Practicing Forgiveness

For so long, well, actually for my entire life, I have tried to prove myself worthy of my mom's love. Every time she hurt me, crushed me, abused me, I would stoically accept the blows, until I had been practically stripped of my identity. At the last possible moment, my sense of self preservation would kick into high gear and I would back away, vowing never to go back to leave my heart and psyche open to her barbs. But I always crawled back. I had a need to be wanted, to be loved, to feel like my existence was not an accident. Opened myself up to ridicule and hate and ambiguity. Thought as I grew up things would change.  

Things did not change. But I did. I grew farther away from my past, and clumsily embarked on my growth as a Christian. Of course, in my naive, immature understanding of God's grace, I thought being a Christian meant to let the blows just hit me, to keep my hands to my side, and get beat up, all the while praying and waiting for God to affect my mom's behavior and treatment of me. Same with my sisters, and anyone else who mistreated me...and there were a lot...I would reach out over and over again, giving them my time, my money, my heart, apologizing for any imagined (yet nonexistent) slights. I turned a blind eye to their sins, foolishly thinking I could just set an example of Christ-like behavior and they'd stop in their tracks, instantly realizing they were wrong. That they would abruptly do a behavioral about face. Yeah, not so much. No repentance means no chance at reconciliation. A hard pill to swallow, but over the past 2 years I have begun to more clearly see how, in taking their abuse, I was a participant in my own wounding.  It was as if, as they would run toward me with a razor sharp sword, I would just open up my shirt and close my eyes and run right into the blade, and then act all surprised when they pierced my heart. That is not forgiveness...that is suicide. And condoning their sin.  

I need a lot more practice...