writing

The Door I Haven’t Closed

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The sermon last Sunday was from Matthew 18:21-35 “Peter approached Jesus and asked him, “Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive? As many as seven times?” Jesus answered, “I say to you, not seven times but seventy-seven times….” 

A few things have happened in my life over the past two years that have shaken me to my core and taught me things along the way. I thought forgiveness was easy. After all, I have been preaching for years about the importance of forgiving, forgetting, and moving on. Let it go. It was imperative not to hold grudges. I was mistaken, however.

I have learned that forgetting can happen with the click of a button, but forgiveness has its own dance, a mystique of sorts that permeates your soul and tries to yank it out of your existence without permission. It carries its own weight that I haven’t yet learned how to fully surrender to it.

That knife cut too deep. It perforated my torax and went straight down to my soul leaving a wound that has yet to heal, no matter how many bandages and patches I have applied. I tried it all, don’t take me wrong. I have tried but the doors have stayed shut.

I have always been the one to subscribe to forgiveness, running around with the banner that nothing could ever be deep enough for someone not to be able to let it go as if there were term limits to how long the train ought to last. Yet here I am, learning that forgiveness is not always as simple as I once believed. Nope, doodoo, no. It depends on the size and the type of injury. Mine had too many layers which made difficult to just set aside my feelings and embark in a new direction. I have been carefully slicing it piece by piece, layer by layer, molding and sculpting it as I go.

I will get there eventually, I know I will but right now, let me drive. I am still in the highway as I find myself with a ton of unanswered questions and unresolved cobwebs —things I have not yet been able to close the door on.

The magic wand I once thought existed isn’t there. I used to believe that one day I would wake up and the pain would simply be gone, vanished —that forgiveness would arrive like the scent of Gucci perfume, some beautiful moment of clarity, and everything that happened would suddenly stop hurting. But it doesn’t work that way, sometimes, does it?! It still hurts.

Forgiveness does not mean I suddenly stop remembering. Some wounds leave scars, and some memories will always carry a little sadness but a scar is not an open wound. It is proof that something hurt me deeply, and that somehow, I survived it.

Forgiveness does not erase what happened. It does not make the pain less real, nor does it excuse the choices that caused it. It simply means, I am choosing not to let the hurt have the final say in my life. I am slowly realizing that my healing cannot depend on someone else’s remorse. It will never happen. The person is gone. I cannot keep waiting for others to acknowledge my pain before I allow myself to move forward.

So, I am giving myself permission to release what I cannot change.

I am releasing the conversations I will never get to have, the explanations I may never receive, and the version of the past I desperately wished could have been different.

I am releasing the need to make someone understand how deeply they hurt me.

And most importantly, I am learning to release the guilt I carried for loving, trusting, hoping, and believing. Those things were never weaknesses. They were simply evidence that my heart was genuine.

The Fanatic I Miss

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June, 2007

I usually go nuts for the World Cup—it’s always been one of those moments that brings out pure excitement in me. But for the first time in my life, I’m finding it hard to feel that same spark, strangely detached from it. The excitement just isn’t there. All the noise and nonsense around it have taken away some of the magic.

Maybe, though, it’s something more personal. The truth is that this is my first World Cup in many years without my sidekick—my husband. There’s no one to share the anticipation with, no one to cheer, scream, laugh, run like a wild goose and live every moment alongside me. For so many years, the World Cup wasn’t just about football—it was about who I experienced it with.

Now, as it approaches— well, it begins today—, I can’t help but feel nostalgic. So many memories come flooding back, and the absence feels louder than the tournament itself. Everything seems a little quieter, a little emptier. The excitement that used to build naturally just isn’t there, and neither is the motivation that came with it.

Still, I’ll try to enjoy it the best way I can—creating my own wild audience of one, loud enough to make any neighbor reach for earplugs or consider moving away. Some things change, and some people leave behind a space that can never truly be filled, but the memories remain.

Maybe it won’t feel the same this time, and maybe that’s okay. Yet I’ll be watching with a heavy heart, missing the voice beside me, the laughter that echoed through every match, and the joy we shared. I’ll miss the awkward but hilarious dances whenever his favorite team scored, or when a player dribbled past defenders, pulled off a brilliant trick, and delivered a perfect pass. Those moments made every World Cup unforgettable—not just because of the game itself, but because of who I shared it with: a fanatic of the game! Tomorrow and the day after, and after, I will beglued to the TV for sure. Let the games begin…

Not Yours to Open

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Life has started to feel like a string of disappointments. Whether it’s betrayal or quiet letdowns, I keep finding myself questioning people and their sense of respect.

I learned through a friend that a mutual friend was traveling overseas to a country he now calls home, and I saw an opportunity. I needed to send something important—something I wanted to make sure would actually arrive, especially after a previous package I sent via the post office, had disappeared without a trace. He seemed like the perfect person to carry it; I trusted him enough to put this in his hands.

Then came the stress. I was told it needed to arrive before a certain hour, as mail delivery to their home would be suspended after that date and time. I paid for three-day shipping, expecting it to arrive on Saturday. It didn’t. I kept checking the tracking obsessively, watching every update and hoping it would move faster, but it stayed in transit. What should have taken three days dragged on longer, and all I could do was wait and worry.

It finally arrived at the last possible moment—Monday around 3 PM. He was supposedly leaving for the airport at 5, though I never understood the timing since the plane wasn’t scheduled to take off until 10:30 PM and he and his wife live only half an hour away. It didn’t make much sense, but I wasn’t the one traveling.

I called him to update him on the package’s status. It had arrived. At first, he said it wasn’t there. I insisted he check again. When he did, he realized it was just an envelope, not the box he had imagined. I found that odd, since I had always mentioned it was an envelope. He brushed it off, said he’d make space for it, and that he’d pass it along once he arrived. I even told him plainly—it was just a T-shirt. Nothing complicated. Nothing suspicious.

And yet, despite all of that, he still chose to open it.

He opened it.

I was furious.

That’s the part that matters. There was no reason to open that package. His justification was that he might be questioned at the airport or that it could be something suspicious. Really? It had already gone through multiple postal facilities before it ever reached him. If there had been any doubt, curiosity, or concern, all he had to do was ask. If there were any real issue, the postal system would have flagged it. I was one phone call away. Instead, he made a choice—to ignore what I told him and cross a boundary that wasn’t his to cross.

I had already told him what was inside, and still, he opened both envelopes. Not out of necessity, but out of disregard. It wasn’t just one envelope—inside the postal envelope was another, a brown one. That decision says more than any explanation ever could. It reflects a lack of respect, a lack of boundaries, and a willingness to act without consideration.

It’s also a reminder. He was a friend, but not a close one—not someone I would go out of my way to check on. He’s a childhood acquaintance, someone I had already chosen to distance myself from due to his unreliable behavior. That distance should have remained. Some behaviors are simply intolerable. Moments like this don’t confuse me—they confirm what I already know.

Still, I’ll give credit where it’s due. He took the package with him, and I appreciate that. But appreciation doesn’t erase what this revealed. Would I trust him again? I doubt it. The trust is broken.