Photo, Pamela Koefoed ©
Twenty years ago, I wanted a cut and paste button on my living history. If only such a thing existed. I would’ve recreated my childhood, deleted certain details, and added events that my children could proudly tell to their friends. My rewritten version would exclude the times I fled for my life, and include a mother I could trust, and the knowledge of her love.
Time has passed and I’m older now, and I’m thrilled with the power of choice. I can have grey hair if I want, since I don’t, I color it brown. I smooth out fine lines on my face with special creams, and exercise to keep my middle age bloom from blossoming into something resembling a beach ball under my shirt. I can select which speaking invitations to accept, or work to do, or friends to keep, or what I’ll eat for breakfast. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t erase or rewrite past history. It’s done. It’s past. It’s fact.
The years have brought change in me. Now, I review the past with that certain wisdom found only in those with grey hair, covered or not, and I’m content with what was given me and at peace with the events of the first twelve drama filled years of my life.
When I reflect on the past, I no longer wish for a cut and paste button to clear away the difficult to explain parts of my childhood, because they remind me that miracles really happen, that future challenges will be overcome, and that I have a Heavenly Father who cherishes me.
From everything I’ve experienced, I get it. I totally understand.
He loves me.
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