“How did those occurrences make you feel about God?” Pastor Emory said.

“He promises never to abandon us, and I’m alive.”

“Have you forgiven the women and the guards?”

“I’m trying. Just when I think I’ve moved past it, a memory pops up that brings it all back.”

“With a vengeance?”

I nodded. “Discernment and wisdom are lifelong lessons. But sometimes it’s all a blur.”

“If you’re willing, we can work on what happened to you in prison.”

The thought of reliving the beatings clawed at my stomach. Some injuries couldn’t be healed. “Not sure if I’ll ever be able to place them in a locked corner of my heart. Maybe looking over my shoulder is a good habit. Anyway, I’d like to put the ugliness behind me.” I meant it, as long as he didn’t probe into Travis’s death.

“In the weeks ahead, we’ll visit those painful moments. Talk through your emotions and pray for healing. Mrs. Emory and I have prayed for you, and we’re here to offer friendship as well as guidance.”

My twice-broken arm ached. No reason except the vivid details of the beatings jarred my senses. Always did. I could only assume the psychological and spiritual growth demanded courage. Other people’s actions in my history included. “External rehabilitation is easier to accomplish than internal.”

“But you’re not alone, neither have you been since you made a decision to trust Jesus. Who we are stems from examining our past and choosing to move forward with God.”

Mrs. Emory jotted something on a piece of paper and slid it my way. “Please call me anytime, day or night.”

“Especially if you are hit with depression,” he added. “I see that was a problem in the past.”

Was my life an open book for everyone to see? “Thank you.” Pastor Emory and his wife meant well, but neither could discover the damages beneath the visible scars.

I left the church with one destination—the newspaper office.

Some days were met with enthusiasm and others grew sour as the day progressed. Unless I chose joy each morning, I couldn’t complain about my day. In prison, I envisioned Marissa, my obedient sister, walked with me, not in the same cell but as an invisible companion to share my thoughts. That was love—conversations of the heart. Today had held its share of good things and challenges. I hoped my next stop before heading home wasn’t a mistake.

I opened the door of the newspaper office and smelled what I’d always termed as newspaper ink. An inner door separated the lobby from the printing area, but the odor swirled about. Not offensive, just distinctive. I stared at the receptionist and inwardly moaned—the judgmental woman who’d ordered tarts for the ladies’ mission group. I approached the counter with Saturday’s edition in my hand.

“We meet again.” I mustered cheerfulness into my words.

One quick look and she darkened. “Yes.” She focused on her computer.