In the dim interior light I read his scrawled critique.

 

“… hatred toward men”

 

“… anger toward church/religious authority”

 

“… unforgiveness”

 

“How do you define redemption?”

 

It went on for half a page more. Apparently, my redemptive story wasn’t redemptive in his book and didn’t glorify God.

 

He quoted a Bible verse at me.

 

Philippians 3:13-14  “… forgetting what lies behind and reaching forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal.”

 

He took me to task for not forgetting (instead I had shared), not forgiving (so he thinks), and making men look bad (must’ve skimmed past the part about my loving husband).

 

I closed the note and drove off, mentally noting my lack of affect, which is typical of me when I’m in shock and not knowing quite how to process what’s just happened. The fierce competition inside for expression of a wide variety of feelings always shuts me down on the outside. Has my whole life. I drove off in this numbness of mind and silence of soul for a quarter mile before I remembered I could take this to my God.

 

I prayed that God would help me stand firm in the freedom he has given me in Christ (Galatians 5:1) and not let anyone convince me again to put on their preferred brand of bondage. I prayed for this man who did not know me or my heart, that I could have mercy for him for not knowing, not understanding. I prayed God would help us both be open to learning.  And I prayed God would help me be open to letting him learn. (Whether he ever came back to writers group or not.)

 

I also prayed God would give me guidance through my fellow writer friend, Rachelle, who I was following behind and about to meet at Chili’s for a late dinner and story swap.  Another hallmark of me is to not trust my own first instincts and interpretations. I squash ‘em down until I can find validation for them. Like Ann Lamott says, I’m always looking for someone to validate my parking ticket. “Can I feel this?” “Can I think that?” “Can I park here?” “Am I allowed?” It’s what I do. And it’s what I did as I slid this man’s note across the table to my friend.

 

I watched her face closely, saw her grimace, and thought to myself, okay, maybe I’m not wrong for looking sideways at his critique.

 

Then she did the darndest thing.

 

She ripped it up.

 

Ripped it up and put it in her purse.

 

“Well, he’s never been a little girl who was raped,” she said. “And you don’t need this crap, this man’s hand-scrawled judgments, in your head.”

 

I opened my mouth to respond to what he’d written. She interrupted me with a firm look and said, “You owe him no explanation, Laura.  None.”

 

And there it was.

 

And I still can’t help but laugh a little at the decisiveness of it.

 

And today, one year later, I have a blog, a couple of writing gigs, and God’s good word still before me, and this man’s words are in at least eight pieces in a good friend’s purse.