On apologies and forgiveness

Forgiveness.  One of the basic tenets of the Christian faith.  Love one another.  Forgive one another.  Repent for your sins.  You'd think most Christians would be experts at forgiveness by now, that we would breeze right through this and move on to something a little more difficult.  Maybe that is because we confuse empty apologies with real repentance.  So, what is forgiveness?   And why do I fret so much over whether or not someone accepts my forgiveness or forgives me?  Why is forgiveness from a person (which is temporary and capricious and conditional) more important to me than the totally undeserved and no strings attached, unconditional forgiveness from God?  Do I really need forgiveness for perceived slights or bygone hurts from someone who couldn’t care less if I accept it?  More than I absolutely depend on God’s gracious blanket pardon of sins past, present and future?   And do I really mean it (and I mean REALLY) when I pronounce I am here to glorify God?  Or am I just jumping up and down flapping my arms and hollering “hey!  Over here!  look at me!   I forgive you! “

And then there is the incessant need to apologize, to say "Sorry" as a prelude to rationalizing bad behavior, being late for an appointment, for losing my temper, for, well, everything.  It's one of the first concepts children have drummed into them--to say "I'm sorry" when they do something wrong.  Instead of teaching them to admit their mistake, and to actually seek forgiveness from mom, dad, baby sister, teacher, or the dog, we shake our fingers at them and demand them to "tell Daddy you are sorry for spilling your milk," and "tell the dog you're sorry for stepping on her tail" or "Apologize this instant for hitting your brother."  We   confuse the two actions--apologizing (passive placating) and asking forgiveness (actively taking accountability for wrongdoing), and most of the things we apologize for are not even intentional acts of omission or commission, but accidents.  So, kids grow up thinking two things--that they are responsible for everything, and conversely, as long as they say "sorry," they are responsible for nothing.  Forgiveness is not even sought--the mumbled "sorry" covers all wrongs, and the other party (who may or may not have been actually wronged) doesn't have to do anything--hearing the "sorry" implies absolution.

Over the past few years I have learned a lot about myself, my tendencies, and my weaknesses, and I have come face-to-face with the specter of meaningless apologizing, with being the perpetual victim that being continually sorry for everything entails.  And I have realized, quite painfully and regretfully, that the majority of the instances I apologize for, I am either not responsible for, or, more likely than not, that I am intentionally sinning.  Yes, sinning, folks...not just "messing up" or "screwing up" or "forgetting". I have wronged someone, and thereby have wronged God, and by not actively seeking forgiveness, I have disqualified myself from worshiping Him.   In that act,  by not ASKING for and actively SEEKING forgiveness, I also have shot myself in the foot and have made myself incapable of receiving true forgiveness.  From the other person.  And more importantly, from the Holy One, the creator of the universe.  Just because God's forgiveness is a given, through the action of Jesus dying on the cross, does in no way mean we should not repent.  

And I am not talking about reconciliation, either.  At least not human reconciliation.  Asking forgiveness and being genuinely repentant for our actions towards or against another person does not guarantee that person will accept our request and actually grant forgiveness.  If that person is a Christian, then hopefully someone in their church circle will step up and start the process referenced in Matthew 18.  But if that person refuses to grant forgiveness, or will not ask for forgiveness, then it is that person who is disobeying God.  As Paul says in Romans 12:18, "if possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men.’"  If possible, he says. Meaning, it is a 50-50 deal, and if I have in good faith repented and asked forgiveness, then my role is finished.   The rest is up to the other person. Now as for repenting and asking for God's forgiveness,  that, my friends, is a "whole nuther ball of wax" as my daddy used to say.  We are commanded to repent, compelled to repent for our sins, because the mere presence of God's spirit in my soul pricks me and forces me to see the ugliness of my sin, and I ask God's forgiveness and He grants it. Absolutely. Immediately.  This is not a 50-50 deal...more like an all or nothing situation.   And that is where I lose sleep.  And obsess. Confusing one with the other.  And, stupidly and blindly missing out on the greatest gift of all time.  

But, not for long.  Because that still voice in me urges me, no forces me, to admit my sin, repent, and then throw that sin away.  And eventually, to forget it.  

As for my obsessive need for closure and acceptance and repentance and forgiveness from my fellow humans?  I am sill dealing with that, but knowing the enemy is half the battle--I see you, oh victim mentality, and I know who you are!  I know your tricks, and your games, and your whiny, whimpering self-deprecation, and you are not who I am.  I am His, and He is in me, and His grace covers a multitude of sins.  

Wait...what was that?

Have you ever felt so wronged that you carried the memory of that wrong around with you for days, weeks, even months, and all that time you formulated in your head the perfect conversation, the ideal confrontation, and role played exactly how you'd face the wrongdoer, confront them, say wise and pithy things to the person, with just the right amount of sarcasm and sardonic wit?  And the longer you nursed the grudge and relived the wrongdoing you suffered, telling it over and over to anyone and everyone within earshot about your abuse, the more vivid the hurt became and the madder you got?  Until you were just bursting with righteous anger and indignation?  And you just KNEW that as soon as the opportunity presented itself, your well-rehearsed speech would come pouring out, completely crushing the wrongdoer, leaving her in a crumpled, shattered, shivering heap of apologies and remorse?  Oh how satisfying that encounter would be!  You were wronged!  You deserve an apology, fairness, even revenge!  And even though you could hate the person, and feel completely justified in that hate and anger, you choose the high road, you choose to forgive, and you gallantly bestow your mercy on the undeserving wretch because, after all, that is what Christians do!  Oh how the wretch will be so grateful, how proud God will be of His progeny for bestowing forgiveness on someone who has hurt you so deeply.  

The moment presents itself, you are facing her, she cannot escape, and you gird your loins for the confrontation that is imminent.  You open your mouth, you say a quick prayer, and the words come tumbling out, hesitant and stuttering at first, then, as you gather assurance and confidence, the words pour out of you, along with your emotions, even tears.  You are surprised at your composure and your compassion for the person sitting across from you.  She looks at you, blinks away tears, and then takes your hands in her hands, and thanks you.  And then, she forgives you.

Wait..what?

I asked for forgiveness?  From the person I have been fuming against for eighteen months?  How in the blue blazes did that just happen?  What planet am I on?  Am I hallucinating?  Did I enter some Mission Impossible scene and get a chip put in my brain and some strange person is controlling what I say without me knowing it?  

Uh, no.  None of the above.  I honestly and seriously have been carrying this bitterness in my heart toward someone I had never met, full of bitterness and resentment and anger over deeds done by others, and I lumped her into the group of evildoers simply as a result of guilt by association.  This grudge got bigger and bigger and took up so much room in my soul and my heart that it grew a life of its own.  I knew (or thought I knew) the only way to clear the playing field and put that grudge out of my life forever would be this:  I would have to face her, and I would magnanimously forgive her.  Yes, that would do it.  Then I could move on because she would know that I knew that she was wrong, but I forgave her anyway.  I had prayed about every facet of this situation for months; I begged for resolution, for an opportunity to present itself for me to fix this. The more I prayed, the more assured I became, confident God could use me to show that person how she was wrong and I had been wronged.  

God had other plans, which is always a good thing.  His plan? For the Holy Spirit to convict me of my wrongdoing, my pride, my arrogance, my self-righteous, and my mean spiritedness.  Yes, some people had wronged me, hurt me, sinned against me, but I had wrongfully laid the blame on the wrong person.  I had intimated impropriety, hinted at conspiracies, and even filed formal complaints.  And when I found myself in front of the person I had dreaded seeing for so long, I knew it was time to put this thing to rest.  Fortunately, putting it to rest meant for me to admit my wrongdoing, to ask for forgiveness for MY sins, my ill feelings.  

I had to remove that board out of my eye, before pointing out a splinter in her eye.  Funny, after I removed that board from my eye, I couldn't see anything wrong with her.  Hmmm....maybe the splinter I thought I saw was really just an illusion.

For, as Jesus said, 

"If your brother or sister has something against you … First go and be reconciled to them” (Matthew 5:23-24).

Seventy Times Seven

A letter to my sisters...

I guess I will never know if you read this, although I hope you do.  But this is something I feel compelled to write. For three years I have been struggling with forgiveness...forgiveness of self, of you, of Mom, of our childhood.  And just when I feel the forgiveness merry-go-round is stopping, and I can jump off, it starts back up again.  Some memory, or phone call, or text pops up, and the calliope starts back up.  Back in 2015 when this nightmare began, I really thought I was doing the right thing, the Biblical thing, and I thought I could handle whatever came up.  Then it was as if my entire world collapsed and turned completely upside down, and I was alone and overwhelmed.  Mom got very sick, Alex's parents had emergency after emergency, and although I reached out for help, I admit I asked for help and put conditions on that help...I felt I was right, and dammit I was going to convince both of you how right I was.  Yeah, that worked really well, didn't it.  I expected you to know exactly what was going on here, and how I needed your help, but I really did not effectively communicate how desperate the situation had become.  So, when mom had to be admitted to skilled nursing care, and I tried to explain it to you, it was a shock to you both.  For that, I am sorry, for not preparing you better for the state Mom was in, and how extremely difficult those first four months had been.  And, since I felt alone and that you both had abandoned me, I took it all on myself.  Not all my decisions were great, and yes you may have made different decisions.  Or maybe not.  Bottom line, I had to make some really scary decisions. And despite what you believe or what Mom told you, she and I discussed many of those decisions...selling her storage unit things, healthcare, hernia surgery, turning in her car, her budget...my only mistake there was not getting some of those decisions in writing.

By that time, though, Mom was skillfully manipulating all three of us to hear and believe what she wanted us to hear.  I knew she was telling you both her sob story, and filling your heads with lies, but there was nothing I could do to change that.  So, I waited for the inevitable, and the inevitable arrived.   You both came to take her away, to undo all the work I had done: qualify her for Medicaid, pay what bills I could and talk down the rest; put her in a safe place; it was all at risk, and I did what the nursing home recommended.  We all know how that went, and it was clear that battle lines had been drawn; there would be no turning back.  What transpired over the next 18 months was a nightmare of epic proportions.  I was interrogated by the county Sheriff for false criminal charges (while on my way to my father-in-law's funeral), constantly had to intercept poison pen emails and letters to local businesses, and finally, was served with a lawsuit full of lies.  Her lies were not what cut me to the core, though...it was that you both believed them.  You believed I locked her in the basement, you believed I abused her, you believed I did not take care of her and you actually believed I had her get surgery she did not need; you believed I stole from her, and you believed I made decisions without consulting her.  And then you involved our parents, and your children--my nieces and nephews--effectively cutting me off from everyone in our birth family.   I was crushed and broken--the two sisters who were my closest allies in the crazy, dysfunctional, psychotic personality that was our mother, became my enemies.  And to this day, I still do not know why.  Over a dog she kept locked in a crate?  Over some broken crap in storage?  So she could get moved around the country over the next 15 months and break her hip, have bowel obstructions, get surgery after surgery, only to finally end up dying in a nursing home?  Just like the one you moved her from here?  For that we are no longer sisters or family?  After thousands and thousands of dollars in legal fees, and countless tears and sleepless nights, I still am dumbfounded over what transpired.  

We are no closer to the truth or to each other than we were three years ago, that fateful summer when we tried to fix our mother's screwed up life.  She played us all, and she kept playing us.  And now, even though she is dead and gone, she still manipulates us from the grave.  I have come a long way in my faith, in my self-realization, in my healing of old wounds, since that time.   I have forgiven her for everything she was and everything she did to me--things you have never known of, hell, some things I had tried for decades to forget! I have come to grips with why I tried to rescue her, why I made it my mission to save her from herself--not once, not twice, but three times in six years.  And while I realize I would not be here on this earth without her, I will not lie and say she was a good mother.  She was not.  But that is another story, another letter.  This is about three daughters who were all victims, who did the best they could to rise above their heredity and their upbringing.  This is about three sisters who were never really close, because in our family the adults always played one against the other; they still do.  We never knew who the enemy really was, or who would be on our "side" so we all kept our distance from each other and dealt with our brokenness in our own fractured ways.  The things I have learned about our family are truly liberating, but the sad thing is, we are not unique.  Books have been written...books that when you read them you think the author lived in our house!

So what am I trying to say?  I am not trying to answer every accusation or question or misgiving you may have, or clear myself of all wrongdoing, or explain my motives.  Yes, I still struggle occasionally with trying to obtain validation of choices, of wanting my family to approve of me, but I am getting past that.  I accept myself, and I accept you.  I am forgiving you.  For everything. And I will continue to forgive you until the day I die. And I humbly ask for your forgiveness.  Not explanations.  Not remunerations.  Not justification.  But forgiveness, and eventually, ultimately, I pray we will have reconciliation.  Because forgiveness without reconciliation, well, it is like taking a shower without water.  

Please let's be sisters again, or at least, let's be family.

Mourning the Lost

About a month ago, my phone rang. Not an unusual occurrence in and of itself, but the caller was unusual—it was my sister.  The same sister who lied to the courts, who filed false police reports.  The same sister who was the driving force behind a painful (and expensive) frivolous and entirely fabricated civil lawsuit.  Needless to say, I let it go to voicemail.  Couldn’t even bring myself to listen to it.  Alex listened to it—supposedly my mother was in renal failure.  Ok.  What’s new?  I figured it was just a ploy for attention.  

Then, two weeks ago, I get a text.  Informing me mom died.  Yes. A text.  No voicemail.  No card.  No info on services.  Just a text. A sterile, four word line, “mom passed last night”.  When I spoke to my dad that weekend, I mentioned the little kernel of news, trying to feel him out, to ascertain if he’d heard anything.  Nope.  He was shocked.  I thought, well, maybe another cruel hoax.  Then a week later, another text, this time to both me and Alex.  Same message.   I mean, seriously? She has not called, texted, emailed, written, or sent smoke signals in two years.  No news of of any kind, no word of hospitalizations, address, surgeries, state of mind.  Then, boom—a texted death announcement.  I didn’t know what to think.  Or believe.  I heard nothing else from anyone.  Called the nursing home.  Nothing. Checked FaceBook.  Googled for funeral home announcements and obituaries in the general vicinity of her last known address.  Again, I drew a blank.   

WTF?!?

Now what?   How did I feel?  How should I feel? Was I sad the woman who gave birth to me was dead?  Did I hurt for the ones who said they cared for her?   Was I irritated that less than 30 days prior we’d settled our lawsuit?  Was I angry about the thousands of dollars it had cost ?  

I thought I’d forgiven them all.  I thought I was beyond being hurt anymore.  I thought, foolishly, I was over it, safe, immune, in my little cocoon, my mountain home.  Then this.  Another slap in the face, another reminder of the depth of the dysfunction of our family.    Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water.  (Don’t worry.  No shark metaphors). 

The enormity of it all, the sheer finality of the death of my mother, the societal expectations of how I should feel at the revelation of this news—it hit me like a ton of bricks.  And keeps hitting me like some crazed game of out-of-control Tetris.   How do I mourn the loss of a relationship I never had?   If you’ve followed this journey with me at all, you already know my life was anything but normal.  This isn’t about that though; it’s not a cry for sympathy.   I’m just trying to figure out how I’m supposed to feel.  To react.  To move on.  I want to scream at my sisters, to ask them Why?   To make them say they were wrong and to beg my forgiveness.  

After nearly three years of no real communication.  A text.  

I realize I haven’t forgiven them.  I haven’t moved on.  Yeah I’ve learned a lot about me and I’m growing, I’ve healed some of the hurts, and many of the scars are fading.  But some still have scabs, and bleed when the scab is bumped.  

Human forgiveness, unlike divine redemption, is not a one time, over and done event. It’s a process.  A process of healing.  And bleeding.  And scarring.  

And healing.   

Lots and lots of healing

Easier Said than Done...

Ah the advice, the quotes, the quick and easy fixes.  Forgive and forget.   Let go and let God. Pray for those who hurt you. Love your enemies. Bless those who curse your. Que sera, sera. Get over it already. Count your blessings. Don’t worry, be happy. Hakuna matata. It is what it is.  

Easier said than done. Honestly, nearly impossible, when you have been betrayed. I thought I had experienced pain, that I knew how it felt. I have suffered loss, sickness, abandonment, injustice, disappointment, and sadness, but the pain of betrayal causes a wound so deep, and envelops you in its grasp so completely, it blots out everything good. Betrayal gives birth to deep-seated fear and has caused me to question everything in my life, even the good things. I feel lost, in a fog, and question my very existence. Nothing is safe, or solid, or good anymore.  I reach out to grab hold of something solid, to hold on to even one small slice of happiness, and it slips out of my hands. 

That is the pain of betrayal, and it hurts all the more when it is perpetrated by those you love, those you thought loved you.  A pain so deep, so gut-wrenching,  so pervasive, it is always there, and can never be pushed completely out of my mind.  The kind that sneaks up on you out of nowhere and takes your breath away.  I pray, try to keep busy, listen to music, read books and articles, talk and journal and blog, all to no avail.  The pain is tricky that way, because just when I think it is safe, just when I think the pain is less, that I’m beginning to heal, it smacks me in the face, kicks me in the solar plexus, reminding me it is still there.  Pain so real it is palpable, visible, with a life of its own. The pain lurks around every corner, behind every shadow, and wraps its sinewy arms around my heart and my chest, making it hard to breathe.  The intensity of the hurt makes me furrow my brow, and causes tears to well up without any warning.  

Betrayal does not make me stronger--it makes me weaker. It has not made me wiser--it has made me feel foolish. Everything is harder now--sleeping, enjoying, smiling, praying.  It is there when I wake up, when I go to bed at night, and when I try not to think about it all. Like a jealous lover, the pain of betrayal refuses to allow me to enjoy anything or anyone completely. And it is absolutely exhausting to try to act normal, to smile, to pretend I am doing okay.  

Today was a dark day, the pain and the hurt won. They jumped me when I was least expecting them, and then kept me prisoner all day long, and halfway into the night.  If I was a poet perhaps I could write some splendid verse to capture the pain and thus make it leave, or at least lessen for a time.  But I am not.  

So, for a while, I breathe, therefore I hurt.

Someone make it stop.

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...

Struggling with Forgiveness

Recently I started seeing a Christian counselor to help me navigate through the painful maze of lies, deception, and hurt inflicted by someone who should never want to hurt me--my mother, and with them, my sisters. I needed to talk not just to any counselor, but one who would be able to help me discern God's path for me, and what He would have me do. At the same time, my daughter sent me an article on forgiveness, something she is working through with one of her friends--a scriptural view of forgiveness. The coincidence of these two events happening at the same time is mind blowing, and I see God's wonderful, loving Hand in it. This week, my counselor gave me "homework," to "identify the forgivable offense."  Makes sense...can't forgive something unless I know what I am forgiving. I read through that aforementioned article, twice...and began to pray, and to think, and finally, to write.  

What is forgiveness, anyway? The root of the word, "forgive", is the Latin word "pardoner," meaning to give completely, without reservation. It is acknowledging a debt, and canceling that debt, even if the other person never asks for that forgiveness. Ah, therein lies the rub. Because it is not just the most recent actions of the past couple of years I must forgive (although being sued by one's mother and maligned by siblings is pretty hard to swallow).  How do I identify a "forgivable offense" that has been perpetrated my entire life?  My mother gave birth to me, took care of my physical needs, but neglected my emotional and spiritual needs. She abandoned me, even though she was present. She looked to me to blame everything on; I have been her scapegoat. I have no pleasant memories of growing up, at least none involving her.  Every time I look back into the kaleidoscope of my past, all I feel is a pervasive sense of inadequacy, of not being good enough to be loved, even by my own mother. So I have gone through life trying to prove I deserve her love, anyone's love. And every attempt at earning HER love blew up in my face. I have struggled with the reality of being the daughter of a woman who is incapable of loving anyone, even her own children. And I was silly enough to think I could change her, but in reality, nothing I do or say or feel or think can change that, or change her heart. The forgivable offense? Giving life to me, and denying love. Because of this, I have struggled for 60 plus years to earn a mother's love and to have a normal mother.  

So, Mom, I forgive you, for not loving me. For decades I tried to earn what you cannot, will not, give. And strangely enough, paradoxically, I thank you for giving me life and being who you are so God could reveal to me who, what, and where He is. Finally, I understand I am no more worthy of His love than I am of yours.  Nothing I do will earn His love. He already loves me, has always loved me, unconditionally, because of who HE is, not because of who I am or what I do or become. I forgive you Mom. And I will continue forgiving you, completely, without reservation, for the rest of my life.

But wait...there's another offense to deal with: the offenses of my sisters. But what IS their offense? Are they accountable? They thought they were right. Perhaps they were trying to prove they do care about their mother, that they knew they were wrong for leaving it all to me. I know they, too, are products of an extremely unhealthy home environment. They were fed passive aggressiveness, clothed in guilt, and schooled in taking sides. We were in a constant state of flux as to which one of us was the "black sheep," for on our mom's "wheel of misfortune" she would spin that wheel, and wherever that needle landed, well, that daughter was "it."  Persona non grata, the black sheep, the bad seed. And the games would begin. She would justify and vindicate herself by tearing one of us down, and dragging the other sheep into it. I took the brunt of it, as the oldest, but also, because I fought back. That fighting back allowed her to put a wedge between me and my sisters; she made them distrust me, and only trust her. She made them need her, because she gave them identity, stilted and deformed as it was.But, above all, she demonstrated why they NEVER wanted to be winner of the Wheel of Misfortune. So, their sin? Not breaking free, not seeing me as a victim of the same, sick manipulations they were experiencing. I had broken free and was now the enemy. Ratcheting up year after year, their mistrust finally culminated in conspiring with our mom to cut me completely out of their lives. They believed the constant whispered lies she told them, distorting everything I had done into something ugly and self-serving.  

They are not blameless, though, as they are, after all, adults, and could cut loose from her control. If only they would surrender to you, God. I pray daily for them to see You, to grow with You--not because of what they have done to me, but because of what they are missing, the eternal cost. But, I forgive them, for all their hate and lies, for betraying me, for trying to destroy me. It will be a lifelong process, because just when I think I have forgiven them, up comes a thought, a memory, triggered by a conversation with family or a song or a place. It unearths the old hurt, and the hate, and I must forgive all over again. I struggle with what I would say or do or feel if I see them. I have, for my own safety and sanity, set boundaries around my life, my heart, trying to insulate myself from being hurt again. Maybe God will bring about reconciliation, I don't know. I do know I must forgive.  

Thank you, Jesus, for giving me the Comforter to guide and console me. Thank you, God, for leading me down this path, a path of rough rocks, vipers, and thorns, so I could realize truly how beautiful is the grace you give me. For I am no more worthy of Your love than I am of those who hurt me. Yet, you have set me apart to be Yours. Thank you. Help me in this lifelong journey to be forgiving, as You have forgiven me.  

Make my feet like the hinds feet on the high places.  

Of Mustard Seeds, Mountains, and Molehills

First, I dealt with my old friend, Fear. God strengthened me, and we've dealt Fear a deadly blow. But now, several new enemies--Sadness, Blame and Regret--raise their ugly, pitiful heads. "Why did you take your mom in?," they slyly ask, and "You knew this would happen...it's all your fault," they hiss. I feel the storm hitting me, wind pushing me, rain and hail pelting my face, soaking me and chilling me to the bone, and just when I feel as if I am going to give up, exhausted, I remember I have someone behind me. To lean on. To hold me up. To keep me warm and dry. So I lean on Jesus, and I scream out against the storm, and I cry, sometimes sobbing, as I pray His name out loud. And when I am feeling very, very weak and cold, He holds me in His Hand, and comforts me with His breath, and soothes me to sleep. I am safe, in His fortress. No waves can topple me.

But then I wake up, startled, because there is a new twist, and the mountain suddenly looms larger. Maybe I need to "do" something.  I mean, someone has to "do" something, right? So I start to walk toward that mountain, I shake my fist at it, I start to run. But no matter how fast I run, it gets bigger, and bigger, and the air gets thinner, and harder to breathe, and my sides are hurting, and my feet hurt. I can't make it. The mountain is too big.  It is too far. And then I remember the mustard seed in my pocket. And I know that with just my tiny, teeny weenie little mustard seed of faith, I can make that mountain into a molehill. With Christ. For His glory. Not mine.  

Tonight my emotions are raw, bleeding, and throbbing. In my soul, and in my mind, and deep inside my heart, I know God has this latest tribulation, this manifestation of evil and sin and selfishness. But in my humanness, my heart, I ache. Oh how I ache. I am in shock, in disbelief, over what the woman who gave me life has done, the things she said in the summons we received. And I am hurt, and saddened by the betrayal of at least one, if not both sisters. I feel as if I have had a living, beating piece of me cruelly ripped out of body, and thrown in front of me, then torn to shreds as if it never mattered. That part of my life--all those memories, whether good or bad--mean nothing to them.The future memories we were to make together as old ladies?  Gone.  

Do I forgive them? Of  course. Will we ever reconcile? Only God knows. For now, I am dealing with one huge mountain of hurt. I cannot hide from, run from it, or cover it up.  It looms large and ugly and casts an ugly shadow, a jagged scar on my life. But God and I are going to whittle it down to a molehill, one spoonful at a time.  Regardless of the outcome, God will be glorified. What began as something evil, intended to hurt, will bring glory to the one true God. For I have a brilliant light, in the shape of a cross, behind me and over me, to cancel out any shadow and to heal any scar, regardless how big or dark or ugly they may be.  

Forgive and forget

"bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive."  Colossians 3:13

Yep.  Another one straight to the heart.  This and the accompanying commentary from my "Everday Prayers" by Scotty Smith made me squirm uncomfortably.  Like Scotty, I too have two (at least!) faces that come to mind when I reflect on who I haven't forgiven.  I cannot forgive alone.  I must give these folks over to God as well as my bitterness towards them.  And let Him soothe me. It's a daily struggle.  But He has forgiven me.  Even for things I haven't even done yet.   Prayers please to help me forgive and forget all but what Jesus did by dying for me.