That I perceive that I have been wronged matters not. If I have actually been wronged also matters not. My decisions as a result of these occurrences, that is what matters. My attitude, my words, my actions. These I control. These I have to answer for. These are my battle. These should not be dependent on others. These do not have to be influenced by attacks that come in all forms. These are what they are even if others twist them, knowingly or obliviously. These affect my treatment of others. These matter.
Striving to remain kind and gentle, to be known because of love. Offense after offense must I take since I have no authority to condemn. This is not weakness. This is not foolish. This is not mindless. This is intentional. This is reckless. This is simple.
There is no justification to support a decision to cease striving to be graceful. Full of grace. Grace gifted because of love. So many of my transgressions have been passed over. All of them actually. That knowledge. The acceptance and belief of that is greater than any limitations I could ever attempt to put into place.
So much blood being drawn from me, but so much blood have I drawn. I am not without fault. My hands, mind, tongue are dark with the blood of others. I am not only victim and offended. I am murderer and offender. I am perpetually bleeding from old wounds, new wounds, busted stitches, scabs viciously ripped from me. Everything is stained, my entire wardrobe. Yet, it matters not. Even the worst pain, past, present, and future, does not measure up. It is to be endured, the pain. I will not allow it to be an obstacle that halts my progress.
Seventy times seven
