My Dirty Little Secret

Thirteen weeks ago my world and body were literally shattered when an 18 wheeler plowed into the vehicle I was riding in.  The days since the accident have been a tumultuous mix of joy and pain.  There  have been days of joyous celebration over recovery milestones paired with angry tears shed over the changes inflicted by the carelessness of another.

My physical body has healed beautifully. Other than the scars that now mar my previously unblemished skin, there are no visual reminders of the trauma.  My emotional recovery however, is rather schizophrenic.  One minute I am obliviously minding my business and the very next I am sobbing over something accident related.  This emotional roller coaster is generally triggered by something I am currently unable to do, something I am forced to do, or disappointment over the drain on my finances.  In those moments of frustration, my dirty little secret bubbles to the top; I haven’t forgiven the truck driver.

Never during the ordeal have I been angry at God, I have no reason to be;  He preserved not only my life, my ability to walk but also my family.  The truck driver though?  That is a very different story.  From my perspective he walked away from the accident a free man; no debilitating injuries to recover from, no astronomical medical bills, no loss of pay, no loss of freedom, no ugly scars to look at, no physical therapy, no chronic pain, nothing.  The truth is, I really don’t know anything about the driver.  Maybe he is remorseful, maybe he lost his job, maybe he is plagued by nightmarish moment of impact replays.  Nevertheless, at my weakest moment, I want vengeance, I want justice, and I want him to pay for what I consider a crime!  No doubt this confession will meet with shocked gasps of horror from some folks, others might just wish to chastise me for speaking out.  The good news is that I understand vengeance belongs to God, not Becky.  Justice? Not my job either.  Now forgiveness? That one is solely mine.  I can choose to own it, or live the rest of my life hindered by my lack thereof.

I would love to end this post with a fairy tale happy ending, but that would be a lie.  I’m walking through this and right now I’m still angry over the circumstances one man’s carelessness thrust upon me.  My hope is that one day the sight of scars on my forehead, neck and shoulder,  the pain of changing clothes or my inability to run at top form will no longer bring me to tears and that I will be able to breath the words, “I forgive” and truly mean them.