I suppose both of my two faithful readers are wondering how my weekend of eating crow went. After my post on February 25 about humility, there really was no turning back. I could have just left the subject hanging like the death of Dumbledore at the end of the Half Blood Prince (Is he dead? Is he not dead? Should Snape be strung up by his balls for his betrayal?). But I have too many friends reading this blog who will call my bluff, so I had to go through with my apology.
Forgiveness is a funny thing. You would think it would be easy on the person accepting the apology and a son of a bitch on the person apologizing. It doesn't quite work out the neatly. I think forgiveness is a 50/50 proposition. Both parties involved feel like shit. Really, only people you care about the most are the ones who can really hurt you. Setting aside that pain and saying "you are more important than my injured pride or Great Aunt Milly's diamond broach or the last can of Diet Dew" is difficult. But what I've learned this week is that holding on to that pain and sacrificing a friendship or family relationship is the equivalent of eating a peanut butter sandwich when you have nut allergies. It's not a good idea. You know it isn't. You do it anyway.
I can hear you thinking, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Cut to the chase."
Well, I rehearsed my apology for a couple of days, said it over and over in my head: "I want to apologize for the way I behaved and the way I expressed myself. I'm really sorry." I thought the "really" was a nice touch, adding just the right amount of sincerity. I waited all Friday night and Saturday morning for the perfect moment to deliver my speech. I wanted it to be just between the offendee and myself. I didn't want to have to suck ass in front of an audience. I wanted to appear contrite and abashed to only one person. The way I figured, humility is difficult enough without turning it into a three-ring elephant act.
Of course, the perfect opportunity never presented itself, and by early afternoon, I decided to bite the proverbial bullet. I stood up, and, with an audience of about two or three people, I recited my act of contrition: "I want to apologize for the way I behaved and the way I expressed myself. I'm really sorry."
Daniel Brottier was a French priest who felt called to serve people. In 1903, he went to Senegal and worked as a missionary for eight years. After becoming ill, he returned to France. That didn't finish his life of service for Africa. He raised funds to build a cathedral at Dakur, Senegal. During World War I, he served on the front lines as a military chaplain for 52 weeks without receiving a single injury. He ministered to the wounded and dying and was awarded six citations for bravery. After the war, he administered an orphanage for war orphans. On the day the Dakur cathedral was dedicated, Daniel became fatally ill. He died 26 days later. Daniel's entire life is a testament to humility.
So why is it so damn difficult for me to say three, tiny syllables--"I'm sorry"? Why do those words taste like rancid meatloaf to me? (For the record, I hate meatloaf.) I don't know the answer to that question, but I do know I stood waiting for an answer to my apology with my breath held.
The person regarded me and nodded. I could see on her face the same struggle with which I was dealing: simultaneous pain and relief. Her lips parted.
The heavens opened, and tongues of flame descended into the room.
She spoke. "Okay."
That was it. A week of torment and guilt and anger and sleepless nights, over and done. I can tell you, knowing this person the way I do, that "okay" was just as difficult for her to utter as my apology was for me. I didn't care if I was justified in my anger. I didn't care if I received an immediate apology in return, or ever received an apology. Bridges were being rebuilt. It was as if Christ on the cross had looked down on me, opened his lips, and, with blood choking his throat, said, "Okay." (Work with me. The main thrust of this comparison is that any moment of human connection, any service given, forgiveness rendered, is a true act of Christian charity.)
Forgiveness isn't easy. Ask Jesus. C. S Lewis once wrote, "If you want a religion to make you feel really comfortable, I certainly don't recommend Christianity." Forgiveness can be as difficult as building a cathedral or serving in a war. It can be messy. It can taste like shit in your mouth. But it can save friendships and families.
It can save the world. Okay?
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