Forgiveness. Such a beautiful word, but such a difficult thing to give. It is one thing to forgive a thoughtless action or careless word; it is quite another to forgive action that caused serious hurt, harm or death. Above all, it is nearly impossible to forgive pain that you yourself inflicted. How can you forgive yourself?
I was 15, and I was going through a particularly rough patch in my development. I was easily embarrassed, easily offended, put off by anything that seemed to my arrogant little mind as selfish. The prime culprit, in my opinion, was my mother. She seemed to be a constant irritant. She had to be helped out of her chair. She couldn't walk long distances. She told stories of falling and staying there until someone came to pick her up. She seemed overly concerned about her weight. I understood none of this and resented all of it. What I didn't realize was that my mother was desperately ill.
In my defense, I need to explain that my mom, Violet Wood, had been seriously ill since I was 18 months old. She was so often in the hospital that I thought visiting the hospital was normal. I didn't realize the severity of her condition, and I didn't see the gradual decline. I was too young to fully understand. By the time I reached 15, my mother was months away from death. However, the changes weren't visible to me. I saw them as new things for her to complain about, and I resented them.
Reading this, I can't believe how shallow and callous I was. But I'm trying to be as honest as I can, and that was how it was.
Two events stick out in my mind. The first is just a memory. I know I was 14 or 15. It's like a photograph--an event frozen in time. My father, mother and I were going to JC Penney. By this time, Mama couldn't walk for long distances, so for this trip, she was in a wheelchair. I didn't understand, and I was embarrassed. It seemed to me that she was lazy. She could walk (using a walker) in the house, so why wasn't she walking now? I didn't want to be seen with her, and I lagged behind, looking into shop windows and pretending not to be part of the family. Of course, Mama picked up on it right away. She called me on my behavior. Now I wasn't only embarrassed, I was ashamed. I don't recall asking for her forgiveness. I just recall resenting having to share space with her.
The second event is frozen in my mind. It was the morning of September 23. My mother was in the dining room in a chair. Once again, she was going to the hospital. I was in bed, asleep, as was my brother. Her breathing woke me up. It was as if she had a bunch of phlegm caught in her throat. I couldn't stand the sound. I remember being irritated. 'Why doesn't she clear her throat?' I thought. My mother didn't have the strength to go to our rooms. She called out to my brother that she loved him. He responded. Then she called out the same thing to me. I remember groaning to her. I couldn't be bothered to tell her that I loved her. Those were the last words she ever spoke to me. My dad took her to the hospital, and I went back to sleep.
The next day, my brother and I didn't go to school. I don't remember thinking too much about that, but I do remember having lunch when we received the call--your mother is dying, and if you want to see her, you need to come now. We all hurried to the hospital, and for the first time in my life, I was allowed into her room. She was in a coma and unresponsive. I remember going to her side, taking her hand, and saying over and over, "I love you, Mama!" Nothing. At that time, I didn't realize that people in a coma can hear you. All I knew was that I had lost my last chance to let my mother know that I loved her. I became fascinated by the heart monitor. I couldn't stop watching it record my mother's heartbeat. As a result, I saw those beats stop. I saw her die.
For many years--over 30 years--I couldn't forgive myself for the miserable way that I had treated my mother. I was in a strange place--the person that I had offended was dead. There was no going to her and asking forgiveness. I did, of course. I spoke to her as if she was still there and asked her forgiveness. I believe with all my heart that she heard me and forgave me, but how could I forgive myself?
The answer didn't come easily. The unforgiveness that I felt became seated in my heart and turned me cold. It began to distort my personality. I thought of myself as unworthy, unloveable. I built walls between myself and the world--the pain and hurt that I felt was a barrier that walled me in and kept love out. It didn't happen overnight, and it wasn't healed overnight.
I don't remember one specific moment that led to my ability to forgive myself. I think that it was a gradual understanding of an overwhelming truth: God forgave me, and my mother forgave me. Of that I was certain. So in my refusal to forgive myself, I was stating that their forgiveness was incorrect. If they could forgive me, then I had the ability--the responsibility--to forgive myself. I didn't have the power within me to do it, but I had learned obedience, and in that obedience I claimed forgiveness. I forgave myself for the foolish behavior of my youth. The italics show the understanding that came with that forgiveness. As long as I was mired in my own guilt, I couldn't see that. There was no category, there was just self-loathing. But as I forgave myself, my soul began to speak to me the peace that had always been available to me in Christ Jesus. I began to realize that I was judging myself far more harshly than either my mother or my Lord had ever judged me.
Dear friend, what is there in your soul that is waiting to be forgiven? Please look into your heart and see what is behind the hurt that is there. What is keeping you from feeling free to express that loveliness that is you? Is it youthful indiscretion, a life of sin that is still bothering you, although you repented long ago? Are you refusing to forgive yourself for the pain that you caused others? Please, in obedience, grasp the forgiveness that has been given to you and then apply it to yourself. I promise you that it will set your soul free and allow for the healing that you know you need.
Father, I pray for the person who may be reading this right now with tears in their eyes. I pray that as you speak words of love and forgiveness to that person, they understand that your love is always free, always open, and always available. I pray that as they accept this truth, they find the obedience that they need to both accept your forgiveness and then apply it to their own soul. Let them see that the self-forgiveness that they do not feel worthy to claim is the very key that they seek to unlock their hearts and admit the love and peace of Your Holy Spirit. In Jesus' name, Amen.
Showing posts with label unforgiveness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label unforgiveness. Show all posts
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Saturday, February 23, 2013
the alcoholic and the aftermath
Lizzie was an alcoholic. She had learned to say that, even though she gave up drinking over five years ago. She knew that she was an alcoholic daily; she would never be able to say that she used to be an alcoholic. Every day was a new day; every day had to be worked through. She often would go for weeks at a time without the slightest craving, but then one day she would feel sad or nervous or homesick or in pain and find herself reaching for the bottle that no longer was in her house. She knew the price she would pay for giving in and getting that first drink, so she never did. But she knew that there was always the chance of that first time, and so she kept her wits about her and kept her support person's number close at hand wherever she was.
Lizzie hadn't always had a drinking problem. For many years, she didn't see the need to drink. She was from a family with a history of alcoholism, and she knew the risks if she should start, so she chose not to drink. She still remembered her father coming home stinking of gin and cigarettes, coming up to her mother and groping her, her mother pulling herself away with a look of disgust at this man who was both her husband and her child at that moment. The family loved their father when he was sober and hated him when he was drunk. Lizzie wanted a normal father and resented the man that made it impossible for her to bring friends home or expect to have enough money to do fun things. The family was never in danger of being on the street, their mother made sure of that, but booze ate up any leftover money that might have been used for vacations or luxuries. So Lizzie was as surprised as everyone else when her father's problem became her own.
It started when her husband left her. They had been happily married for over 13 years when one day he came home, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her a manilla envelope. "I've found another woman, and Lizzie I'm sorry, but she's pregnant. I know you're strong; you'll get by. She's not. She needs me much more than you and the kids do." He asked her to sign the papers; numb, in shock, she did what he asked. The rest of it went by in a blur. Lawyers and meetings and discussions--very civil discussions--about who is responsible for what all came and went with her barely able to realize what was happening. He lived with her in her house until the divorce was final. He slept in her bed and made love to her--he kept telling her that she was his true love and it was all his fault. He promised her that he would keep in touch with the kids; he promised her the house, promised to pay child support until they finished college, promised her the moon so that the divorce would happen quickly. The day the divorce became final he left the house. They never saw him again. No child support. No help with the house payments. The husband and father that they had loved was gone with not a single backwards glance.
Lizzie was single again--a single mother of three. The children were 13, 11, and 10, and they missed their father miserably. They couldn't understand why he had promised them love and left them empty. In the way of children, they blamed Lizzie. She was there, she was safe. They knew that she wouldn't leave them. So they took all their anger and hurt and directed it towards their mother. At first Lizzie understood; she listened to their childish ranting and forgave them. She concentrated all her energy on the getting by that her husband was so sure she could do. For the first year, she managed.
After a year or so, Lizzie began going out on the weekends with friends. She vowed to herself that she wouldn't look for male companionship until her children were grown; she just needed friendship, a way to relieve the stress and pressure that built up during the long days at work and the long nights with her children. She didn't have many friends; it's funny how they abandon you when you're no longer one of a pair. But some girls did stick by her. One in particular, Melody, had been a friend since she was a girl. Melody and Lizzie went out on Friday or Saturday evenings. They would go to the show, go to a concert, go to karaoke, go somewhere. Then they would end up in a bar. At first, Melody would have wine and Lizzie would have a Coke, but somewhere along the line Lizzie decided to exchange the soda for wine, too. She liked the way that two or three glasses would make her feel. It relaxed her, calmed her nerves, soothed the pain.
As the years passed, her children grew into teenagers and the anger and bitterness increased. The hurt over their father made the normal teen angst that much worse, and Lizzie didn't know how to cope. She found herself going to a bar before she came home at night. She didn't want booze in the house because of the kids, so she would have two, three, four, five drinks before she came home. Before she knew it, she had her first DUI. She hid it from her children, of course, but they somehow found out. She was more and more dependent on liquor and less and less able to keep it from controlling her life. She began to sneak bottles of vodka, her new drug of choice, into the house. She hid them where she thought the children couldn't find them. They knew, of course, but nobody said anything. When the arguments and anger were too much to bear, Lizzie would sneak into her bedroom and drink.
When Lizzie was drunk, her behavior changed. She was by turns weepy and explosive. She would castigate the children about some little thing and then break down in bitter tears in front of them. She brought a feeling of insecurity into the house. Life had been safe with their mom; now life was not safe with anyone. There were missed appointments, calls home because she had forgotten to pick them up, promises of fun vacations that weren't fulfilled, and never-ending apologies. The children, already bruised by the abandonment of one parent, were devastated by the retreat of another into a world that was alien and scary.
The breaking point came when her daughter Jenna needed a ride to school for a concert that night. Lizzie had forgotten about the concert and was already drunk. But motherhood was more important, she thought, and she got in the car. They hadn't driven four blocks before Lizzie got in an accident. She totaled the car, but thankfully nobody was hurt. However, the police came and she was arrested for driving under the influence--again. It was a wake-up call. Lizzie was lucky; she was able to come back to her house and family. She joined AA the next day.
Part of the recovery process in AA is making atonement. Lizzie knew that she had a lot to atone for. She began going from family member to family member, asking for their forgiveness. Some forgave her; others did not. Her own children were the same. Jenna and her brother Charlie forgave her. They were happy to see their mother back. Her youngest, Arthur, did not. He was the youngest, and he was angry and bitter and refused to hear anything from her. He wanted nothing to do with a mother that had betrayed him after the earlier betrayal of a father he had loved. Nothing that Lizzie could do--no promises, no pleading--nothing could convince him to forgive her.
Lizzie went to her sponsor in tears. "How can I fix this?" she asked. "He won't forgive me. He is so angry--what do I do?"
The older woman thought for a minute. She knew how Lizzie was feeling--her own family had trouble with forgiveness, even all these years later. She remembered her own journey: broken promises, broken dreams, broken hearts. Quietly she said, "Lizzie, that isn't your call to make. You made amends. It's up to him, now. He can choose to forgive you or choose not to. He's your son and he's hurting. You have offered him a gift in your apology. Now offer him the love and discipline that is yours as a sober parent to give. When he brings up the past, accept your part in his pain, and remind him that the past is past and help him in his present."
Lizzie took the message to heart and found it useful in all her relationships. Even with those who had forgiven her, there were times when pain and hurt from the past would be brought up. Lizzie learned to acknowledge her part in the causing of the pain and then turn the conversation to the issue in the present that had triggered the hurt from the past. Although Arthur never spoke words of forgiveness, his attitude changed--somewhat. The relationship that had been, though, was gone forever. He never trusted her completely again. Sadly, she realized that she no longer deserved that trust. She had to acknowledge that and continue to live her life as best she could--one day at a time.
Today, Lizzie is a mother and grandmother. Her children understand the danger that alcohol poses to them. They have seen their mother fall--but they have also seen her rise to her feet with the help of AA. There is peace within the family for the most part. The relationship becomes strained from time to time, but the family does its best to work together to deal with issues and leftover pain. Arthur is on the sidelines looking in--by choice. Lizzie understands and has herself backed away. She realizes that the relationship might never be fully healed, and she tries to be at peace with that.
Dealing with her own family and her own alcoholism has caused Lizzie to take one further step. Not long ago, she went to the cemetery with flowers and a note. She sat at her father's grave and quietly prayed. Then she looked at the headstone, at the picture of the man that had made her life a joy and a pain. "Daddy, I understand now. I know that you weren't bad--you were sick. I inherited your sickness. I love you, and I forgive you." On the headstone, she put the flowers and the note, a simple card that would never be read. It was the picture of an ocean at sunset. Inside, a childlike note. Daddy, I wish we could have shared times like this together. But now I understand why we didn't. Your daughter, Lizzie. Lizzie walked away from her father's grave and into her future, a future that she would build one day at a time.
Lizzie hadn't always had a drinking problem. For many years, she didn't see the need to drink. She was from a family with a history of alcoholism, and she knew the risks if she should start, so she chose not to drink. She still remembered her father coming home stinking of gin and cigarettes, coming up to her mother and groping her, her mother pulling herself away with a look of disgust at this man who was both her husband and her child at that moment. The family loved their father when he was sober and hated him when he was drunk. Lizzie wanted a normal father and resented the man that made it impossible for her to bring friends home or expect to have enough money to do fun things. The family was never in danger of being on the street, their mother made sure of that, but booze ate up any leftover money that might have been used for vacations or luxuries. So Lizzie was as surprised as everyone else when her father's problem became her own.
It started when her husband left her. They had been happily married for over 13 years when one day he came home, kissed her on the cheek, and gave her a manilla envelope. "I've found another woman, and Lizzie I'm sorry, but she's pregnant. I know you're strong; you'll get by. She's not. She needs me much more than you and the kids do." He asked her to sign the papers; numb, in shock, she did what he asked. The rest of it went by in a blur. Lawyers and meetings and discussions--very civil discussions--about who is responsible for what all came and went with her barely able to realize what was happening. He lived with her in her house until the divorce was final. He slept in her bed and made love to her--he kept telling her that she was his true love and it was all his fault. He promised her that he would keep in touch with the kids; he promised her the house, promised to pay child support until they finished college, promised her the moon so that the divorce would happen quickly. The day the divorce became final he left the house. They never saw him again. No child support. No help with the house payments. The husband and father that they had loved was gone with not a single backwards glance.
Lizzie was single again--a single mother of three. The children were 13, 11, and 10, and they missed their father miserably. They couldn't understand why he had promised them love and left them empty. In the way of children, they blamed Lizzie. She was there, she was safe. They knew that she wouldn't leave them. So they took all their anger and hurt and directed it towards their mother. At first Lizzie understood; she listened to their childish ranting and forgave them. She concentrated all her energy on the getting by that her husband was so sure she could do. For the first year, she managed.
After a year or so, Lizzie began going out on the weekends with friends. She vowed to herself that she wouldn't look for male companionship until her children were grown; she just needed friendship, a way to relieve the stress and pressure that built up during the long days at work and the long nights with her children. She didn't have many friends; it's funny how they abandon you when you're no longer one of a pair. But some girls did stick by her. One in particular, Melody, had been a friend since she was a girl. Melody and Lizzie went out on Friday or Saturday evenings. They would go to the show, go to a concert, go to karaoke, go somewhere. Then they would end up in a bar. At first, Melody would have wine and Lizzie would have a Coke, but somewhere along the line Lizzie decided to exchange the soda for wine, too. She liked the way that two or three glasses would make her feel. It relaxed her, calmed her nerves, soothed the pain.
As the years passed, her children grew into teenagers and the anger and bitterness increased. The hurt over their father made the normal teen angst that much worse, and Lizzie didn't know how to cope. She found herself going to a bar before she came home at night. She didn't want booze in the house because of the kids, so she would have two, three, four, five drinks before she came home. Before she knew it, she had her first DUI. She hid it from her children, of course, but they somehow found out. She was more and more dependent on liquor and less and less able to keep it from controlling her life. She began to sneak bottles of vodka, her new drug of choice, into the house. She hid them where she thought the children couldn't find them. They knew, of course, but nobody said anything. When the arguments and anger were too much to bear, Lizzie would sneak into her bedroom and drink.
When Lizzie was drunk, her behavior changed. She was by turns weepy and explosive. She would castigate the children about some little thing and then break down in bitter tears in front of them. She brought a feeling of insecurity into the house. Life had been safe with their mom; now life was not safe with anyone. There were missed appointments, calls home because she had forgotten to pick them up, promises of fun vacations that weren't fulfilled, and never-ending apologies. The children, already bruised by the abandonment of one parent, were devastated by the retreat of another into a world that was alien and scary.
The breaking point came when her daughter Jenna needed a ride to school for a concert that night. Lizzie had forgotten about the concert and was already drunk. But motherhood was more important, she thought, and she got in the car. They hadn't driven four blocks before Lizzie got in an accident. She totaled the car, but thankfully nobody was hurt. However, the police came and she was arrested for driving under the influence--again. It was a wake-up call. Lizzie was lucky; she was able to come back to her house and family. She joined AA the next day.
Part of the recovery process in AA is making atonement. Lizzie knew that she had a lot to atone for. She began going from family member to family member, asking for their forgiveness. Some forgave her; others did not. Her own children were the same. Jenna and her brother Charlie forgave her. They were happy to see their mother back. Her youngest, Arthur, did not. He was the youngest, and he was angry and bitter and refused to hear anything from her. He wanted nothing to do with a mother that had betrayed him after the earlier betrayal of a father he had loved. Nothing that Lizzie could do--no promises, no pleading--nothing could convince him to forgive her.
Lizzie went to her sponsor in tears. "How can I fix this?" she asked. "He won't forgive me. He is so angry--what do I do?"
The older woman thought for a minute. She knew how Lizzie was feeling--her own family had trouble with forgiveness, even all these years later. She remembered her own journey: broken promises, broken dreams, broken hearts. Quietly she said, "Lizzie, that isn't your call to make. You made amends. It's up to him, now. He can choose to forgive you or choose not to. He's your son and he's hurting. You have offered him a gift in your apology. Now offer him the love and discipline that is yours as a sober parent to give. When he brings up the past, accept your part in his pain, and remind him that the past is past and help him in his present."
Lizzie took the message to heart and found it useful in all her relationships. Even with those who had forgiven her, there were times when pain and hurt from the past would be brought up. Lizzie learned to acknowledge her part in the causing of the pain and then turn the conversation to the issue in the present that had triggered the hurt from the past. Although Arthur never spoke words of forgiveness, his attitude changed--somewhat. The relationship that had been, though, was gone forever. He never trusted her completely again. Sadly, she realized that she no longer deserved that trust. She had to acknowledge that and continue to live her life as best she could--one day at a time.
Today, Lizzie is a mother and grandmother. Her children understand the danger that alcohol poses to them. They have seen their mother fall--but they have also seen her rise to her feet with the help of AA. There is peace within the family for the most part. The relationship becomes strained from time to time, but the family does its best to work together to deal with issues and leftover pain. Arthur is on the sidelines looking in--by choice. Lizzie understands and has herself backed away. She realizes that the relationship might never be fully healed, and she tries to be at peace with that.
Dealing with her own family and her own alcoholism has caused Lizzie to take one further step. Not long ago, she went to the cemetery with flowers and a note. She sat at her father's grave and quietly prayed. Then she looked at the headstone, at the picture of the man that had made her life a joy and a pain. "Daddy, I understand now. I know that you weren't bad--you were sick. I inherited your sickness. I love you, and I forgive you." On the headstone, she put the flowers and the note, a simple card that would never be read. It was the picture of an ocean at sunset. Inside, a childlike note. Daddy, I wish we could have shared times like this together. But now I understand why we didn't. Your daughter, Lizzie. Lizzie walked away from her father's grave and into her future, a future that she would build one day at a time.
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