One of my college professors loved to say "where there's poetry, there's hope. Hope for redemption, hope for change."
Sheila, who never met that professor, bit into her bottom lip, her voice quivering. "How do I know I'm not just a bad person? Maybe that's why these things keep happening to me."
And I stared at her, wondering what to say.
"I've done some bad things," she said, almost whispering.
And she listed them. And I tried not to look shocked.
Because some of them were bad. Really bad.
And before I could answer, before I could reassure her, she said "But I know I'm a good person."
And she left, reassured.
Ironically, I wasn't so sure.
Because she didn't seem to learn from what had happened. She repeated the same behaviors. The ones we both thought were bad.
Except that she pulled back and decided that, even if they were bad, she was good.
It seemed absurd.
But who was I to judge? I didn't know her heart. I didn't know her intentions.
Besides, shouldn't it count for something that she was asking the question... even if she wasn't getting the right answer?
Saturday Single No. 389
11 hours ago