Reflections of My Sister

Reflections of My Sister

I frequently gazed at myself in the mirror, contemplating the meaning of “self”—reflecting on who I was, and who I thought I would become, affirming the latter for the former. I’d summon the oracle behind the veil, but she’d rarely ever respond—because, she too, was bewildered by the confusion of necessity. After thirty-something odd years, my identity had remained concealed. I had lost it a long time ago—to be more candid…it was hijacked. I realize the mirror isn’t particularly the kindest teller of tales; though, authenticity isn’t one of its truest projections, in any case. Half of the time, I didn’t know whether to trust my inner self, or agree with what the mirror displayed; it’s still difficult to gather which of the two is more psychologically and emotionally accommodating. I constantly told myself that I was merely looking at an image, which couldn’t reveal much of anything—unable to perceive the truth, if at all. Mirrors are relatively unreliable consultants and can easily alter one’s perception of reality—hence, we proceed with caution, lest we forget that by virtue of it, objects [in it] are closer than they appear.

The power of inversion is its trickiest—I’ve never gained mastery over its spatial principals of left is right-right is left, front is back, and vice versa. Such a silly law of perception! Ironically, I was bound by its power and influence…searching for someone I could never find. Unfortunately, many of us retreat to it, habitually hoping to connect, or even reconnect, with that one true reflection of ourselves. Who was looking back at me? Who was she, that little girl, that woman—was she “me?” I’d linger there, ogling that image in the glass, shaping and molding what I desired others to see, and just how they’d see it—although reality is a mirror image of itself. I didn’t always appreciate, or even like what I observed about myself when I went there—I realized that “who” I was searching for was materially imperceptible.

For the greater part of my life, I always had a great dislike for women. Young girls, middle-aged to old ones, tall or short ones, full-figured or skinny ones, gentille, or unrefined—it mattered not; all women folk were outright detestable. During those years, she could’ve been Mother Theresa and it wouldn’t have mattered one iota. The origins of my repulsions began when I was about five years old. Everything about them sickened me. I despised the smell of their perfume, the clothes they wore, and the style of their hair. I hated their “femininity.” I eschewed their smiles, the way they laughed, their touch, especially a hug or a kiss. The conceptualization of ‘woman’ triggered emotions in my young mind that set off the most intense levels of agitation and anxiety. Nothing touched a nerve, to set me aflame, more than a female.

Up until age forty, I found it hard to identify with other females— I could never see a reflection of myself in any of them. A large majority of my perspective on life (socially and intimately), had been perceived through the eyes of a confused and broken five-year-old child. Of course, at that age, my cognitive sensibilities were still under construction, and I undoubtedly hadn’t yet developed the language, or curiosity enough to formulate questions about the female anatomy. Aside from the realization of my being a real living being, I only knew that I possessed a face, with all of its attributes intact, a torso, a storehouse for food and water, arms and legs, hands and feet, and fingers and toes attached to them. At that age, certain anatomical elements were naturally undisclosed and rather inconsequential, and untimely discovery and activation of them was well beyond my power of consent. From this moment on, a phantom personality began its first stages of development and would then become who I was not.

In my early stages of pre-adolescence, one of my sisters and I were sexually abused. The perpetrators were close family members, our kin, maybe 10 or 12 years our senior. They were sisters as well. Of course, they were family members my parents thought they could trust, though, that’s typically how the script unfolds—close family members are, universally, the usual suspects. The eldest of the two favored my sister, and the younger one favored me. The two of them, in tandem, molested us in our own home, in the dark, in our bedroom, and no one ever knew what was going on. There’s a kind of profundity to that, which almost warrants a sympathetic mulling over, laden with suspicions that it quite possibly happened to them in the same way they had violated us. I could never reconcile the fact that my parents and siblings never knew; even though, at the time, there were seven other children in the house each time the offence ensued. While my parents were attending weekly church gatherings—in praise and worship—their eyes watching God—they’d leave the two of them to watch over us.

I was a “cradle Christian”—born and raised; fully inculcated with the canon of “the gospel of salvation.” Accepting the doctrine meant I would be “saved,” and, “free from sin,” and that God would forgive me of all my iniquities—if only I believed. By the time I was eight years old, I needed this assurance. There were intense and traumatic memories, from extremely dirty moments, that invaded my thoughts, daily. I was already spiritually and psychologically famished. I wanted the recollection of those experiences wiped cleaned. I assumed that, without some spiritual rite of passage, my earthly legacy would be permanently marred.

Attending service every Sunday morning was mandatory, and we hardly ever, if at all, missed one. My Mom would often arrange for us to ride the church bus, sending us ahead so we’d be on time for Sunday school. This particular Sunday was like most others—we had gotten ready for service and waited for the bus to arrive. Nothing felt different about that day. The unruly driver arrived, incessantly honking the horn, stirring up the engine as a subtle warning of his impulsive need to leave us behind. As a result, we all wound up frantically rushing out the front door—as Dagwood, from the TV sitcom, Blondie—so we wouldn’t miss the bus. We were the last stop on the driver’s route before he made his way to I-94, and eventually to church. By then, the bus was densely packed with other parishioners and a fellow layman’s lap was often the only alternative to either standing, or sitting on the floor the rest of the way. The challenge, at this stage, was to find a vacancy, or someone willing to oblige.

Nonetheless, we all boarded the bus and began our search for a seat. Since it seemed women were more naturally inclined to accommodate children, most of us had no problems securing a spot that day. A young woman, sitting in the last row, possibly in her early 20’s, invited me to sit with her. I was a bit apprehensive at first, but soon made my way to the back of the bus. She greeted me with a big smile and asked if I’d like to share her seat—she sat in the row of the bus with only one chair—the one usually reserved for bus attendants. I had seen her in church before, but never on the bus. I agreed and positioned myself as she hoisted me up onto her lap. My first impression of her was favorable and I felt unusually comfortable being that close to another female (outside of my Mom and my sisters). Her words were affectionate and kind. She asked my name, told me how nice my clothes looked, and complimented me on how well my Mom fixed my hair. Shortly thereafter, she wrapped her arms around my waist, prompting me to sit back, and then rested her chin in the cradle of my neck and asked if I was okay. For me, her actions had become a bit too close for comfort, as I wasn’t sure what to gather from it, and felt my muscles getting tense. She adjusted her body, but in a way that seemed odd.

At that moment, her presence was no longer warm and nurturing, but became clandestine and perverted. Her movements were sedulous and cunning. I felt my back against her chest, as she casually massaged my outer thigh. “These tights are so cute,” she whispered, as she pressed her mouth against my right ear. I certainly didn’t receive that as a compliment and could feel the rush of fear and anxiety permeating throughout my body as she continued to manipulate my thigh. I consciously avoided sitting close to her abdomen, trying hard to hold on to the back of the seat in front of us, hoping to keep my position half-way off her knees, but she overpowered me and fully had me in her grasp. My eyes shut tight as I felt her hand going up the side of my skirt, as she groped my buttocks. I tried to pull away, but she tightened her grip and pulled me closer, moving her hips and pelvis in a circular motion. I was so confused and afraid and couldn’t understand why no one else noticed what was going on. I pulled away from her and quickly stood up, trying to call out to my eldest brother, who was just a few rows away, but simply couldn’t manage to speak.

Once she realized I was obviously not a willing participant, her attitude changed and she became cold and distant. Her posture suggested that I was somehow misbehaving, that I was being objectionably uncooperative or obtusely resistant. Even more insidious were her attempts to make amends, offering sweets as a trade-off for her misdeeds. She continued her connivances with a proposed treaty of “friendship,” though it was obviously a move to ascertain my level of credulity. What could a grown woman possibly find so enticing about an eight-year-old little girl? I knew I had re-encountered a familiar spirit—one whose desires I would no longer acquiesce to. I reported the incident to my parents, but couldn’t produce a vivid enough description of the woman for my Mom to identify; so, we’d wait until the following week so I could point her out the next time I saw her.

The following Sunday morning, as we boarded the bus, there she sat again, in the exact same seat in the last row, directly below the emergency exit sign painted on the back door. She motioned for me to sit with her, but I froze and stood motionless for a few seconds. I ignored the summons and glanced at the windowpane next to her, unconsciously focusing on the reflection of the shiny red and white stop sign just outside the bus. My lack of movement fueled my elder brother’s impatience, and he began ushering me down the aisle towards her. I quickly snapped out of it and began wrestling away from him. “What are you doing? Would you get back there and sit down!" he demanded. I continued to struggle but remained mute, and before I knew it, I shoved him aside and slid in between a young child and an older woman (who appeared to be his grandmother), and tried to sit down. My brother still had a strong grip on my coat collar, trying to yank me away from their seat, insisting that I couldn’t park myself there. However, the elder respectfully rebuked him and told him to leave me alone. I was relieved, but completely flustered and began to cry.

I leaned forward and rested my arms and head on the back of the seat in front of us; wondering why this woman was accosting me. The elder picked up the child sitting next to the window, placed him on her lap, and gently told me to sit back and relax. She saw that I had been crying and asked what was wrong. I looked back at that other woman—watching her wag her finger at me in disapproval for rejecting her invite—then turned back to the elder and simply shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know,” I mumbled. She gave me a pat on the arm and told me everything would be okay. Maybe the wagging meant that I should keep it a secret, or that I shouldn’t expose her. Perhaps, I “disappointed” her again. I was genuinely perplexed and didn’t know what was wrong or what I had done to become the object of that woman’s affection. Were all women like this, and did it mean that I would be too? After this encounter, I became suspicious of all females and did everything in my power to keep my distance from them.

Undoubtedly, that determination clearly altered my capacity to build and establish normal, healthy relationships with young girls, and ultimately with women. That’s not to say I didn’t spend or even enjoy recreational time with them, I simply didn’t yearn for the type of intimacy and camaraderie shared between most females. My interaction with the majority of them was short-lived, purely conditional, and easily divestible. Women who’ve tried forming kinships found it quite difficult to reach me, contending that I was mean, introverted, acutely rigid and particularly reserved. Indeed, anyone who knew me, quite intimately—individuals who were very few in number—found it hard to reconcile the vagueness and the “disparate” traits other women acknowledged. I didn’t regard such assessments, because I knew that the exterior was the guardian self, and the other was the sacred self— who I perceived was weak and vulnerable— unable to protect herself, unable to protect us.

Subsequently, my personal boundaries are easily measurable and extend no further than a select group of beings—i.e., my 11 siblings and their children, my parents, and my spiritual sister and confidante. Honestly, as tight-knit as we are, not even they were aware of the past abuse until I divulged it to them when I turned 32; although, I shared it more extensively with my spiritual sister when we first met in 2011. Disclosing the abuse to my family was one of the most awkward moments of my life, but for them, it was an “aha moment,” explaining what had puzzled them for so long about my attitude towards females. Now, they understood why I insisted that all women were “gay/lesbian”—where they had previously concluded that I was suffering with a case of inexplicable and extreme paranoia. I capitalized on this opportunity to identify with my sister, to discover if we shared the same level of torment, to find a reflection of myself in her, to see if she remembered as well.

Before age 33, previous to my “reveal,” she said she had absolutely no recollection of the abuse we suffered together, let alone had any apparent impression that it happened for nearly a year. I was utterly disappointed and equally dumbfounded! I relentlessly pressed her for just a microsecond of information, hoping to flush out something mutually abominable, until a simple word triggered a cursory memory of a vague image from the past. Unfortunately, that was all I could extract from her. Other than that transient reflection in her mind, she could not relate, and frankly had no desire to. She had forgotten, and I had not. My companion victim was living her life free of the perpetual mental replay, liberated from having to relive the abuse, and relieved of the pressure of trying to find a way to rescue herself from the muck of that mental poison. Though I understand the theory of memory repression, I still found it phenomenally perplexing that she no longer remembered it, and I always had.

The two of us were nearly inseparable well into our teens. We were both inhabitants under the same roof and exposed to near-identical life experiences, but were diametrically divergent in our ability to recall what happened. I wanted to forget as well. Consequently, I confided in my eldest brother, now a licensed psychotherapist and ordained minister, who suggested that I talk to a counselor, or alternatively consider going through another baptism ceremony. “Rededicate your life to God,” he insisted. That I was haunted and tormented by the ills of the past could (somehow) intimate that I had fallen away from God, or that I was spiritually lost (though I was in neither condition) was beyond irrationality. Incidentally, his recommendation triggered another painful memory I cared not to revisit.

I remember my first baptism—the day I thought I could wash away the memories of my prepubescent self—the day I’d become a new creation in Christ. I genuinely expected that they’d be thrown into the, “sea of forgetfulness”—words many preachers delivered with an unwavering conviction every Sunday morning. I trusted and believed those sentiments, wholeheartedly, and felt equally assured of God’s promises. That Sunday afternoon, during altar call, I boldly exited my seat and stepped into the center aisle. Altar call, in essence, is an impromptu Q & A where the minister questions one’s level of sincerity, determining the candidate’s qualifications for baptism. Depending on one’s resolve, they’d either be ushered towards the baptismal area, or hastily directed back to their seat. My previous attempts were unsuccessful, and I had hoped, this time, my trip down the aisle would be the breakthrough I yearned for.

One of my younger sisters chose to go that day as well, so the two of us, holding hands, walked the aisle together. Finally, our turn came to stand before the minister. By then, I had become fidgety and teary-eyed—which gave rise to a more dramatic effect. The minister motioned for me to step forward, placed his hand on my shoulder, and then, stooping down, began the interrogation. He asked whether our parents knew about it, and if I understood my decision in doing so. I was almost too nervous to speak and only managed an agreeable nod. I quickly gathered my thoughts and affirmed that I wanted to be with God, that I wanted to be saved, and that I didn’t want to die and go to the “lake of fire.” As traumatizing a thought as it was for a child to imagine being tormented in a torrent of eternal liquid combustion, we weren’t allowed to utter the word “hell,” so “lake of fire,” seemed more “appropriate.” He stared at me for a few moments; possibly trying to detect any signs of insincerity, then motioned to the female baptismal aides to escort my sister and me to the dressing room.

The two women walked us down the hallway and led us up a dimly lit multi-level staircase and into a plush lounge. The walls of the third level passage were aligned with newly varnished mahogany pillars, smelled of fresh floor wax and lemon furniture polish, mixed with a scent of freshly cut flowers. Once in the changing room, they instructed us to fully disrobe and change into standard baptismal attire, which consisted of an exceptionally bright white robe, thigh-high white socks, and an extra thick, dual-layered swim cap. While undressing, I felt vulnerable and exposed. There were women outside the stall—and I didn’t feel safe around them—but I was on a mission and it was worth the compromise. Change filled the air and I could detect the presence of divinity in that room; I was immersed in the sanctity of the moment. As soon as I stepped out of the changing stall, one of the attendants gripped my arm, pulled me towards her, put her hand under my robe, and detecting that I had not followed her instructions, lifted it to confirm that I still had on my underwear.

“I thought I told you to remove everything…them pannies too! You can’t go in that water with yo’ pannies on!” she yelled, yanking at my undergarments. The word ‘panties’ made me feel dirty and uncomfortable—especially since my Mom detested the implied vulgarity in it—on top of the fact that she was angry and aggressively trying to remove them herself. “You ain’t gettin’ in that pool and gettin’ ‘em wet, just so your momma’ can be fussin’ at us for lettin’ you walk outta’ here with wet pannies on!” she gnashed, with contempt. The tone of her voice was heavy and ragged—coupled with the residue of a distant and well-forgotten southern charm. The other attendant quickly intervened and demanded that she leave me alone and allowed me to keep them on. Her lack of regard for the inviolability of the moment spoke volumes about the condition of her heart, and I, at that age, brought her “salvation” into question. Naturally, I was quite agitated but regained my composure once the other aid led us to one of the ministers.

The male pool attendant, awaiting our arrival, ushered us through another doorway that led to the deck. There I stood, facing the congregation from the pulpit, making a public declaration and lasting commitment to God at eight years old. The view from there was theatrical, and to observe their witness of my life playing out on stage was surreal! The pool was situated on a raised platform attached to the pulpit, concealed behind a pair of the most royal and elegantly designed purple velvet curtains, contrasted with thick gold-colored tie-backs. On either side of it were statues of Jesus—with outstretched arms and the proverbial holes engraved in his hands, and a statue of Mary, in her passion position. I imagined my memories would soon be swallowed up in those holes in his palms. The attendant guided my steps down into the pool, crossed my hands over my chest, and explained that when cued, I should hold my nose and refrain from opening my mouth once the immersion happened. A hush fell over the sanctuary, and the man standing over me began to perform the ritualistic entreaty for baptism. After reciting the confirmation, he lowered my body into the water.

The movement was swift and mechanical. I stood, listening to the pomp & circumstance, but felt remotely elsewhere. While the congregation sang their “hallelujahs,” my impression of it was bittersweet. I’d be saved, but I hadn’t forgotten anything…not one single solitary thing. I pondered why God would no longer revive His memory of my sins, but didn’t take them from me. What purpose would it serve for Him to forget, but for me to remember? Nevertheless, after drying off and changing back into my clothes, there again, seeking pleasure of me was that old familiar spirit. As my sister and I waited to be escorted back down to the sanctuary, the attendant cornered me, slipped her hand under my dress, fumbling around my underwear, squeezed my buttocks twice, then ran her finger up the front of my pudendum. I simultaneously squirmed and crossed my legs, signaling that I disapproved of her illegally frisking me. She absolved herself by claiming to check how wet my underwear were. Had it escaped her? Was she no longer cognizant of my being submerged in nearly four feet of water? I went into that ceremony hoping to be cleansed, only to be accosted and violated again, from beginning to end. That criminal energy had become fully integrated into my initial rite of passage.

Little did my brother know that his proposed spiritual remedy (to be re-baptized), had already been attempted when I was 19, but it didn’t “work”—so I respectfully declined. I simply needed something more remedial. Consequently, in 2008, I took his advice and solicited the services of one of the ministers at the church I was attending (at the time). Unfortunately, for me, she was ill-prepared and not remotely qualified to address the issue. She contended that my being molested was providentially designed to, “work out for my good,” because I, “loved God…and was called according to His purpose.” In other words, if I overcame, then I’d be suited to help others do the same. No thanks! In the event victims never triumph, what then? Her cognitively distorted presumptions and nondescript anecdotes only revealed that she was a rightful candidate of much needed psychological counseling herself. There is no redeeming value in our continuously experiencing pain, hurt, heartache, and disappointment for the sake of God raising clout for Himself.

After years of mounting disenchantment with that ministry, I connected with an ex pastor who had invited me to join a group of believers of a more “orthodox” perspective of the Bible. As my knowledge progressed in those tenets, my network of associates expanded and led me to an elder living in Pakistan. As part of that spiritual awakening process, I shared with him that I was in the course of tracing my family’s genealogy, and that I was considering changing my name and nationality. Consequently, he directed me to a local assembly of constituents following the same path. I wavered between two or three different groups, before providence took precedence, which led me straightway into the throes of deliverance. Aside from our weekly conference calls, I frequently had private phone conversations with one of the chief elders about my personal spiritual goals and possible ministry work, plans for family, and my overall outlook regarding my newfound faith. While I genuinely felt satisfied and more fulfilled than I had within the past decades, I still felt a lingering deficiency, a sort of unsettling disposition I knew he could not be privy to. Amid other concerns, he determined that I needed a mentor and referred me to one of the other principal elders—a female counselor.

Our preliminary conversation revolved around a legal matter for a family member, but gradually evolved into a discussion—literally a confession—about what I went through as a child. I don’t know how, or why, I began unconsciously disclosing such intimate details about that dreadful time in my life; the words simply poured out. The most remarkable feature of that moment was the peace and serenity that enveloped my being—I had absolutely no worries and felt unreservedly safe and secure—in repose, I felt completely relaxed. I laughed quietly, likening our engagement to a confessional—similar to one of those “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned…,” moments. Her presence was like an invisible truth serum, as if she was entitled to know. I simply couldn’t believe how open and candid I was, but it was quite refreshing. As I settled into my disclosure, she never uttered a word, but sat quietly and patiently listened.

After a while, I began to apologize for my candor, supposing that my exposé was too much of an imposition. Contrarily, she politely asked if she could comment on the situation and offer words of comfort. I consented to her request and received a stream of language so eloquently conveyed—words so linguistically resplendent—I would be remiss if I had not. The use of the English language was fresh; it was coherent, enlightening, and poetic. She had a handle on the proper use of its terminology—nothing misconstrued, nothing contrived. In that short amount of time, she planted the seeds of hope and redemption. Though succinct, she left me with a heightened sense of insight into the human psyche that superseded any spiritual discourse on it (especially, from a Biblical perspective). Although a few months would lapse before we spoke again, I knew my connection with her was divinely inspired and would prove to be the long-awaited answer to my prayers.

Consequently, we reconnected, became better acquainted, and naturally developed a sisterly bond that, ordinarily, would be moderately uncommon for me. Our spiritual and philosophical concepts were nearly identical, and for the first time in my adult life, I began to see aspects of myself I had never perceived before. As our friendship strengthened, so did my level of fidelity in her ability to retain my private thoughts in strictest confidence. Nearly a year had passed before the topic of abuse re-emerged. I knew the time was ripe for confronting those decades-old reflections of my former self. There was much to bring forth, so many embarrassing moments, and simply too many shameful memories to render. Her approach was first to conduct a needs assessment; determining what it was I desired. What outcome was I aiming for? Was I ready to confront the voices and the images, and could I come face-to-face with the reality of what happened, no matter how unpleasant? Was I up to the task and in it for the long haul?

I endorsed her methodology and agreed to our first session. She oriented me on the theme and template we would follow (ideals relating to dismantling and reconstruction), and insisted that it take place at night, during the quiet and serene hours of the day. At the appointed time, I performed a pre-ceremonial hand & foot-washing, anointed my forehead and palms with a select ceremonial oil, deeply inhaled it and sat in quiet meditation. The two of us remained still for some time, listening and scanning the atmosphere. She then instructed me to turn off the lights, lie down in a comfortable position, and then close my eyes. Finally, she opened the session with prayer; speaking to the four winds, and to the energies in my environment, asking for peace, comfort, healing, and courage. After the prayer, she confirmed that I was ready…and the journey began.

Like spiritual diagnosticians, we went inside, casting light, assessing the damage, examining thoughts—uncovering and exposing secret matters of the heart—in vivid and explicit detail. She asked me to describe the memories and interpret the voices—to illustrate what they expressed. Once revealed, we analyzed them and assigned distinct characteristics to each—meanings that were the complete antithesis of my sacred self. As uncomfortable and humiliating as it was, I boldly exposed and confronted the thoughts as we flushed them out. There were brief moments of hesitation, times when I felt I couldn’t proceed; because the memories were too graphic. During those moments, where I seemed tentative and vulnerable, we’d break and examine my feelings, ensuring I was emotionally grounded enough to continue. Eventually, after nearly four hours, we ended the session and closed the ritual with a prayer.

For the next few days, we engaged in follow-up sessions, identifying and implementing strategies to remove thoughts that would continue to impede on my path to deliverance. It was hard to accept that spiritually, emotionally, and psychologically, I was not grounded. I needed to plant my feet on solid ground. She likened it to untangling knots and keeping the runway clear—removing the clutter and debris to ensure a clear and safe landing. “Clearing the clutter,” meant that I would be able to see clearly into the future—proceeding sure-footedly, nothing impeding. A few days after conducting the initial session, we were in the middle of a deep spiritual conversation, when I began to drift off to sleep. Somehow, I was still tuned in to her voice while she was speaking, and simultaneously began to dream. In the vision appeared a large beautifully engraved fuchsia candle on a table, surrounded by an assortment of petals from several species of flowers. As the wick burned, the candle began to melt. I walked over to the table and stood over it, looking down into the melted wax that had settled into its moat. The liquid, in appearance, was glasslike, similar to a mirror; except it wasn’t solid. When I looked into it, I could see my reflection. Each time she spoke, the flame flickered in sync with every word, increasing the height of the candle until it practically touched my nose. Here, submerged in the depths of my subconscious, as she continued to speak, I slowly came into view. I could see my reflection and had come face-to-face with my true self.

Healing came through a vessel fifteen years removed and 2,350 miles away. I absorbed those sayings and adored every therapeutic word that flowed from her mouth. I was so receptive to them. Those were her reflections—things she wanted me to ponder; infallible truths the mirror does not have the capacity to project. Her expressions helped me to see my own self-image and the out-of-balance condition that caused it to become distorted, and that my perspective on life, love, happiness, and peace had become terribly skewed. I felt the shift in my thinking, I could hear the recalibrations, the readjustments, and the realignments taking place on the inside. In essence, a foreign energy, an invader, a squatter, a usurper, hijacked my identity. It had finally been dismantled. I could see its recurring shadow no more. She helped me understand that those sins were not mine, that they belonged to those foul energies, and that the memories were solely reminiscent of their “stuff.” Those transgressions belonged to the individuals guilty of committing the offense. Her truth brought forth clarity and healing—luminous virtues like the bright noonday Sun. Now I could see my own light, and my reflection is more apparent than ever.