Forgiveness

I saw an old acquaintance today … from afar. She and her husband were going about an errand. I never knew her well. We’d just wave in passing or chat, momentarily about something superficial. This went on for years. Then, one day, we turned a small corner.

She saw me with Lelu one sunny morning and came over to ask about this little girl … my then 4-year-old step-granddaughter. As Lelu played just a short distance away, I detailed the winding path-like story of how this little one and I are related. It’s a story that I’m always hesitant and somewhat embarrassed to tell. It’s complicated. It’s a story that began with a rocky foundation of anger, hatred, blame, manipulation, distance, time, caution and mistrust that grew into one of innocence, reflection, self-evaluation and love. Not what any of us expected. But it surprised me—that day—as it has a thousand times since, to learn that it is not a story that’s exclusive to us.

That day, my acquaintance shared her painful story of estrangement from her daughter. The daughter she raised. The adult daughter she loves. The daughter she was helping to plan a wedding. The daughter who, in a rage, blew up at her mother for being controlling. The same daughter who hasn’t spoken to her in more than eight years.

As my acquaintance walked away, I said a silent prayer for her and daughter. For healing. For forgiveness.
* * * * *

I just finished reading Night by Elie Weisel, the Nobel Peace Prize winner. It is the true story of one boy's recollection of the unimaginable horrors done to the Jewish people during Nazi Germany. It is the story of Elie’s people, and thousands of others. It is the story of how twisted and evil things become from believing we are somehow better or superior than someone else.

The young Weisel watches his beloved family killed before him … babies, elders, innocents. He wonders where God is in all of it. He loses his faith completely in the hell that surrounds him. It takes him years before he can tell his story. In the back of the book is his Nobel Peace Prize Acceptance Speech, delivered on December 10, 1986. He speaks with “deepest gratitude as one who has emerged from the Kingdom of Night.” His speech opens with a Jewish tradition … a prayer of gratitude to God: “Blessed be Thou … for giving us this life, for sustaining us and for enabling us to reach this day.”

* * * * *
Why do we covet forgiveness … doling it out so selfishly and often only in fragments? What would it cost us to be more generous with it? What would we have to lose? On the surface, the answer seems so simple. But, in life, it is so complicated. Or does it have to be? Would I forgive someone I am angry with today, if tomorrow I learned I was dying? Could I forgive some horrible past sin committed against me? If I was Elie? God did. He still does. He loved us SO much that He sent his only son to save us. And two thousand plus years later, we’re still committing horrible sins against him … every day. Yet, He forgives us. That’s a difficult thing for me to wrap my mind around. My same petty little mind that often becomes indignant over someone’s thoughtless comment or ribbing. My same little mind that tells me every day that I don’t deserve that kind of forgiveness.

Then I’m reminded of the good that could come from offering forgiveness freely. Peace … among enemies. Among countries. Among families. Among couples. Among fathers and sons. Among a mother and her daughter … still related by blood after 8+ years of not speaking.

“We know that every moment is a moment of grace, every hour an offering; not to share them would mean to betray them.” --Elie Wiesel

New Hope

Celebration of the Holy Family today. Makes sense, right? That little trio would've been celebrating its third day together two thousand and eight years ago today. That whole "third day" thing would resonate again some thirty three years after that ... only it's impact would be far more reaching than just the three of them.

There is something about a new baby that brings so much hope. Especially that new baby. Even now, He brings hope. Hope for peace.

A dear friend sent me a link to this amazing video. I share it with you today as a celebration of that hope for peace. Turn up your sound. This project reminds me of the difference that one person with a vision can make. That, too, is reason for hope.

Heavenly Hopes

I think Heaven must be, in part, a place of absence. Absence of evil, hatred and contempt, of course. But also absence of criticism and judgement of one another. No one ridiculing your ideas, opinions, shape, clothes, size, work, color, religion or creativity. Absence of egotism and self-centeredness.

Instead of being "all about me," it will be only about us. Talk about feeling like part of a team or community! We'll be part of a genuine, living breathing "oneness." Imagine everyone cheering your every effort. We will only be our collective best when we're working together, being our best individual selves--only we'll lose sight of being individuals because we're so completely filled with joy when the other guy is in his zone. No more being self-conscious. No more worrying about being the first or the best. No presidents. No CEOs. No Board of Directors. Just one King--with no replacements or wanna-bes. No one will ever feel like they are alone or that no one loves them. No one will ever feel like they are a loser or a "square peg," because they don't fit into society's round rules of engagement. We won't have to wonder. We won't have to ask. We'll just feel ... integral. All the time.

Instead of that thing we did when we were kids ..."Daddy, watch me. Daddy, watch me NOW! Daddy, watch me when I do THIS. Daddy, watch me when I add a twist and do THIS!" ... We'll just see Him smile and say, "I will never take my eyes off of you." And so we'll feel completely and utterly loved. Eternally.

Spiritual Spa Weekend

I visited one of my favorite spots in the world this weekend. The campus of the University of Notre Dame. More specifically, the grotto there. It is modeled on the one in Lourdes, France. Built in 1896, it is a place of quiet grace--sometimes referred to as "the cave of candles." Approaching it, you feel the warmth. There is an unspoken sense of healing, peace and forgiveness here. Visitors light candles "offering up" their prayers to our lady--as intercessor to her son.

Each time I visit, I am so moved by the flowers, prayer cards, photos, tears. There are no egos here. It is a haven of humility. There are seldom any words being exchanged by visitors. I've been here in the rain--as a grandfatherly man sat on a bench praying the rosary, with two labs sitting faithfully by his side as it poured on them all. His young grandson, dressed in pajamas ran in and about the grotto, lighting candles. His grandfather didn't seem to notice--his tears mixed with the rain. His pain was palpable to passers by. I pray for him this time when I visit--and often when I think back on that scene.

I've been here in spring (this time) with flowers in full bloom, church goers and visitors weaving about each other in silence. Pausing, Praying. I've been here in cold--with my sisters hugging, because it seems the natural thing to do here. I've been here with my son.

Each time I've visited, I've been with my Mom. And I always think about how blessed I am to be here with "both my Moms." There is never enough time here. I just want to sit and adore. I just want everyone to experience this peace. Because then things would be so very, very different.