Even though I was following the Lord’s leading into this new routine, I felt insignificant. My behind-the-scene role in motherhood seemed less appealing to me. I felt that God was not using me much in His Kingdom anymore.
I was mid-conversation with my mom when she dropped the latest story on me.
I had thought we had passed the phase of accusations. I had thought that it’d been long enough that my grandmother would want to let go of whatever she was harboring against me.
Should I have simply trusted that God would provide for me, and moved cities without working to plan ahead? Did my planning reveal an immature faith that doubted God’s provision? I was not sure how to strike a balance between trusting God while doing my part.
The assaults left no physical scars. My rage and bitterness felt like the only tangible signs I had to demonstrate that something terrible had happened to me. If I just forgave her, was I telling everyone that the injustice didn’t matter?
I watched intently as a group of HR staff handed out certificates and a small gift to the month’s outstanding worker. A small part of me hoped they would stop by my desk. But alas, after years of waiting, it never happened.