Now They Know.

I strolled through the slender passageway, overgrown with trees and shrubs, a galley of greenery connecting the park to church. My head and heart felt it: the last Sunday I could hide. The last Sunday I could walk around the people, duck through the grounds, or peer like a peaking child amongst people. It was the last Sunday I would be, could be, anonymous.

Because after this, I would be known.

After tonight (Tuesday), they would know my story.

They would see me across the atrium and think: That's her: that's the girl who lost her mom. And forever I will be labeled that way. From here on, those who faces I don't know, will know mine. And they will know a slice of my story.

There is a great act of vulnerability that comes in that. A great surrender. A great giving of the private, inward self that allows the tenderist of moments to be exposed, the weakest of emotions to be revealed, the rawest memories to be disclosed.

I watched the large screen show my face as tears welled and poured over from my eyes, emotions seeping through. His words of surrender to me, "[Be willing to] Let God use you," were placed as a seal on my heart.

I could hear their weeping, some louder than mine. Feel Trish's hand clasping my fingers and Kara's warmth on my back. And I knew the weight of their emotions, the cognitive pairing of the woman on the screen and me.

And I thought, "Now they know."

Now they know a piece of my story. Now they know the deepest of worlds. Now they know...

Me.

And though feeling embarrassingly exposed,

I also felt freed.

Loved and known and hugged and accepted,

But now a with a more fuller love

Because now they know

Me.