The Truth About Forgiveness

Forgiveness. It’s a beautiful word…that is when we hear a nice rendition of someone else’s willingness to offer it. But when we ourselves are faced with the command to forgive amidst the cruelest of acts, it becomes an ugly three-syllable word we come to abhor. 

Forgive, Lord? I can’t. And frankly, I don’t want to. After what she did, I need some time to fume. 

Forgive her, He gently nudged.

It was getting late, and my alarm was set for six-thirty. “But Lord,” I begged, “I’ve got to get sleep if I’m going to deal with 25 needy kids tomorrow. Can’t this wait?” I turned on my computer in an attempt to distract my mind from the inner struggle with my will and His. I logged onto Facebook hoping it would offer some interesting morsel to think about while I fell asleep. As the screen loaded, I turned my eyes to the first post on the news feed.

Forgiven people ought to forgive.

The words almost jumped off the screen as tears began to stream down my face. The weight of the statement drove into my heart like a knife. Forgive? I. Just. Can’t. I sat there and sobbed.

Just days prior, my world had come crashing down. I felt pain. Palpable, throbbing, non-relenting pain. My sister-in-law had left. And it was over. More than six years of marriage and a decade of friendship gone. The ultimate betrayal had happened, and my brother was devastated. I felt crushed under the weight of my own pain and my concern for him.

My brother and I are close. We “get” each other in a way that only siblings can. And I would jump in front of a car for him. No thought to it. I just would. And when his heart breaks, mine shatters. When he bleeds, I bleed too. My brother isn’t the most vocal about his feelings, but if there is one thing I am certain of, it’s that he loves me. And I invite anyone to try to prove otherwise. I guess it has to do with all of those rides down the stairway together as kids…in a laundry basket. :-) It has a way of bonding you. Or when we kept each other company while we lay there covered head to toe with chicken pox. We’ve done life together. We stick together. He’s one in a million.

For several weeks before my sister-in-law had left, I would come home from church with a question looming. Who did I need to forgive? Each Sunday, the focus of the sermon hadn’t been forgiveness, but it continued to come up. Week after week I would go home and search my heart. No one came to mind, yet the weight of the command to forgive stuck with me in a very odd way.

And that night as the computer screen cast a glow upon my face with another nudge to forgive, it became clear. The Lord had been preparing my heart even before she had left. As I breathed in another sob, I concluded that I had to obey…tonight. So, then and there I did the only thing I could do. 

I asked for help.

The Lord was more aware of how completely unable to forgive I really was. But He was all ears that night. On my knees, I quieted my heart and prayed for help to forgive. For help to even want to forgive.

I didn’t feel a wave of love for my betrayer. I felt no different that night as I pulled my covers over my head. But I knew He would answer. He would help me. One day at a time, I would forgive.

Now two years later, I can honestly say there is no anger left. I am amazed as I even type this. For days after that night, I had to pray over and over for help to again forgive. But day after day, He was there. There to hold my hand. There to lift my brother up. To give strength in great weakness. Comfort to deep wounds. To offer help to ordinary people.

And today instead of bondage to pain. Bondage to hurt. Bondage to anger. I am free. Free to love one who betrayed my brother. One who betrayed me.

Forgiveness. It’s a beautiful word.