To Keep No Record of Wrongs

2022-11-23

We pick them up. Little hurts, big hurts. But how do we learn not to keep a record of wrongs that clogs the arteries of our life? I visited a friend the other day, and they invited me into their home. As we wandered from room to room, everything was immaculate. Paintings hung perfectly, furniture was set at the right angle, flowers were on the table, and everything was clean and supposedly in their control. But as we walked down the hallway, a door was shut. It was locked. I tried to open it but to...

We pick them up. Little hurts, big hurts. But how do we learn not to keep a record of wrongs that clogs the arteries of our life?

I visited a friend the other day, and they invited me into their home.

As we wandered from room to room, everything was immaculate. Paintings hung perfectly, furniture was set at the right angle, flowers were on the table, and everything was clean and supposedly in their control.

But as we walked down the hallway, a door was shut. It was locked. I tried to open it but to no avail. Finally, my friend said I wouldn’t want to go in there as it didn’t contain anything of interest. But after some gentle words and assurances, they took the key from their pocket and unlocked the door.

I stepped in and saw a single wooden chair in the center of the room. The walls were covered in post-it notes. I walked around the room and read some of the notes. All the hurts and pains of their life were written—list upon list.

Many were written in child-like writing. Some of them had math on them, but that was wrong in the summation.

2 x 3 = 10
4+9 = 49
Mummy is angry; therefore, I am bad
Daddy doesn’t talk to me; therefore, I am not lovable

The walls were full of notes.

All the wrongs had a list. What they had done and the shame shadow of the event.

Some had been written over and over again—the same note but with a bolder pen.

The notes had been categorized into themes and conclusions. Some colored notes meant a different theme, while others meant another.

They had brought these notes to whatever home they lived in.

I looked at the wooden chair and saw that it was well-used. Beside it sat a small table with fresh new post-it notes and a pen ready for new expression and confession.

I asked my friend how long they spend in this room.

It was most of every day. They sat in here and memorized every post-it note. Line upon line, they had observed and recorded, and rehearsed.

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