those letters from the District Attorney's office yesterday. While I was off on a mission trip the last week of June, "our robber" (as I tend to call him) went back to court. I was happy to not have to testify and even better, to be out of town while it happened. I fully expected this letter in the mail, but instead of reading once again that his trial had been postponed, I instead read that he pled guilty.

Those were words I didn't expect to see. Then I read that he was sentenced to ten years, which I then read was probated five years. So after a minimum of six months in a lock-down drug treatment facility, our robber will once again be out and about.

How do I feel about this, you may be wondering? I honestly don't know. I am conflicted. As soon as the familiar ball of fear welled up in my chest, it just as quickly turned to anger. Then there was the self-doubt. Did the words in my victim impact statement get this guy an easier sentence? Was I serious when I said I forgive him? Because I'm certainly not thinking the thoughts of a forgiving person now. I have some stuff to sort out--to say the very least. But what I do know is that how I respond to this information, whether I choose to live in a space of fear and anxiety the next six months and the days that come after, or a place of peace, has nothing to do with him, but everything to do with me. I can't change the sentence, the letter I wrote, him, or anything else other than myself. Just me. And I'm already doing that. Maybe that is the forgiveness in action that I spoke of when I wrote "I forgive you." Because I'm realizing you can't hold on to the hurt and move past it at the same time. You have to loosen your grip.

Nose kisses

Some days I wonder who I am. Who is this crazy woman wielding a spatula, screaming at her dog to "STOP BARKING AT ME?" Screaming in a way that makes the one other human and the one other animal in the house cease movement and look at her as if a crazed stranger had taken free reign of the kitchen and body of a previously sane woman. A woman who has a personal code against raising her voice in anger against humans or animals. A woman who is ashamed that she can suddenly have so little control over her emotions. A woman who says "I'm sorry," turning back to the dinner she is preparing in tears and shame.

And then there is that little barking dog who not even thirty minutes later stands in the doorway sneaking shy peeks at the woman. There are smooching noises. A wagging wisp of a tail. Nose kisses and forgiveness.

Sometimes our broken humanity comes crashing down on us like that. And we need little barking dogs to remind us we are human, to offer us the forgiveness we don't always allow ourselves.

What if?

I ask a lot of questions. I always have, and hopefully always will. Lately, those questions have all begun with What if...  I like What if...questions. I believe any kind of change, whether personal or global, takes root in someone asking What if...

Here are a few of my mine:

What if I acted like I truly believe God saved me and set me apart through His Son, Jesus Christ?

What if I acted like I truly believe He does not give me a spirit of fear?

What if I acted like I truly believe love never fails?

What if I acted like I truly believe I am empowered by the Holy Spirit Who dwells inside of me?

What if I acted like I truly believe to die is to truly live?

These are questions I've been asking of myself lately. They are hard questions only because I find my actions are not always a true reflection of my beliefs. And if I call myself a Christian, but my words and actions don't accurately portray something of the character of Christ, then I need to do more than ask questions, I need to start living some answers. Saying I'm forgiven just isn't enough for me anymore. Living like I am is a good start.