Weeks passed. She wondered if she would ever really start to “feel” good again. The woman running the study asked her how she felt she was doing. Fine, she thought. But not great. “Good, I’m doing good” is what came out of her mouth. She knew she was still hiding. She was starting to lose hope for herself. She felt she had made such a serious mistake, and that nothing she read, nothing she did, nothing she prayed was going to change it, or fix it or make it feel any better.
In her conversations with others, she had found friendship. A confidante. They shared, they cried, they laughed. More weeks passed.
She bought a box. She wrote letters. Then the day came to really bring things to a close. She felt God press on her that she needed to make a move now to bring closure and healing. So she did. With the help of others, she took the box with the letters to a quiet place near the water’s edge. A shady spot in the woods where peeking through the trees was the glitter of the water, and the gentle sound of tiny waves crashing on the pebble beach. It was a calming sound.
The “thump” of the hatchett against the ground was deafening. There wasn’t anything particularly loud about it, but there was something that made her cringe. There was a finality about it. Once the hole was dug, they placed the box in the hole, read some scripture, and covered the box with earth. She pushed a few handfulls of dirt over the box and emotions over took her. She began to cry.