Forgiveness is a pink dress shirt and a tie with squares on it, a mug half full of crunchy coffee. Tired, shimmery brown eyes reflecting the sun coming through the attic window. One really messy eyebrow. "He will bless you, bro. Bro. He will bless you."
People think forgiving is supposed to mean that what happened was okay. That's because, when someone bumps into you, steps on your foot, and they say, "I'm sorry," you say, "It's okay." Even though, sometimes, it's not. Most of the times, it's not.
When someone apologizes, they expect to be forgiven, and by forgiving, we say things like "it's okay" to get them to leave. But forgiving doesn't mean it's okay. They're two very different things. And people are starting to forget that.
They're always saying to "forgive and forget." And the thing is, forgiving doesn't mean you have to forget. Sometimes you want to. Sometimes you can't. But you can remember, and still forgive.
Forgiveness isn't saying nothing happened. It did happen. And it was wrong. It was awfully wrong. And you think of it every day. And it haunts you. And it taunts you. And it eats away at all of you like a parasite until the words "I'm sorry" mean nothing more than another unemployed clown, another stray dog in winter.
"I'm sorry."
Sorry doesn't mean it's over. Sorry doesn't mean they understand what they did. Sorry doesn't mean they'd take it back, or do it differently. And sometimes a sorry never even comes.
Sorry means forgive.
It's hard though. Harder than saying sorry. And all forgiveness is is letting go. Sliding past. Smiling. It doesn't mean it's okay. It doesn't mean sorry is enough. It doesn't mean what happened won't happen again, and it doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt.
It just means you're tired, and done, and ready to move on.
Sometimes you're just stuck. Stuck between what happened and what will. Stuck between hate and resentment, fear and anger. And it builds, it builds with every stray thought that fleetingly passes through your mind, until it fills your lungs, it fills your heart, you can't breath it hurts so bad, and it gets bigger than you, the hate, it gets so big your scrawny ribcage can't bare it, and your mind is a cage of unheard voices, and they're angry, the voices, and you can't let them out and they scream, they're screaming for freedom, for justice, and justice doesn't come.
Instead,
Forgiveness comes.
It comes as silently as it had left.
It floats in through the window like a songbird. Like a spot of sunlight through the leaves. It comes like a hero, a lifeboat in the water, cutting through the waves before you're drowned. It raises you up. It holds your hand.
A bird.
It flaps its wings above your head, around the floorboards, like a moth looking for the moon. It pauses clumsily over your head. It sits on your shoulders. It leans on your neck. It unlocks the bars and you're free.
You're free from yourself.
Forgiveness doesn't mean it's okay. It doesn't mean you're giving up, and it doesn't mean you lost. It doesn't mean you were wrong, or they were right, or that what happened didn't matter. Or that it didn't hurt, and still doesn't.
It's just a decision. A decision to choose to see beauty in the monster.
It means you're free, and you freed yourself.
And it hurts a lot less that way.
People think forgiving is supposed to mean that what happened was okay. That's because, when someone bumps into you, steps on your foot, and they say, "I'm sorry," you say, "It's okay." Even though, sometimes, it's not. Most of the times, it's not.
When someone apologizes, they expect to be forgiven, and by forgiving, we say things like "it's okay" to get them to leave. But forgiving doesn't mean it's okay. They're two very different things. And people are starting to forget that.
They're always saying to "forgive and forget." And the thing is, forgiving doesn't mean you have to forget. Sometimes you want to. Sometimes you can't. But you can remember, and still forgive.
Forgiveness isn't saying nothing happened. It did happen. And it was wrong. It was awfully wrong. And you think of it every day. And it haunts you. And it taunts you. And it eats away at all of you like a parasite until the words "I'm sorry" mean nothing more than another unemployed clown, another stray dog in winter.
"I'm sorry."
Sorry doesn't mean it's over. Sorry doesn't mean they understand what they did. Sorry doesn't mean they'd take it back, or do it differently. And sometimes a sorry never even comes.
Sorry means forgive.
It's hard though. Harder than saying sorry. And all forgiveness is is letting go. Sliding past. Smiling. It doesn't mean it's okay. It doesn't mean sorry is enough. It doesn't mean what happened won't happen again, and it doesn't mean it doesn't still hurt.
It just means you're tired, and done, and ready to move on.
Sometimes you're just stuck. Stuck between what happened and what will. Stuck between hate and resentment, fear and anger. And it builds, it builds with every stray thought that fleetingly passes through your mind, until it fills your lungs, it fills your heart, you can't breath it hurts so bad, and it gets bigger than you, the hate, it gets so big your scrawny ribcage can't bare it, and your mind is a cage of unheard voices, and they're angry, the voices, and you can't let them out and they scream, they're screaming for freedom, for justice, and justice doesn't come.
Instead,
Forgiveness comes.
It comes as silently as it had left.
It floats in through the window like a songbird. Like a spot of sunlight through the leaves. It comes like a hero, a lifeboat in the water, cutting through the waves before you're drowned. It raises you up. It holds your hand.
A bird.
It flaps its wings above your head, around the floorboards, like a moth looking for the moon. It pauses clumsily over your head. It sits on your shoulders. It leans on your neck. It unlocks the bars and you're free.
You're free from yourself.
Forgiveness doesn't mean it's okay. It doesn't mean you're giving up, and it doesn't mean you lost. It doesn't mean you were wrong, or they were right, or that what happened didn't matter. Or that it didn't hurt, and still doesn't.
It's just a decision. A decision to choose to see beauty in the monster.
It means you're free, and you freed yourself.
And it hurts a lot less that way.
This is quite lovely, and reminiscent of some of my own thoughts I've voiced on the topic. I'd add one thing: forgiveness doesn't mean you need to give a person access to you, either. You don't need to prove your forgiveness by subjecting yourself to someone, if you don't really want their company any more.
ReplyDeleteForgiveness just means you've dropped the hate, the obsessing over the injury, you're done willing ill, you're through with the revenge-fantasy R & D and grudge maintenance. You have let go of what bad was done, and you leave it behind you.
Whether the person who did the wrong walks beside you or you part ways is up to you. Both of you. Forgiveness is a stringless gift - and it is far more a gift to you than any favor to the one who wronged! Because you've agreed to stop re-injuring yourself in the place where you were hurt. But there is nothing owed, as a result of forgiveness. No one is owed any piece of your life.
Again - DANG, Joe!
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