But out of my only son’s death, the holy sledgehammer of truth begin to chip away at my dead unforgiving heart. Miraculously over time, God resurrected me and changed my stony heart to a heart of flesh. He ministered healing through professional counselors, transparent women, and the Bible.

Numbly, I’d memorized scripture as a child. One morning pieces of Isaiah 53 returned to me like forgotten friends:

               “He was despised and forsaken…

            “He was pierced for our transgression…

            “He was oppressed and afflicted …

            “Like a lamb led to slaughter…

            “By His stripes we are healed…”

“Jesus, oh sweet Jesus. You understand. You were abused. God, Your only son died, too.” Kneeling in the den, I began to forgive those who’d hurt me — everybody from Patrol Girl to the drunk driver who killed Chris. Palms open and high, I released rage and cried, “I need You.”

Women everywhere, in malls, grocery stores, and at PTA meetings, appeared almost spotlighted. See her eyes? She needs My love. Those long sleeves hide bruises. That prostitute by the stop sign? She’s a child abuse victim. Smell the alcohol on your friend’s breath? She’s trying to escape.