The Record Keeper (Murphy Shepherd, #3)

by Charles Martin

We didn’t know who we were, and more importantly, we didn’t know whose we were—forever proving that identity precedes purpose. You can’t know who

you are until you’ve settled whose you are.

. . .” As Bones prayed, the slideshow played across my mind’s eye. All

Whose you are matters more to the soul than who you are or what you are.

People in darkness don’t know they’re in darkness because it’s all they’ve ever known. It’s their world. They navigate

primarily by bumping off things that are stronger. Immovable. They don’t know darkness is darkness until someone turns on a light. Only then does the darkness roll back like a scroll. It has to. Darkness can’t stand light. And it hasn’t. Not since God spoke it into existence. The problem comes when you turn on a light and find those in darkness who, having seen light, prefer the dark. Who retreat into the shadows to do their deeds in secret. They are the

Wanting justice, I’d kept a record of wrongs. Payment to be exacted from the guilty. On my terms. It fueled and justified my need for revenge. Bones? Bones kept a record of hope imprinted on his heart.

Sometimes, given their depth, we become little more than the sum of our wounds, and it takes someone else to see what we can be instead of what we are.