To what extent can we control how quickly or thoroughly we heal from past wounds? I admit that I am of the “buck up, and move on” camp when it comes to dwelling on errors, wrongings and inflicted insecurities, yet to some degree I do define parts of my own persona as scars.

In my freshman year of college I “took advantage” of the free therapy sessions provided to all students and shortly after found myself blubbering in a chair about my childhood (which I had so definitively “moved on” from). I asked him, “When will I be okay about this? When will it stop mattering, stop hurting?”

He said that each new transition may unearth the new growth and leave me feeling things fresh as new.

Cheery, right? Job security is what my more skeptical voice would love to call it if only I didn’t know it to be true.

Chicago toughened me a lot. It was big enough to pour on plenty of bad, but plenty of happiness, too. I learned that sometimes the safest place to be is in the masses. Though you may not hand-select them, a community of good people is bound to weather you through the lowest, most scraping realities.

Here we have only us. Here I have to be as strong as ten God-fearing small group members (for now). Yet to some degree, I’ve never felt more sure, more pointed in the right direction. It’s funny – I’m always looking out “there” for my purpose, but sometimes the service lies on deck.


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