She sat at the window looking down at the playground where she used to go with her kids until that fateful afternoon when she was shot trying to hustle them away after learning that there was an armed suspect in the vicinity. Her fingers gripped the handles of her wheelchair as hatred welled up inside her. Whenever the pastor and church members visited her, they always quoted: “And whenever you stand praying, if you have anything against anyone, forgive him, that your Father in heaven may also forgive you your trespasses.”
How could I forgive him? How could I forgive the person who robbed me of the use of my legs? I’m useless to my husband and my kids. I’m stuck in this contraption for the rest of my life. No, I won’t forgive him.
The door suddenly opened and her neighbor walked in. “He’s dead!” she announced.
“The guy who shot you.”
The man who put me in this wheelchair is dead. Why then do I feel regret instead of relief?