It was a cool October Sunday morning and I was still a little car sick from the long and winding roads that led to the country church. My 10-year-old knees were shaking as the last person stood up to share. I don’t remember what he said, but I know I started to cry. The piano played “Just As I Am” as I stepped out into the aisle and slowly made my way forward. A few Sunday’s later, I was baptized. It seems like this would be a happy memory for me, but it is not.
music
He watches me.
Music has been a huge part of my healing journey. Ironically, it can be both a trigger and a comfort. My husband and I used to argue over what station to keep the radio on. He liked anything but current music, and I only wanted to listen to the songs that were new and recent.
There were times where I would abruptly change the channel and he would change it back. I would just sit there wide-eyed, angry and silent. I would stare out of the window chasing the darkness away in my mind as it twirled to the beat, taunting me with images. Not all songs were bad. Sometimes a song would evoke a good memory, and I’d sing along. I am sure it was confusing to him. It was confusing to me.
