I Was Here(84)

             “I understood then that I’d been sent this article on purpose. As I read it, I thought of Colossians 3:13: Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

             “And so I forgave everyone in that room: the woman for being so rude, the nurses for being too busy to help, the doctor for keeping us waiting, even CeCe for her histrionics. And then I forgave myself. As soon as I did, my worry over CeCe eased. I felt calm, peaceful, and full of love. And in that moment, I was reminded just why God wants us to forgive. Not simply because it’s the key to a better world, but because of what it does for ourselves. Forgiveness is God’s gift to us. Christ forgave us. He forgave our sins. That was his gift. But by allowing us to forgive each other, he opened us up to that divine love. The article had it right. Forgiveness: It’s a miracle drug. It’s God’s miracle drug.”

             Jerry goes on, quoting more lines from scripture about forgiveness. But at the moment, I’m just not feeling it. Last night I went to bed first, leaving Ben and Richard around the fire. Those two barely tolerate each other, so I figured they’d call it a night soon after. But now, as Richard’s father goes on, I can see that’s not what happened. Tongues went wagging. So much for a sacred circle.

             Jerry continues: “After we saw the doctor, I was settling up at the front desk and I ran into the angry mother again. All the rancor I’d felt was gone. There was no effort to rise above. It just vanished. I told her that I hoped her little girl was feeling better.

             “She turned to look at me. I could now recognize how tired she was, like so many of us parents are. ‘She’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘The doctor said she’s healing well.’ I looked at the little girl and saw a small welt, red, still fresh, on her chin. I turned back to the mother and saw something much fresher there: anguish, not nearly so well healed. I wanted to ask her what happened, but Pedro and CeCe were yanking to go, and besides, it wasn’t my place. But I suppose she needed to unburden herself, because she told me how a few weeks earlier, she’d been rushing to get out the door in the morning, but her little girl had been dawdling by the flowers. She’d yanked her by the hand and the girl, still busy watching the bees dancing, had slammed into a gate. That’s how she’d gotten the cut. ‘She’ll always carry that scar,’ the mother told me in a voice pinched with agony. And then I understood her anger. Just who it was she hadn’t forgiven.

             “‘She will, only if you do,’ I told her back. She looked at me, and I knew what I was asking her to do, what God asks us to do—what I’m asking you all to do—isn’t easy. To let our scars heal. To forgive. And hardest of all, sometimes, is to forgive ourselves. But if we don’t, we’re squandering one of God’s greatest gifts: his miracle cure.”

             When the sermon ends, Richard turns to me, grinning almost. He seems so proud. Of his father, or himself, for orchestrating this public service announcement. “What’d you think?”

             I don’t answer. I just push my way out of the pew.

             “What’s wrong?” Ben asks.

             What’s wrong is that Richard Zeller and his dad don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. They don’t know about the mornings when anger is the one thing—the only thing—to get you through the day. If they take that from me, I’m wide open: raw and gaping, and then I don’t stand a fucking chance.

             I go to the lobby, holding back tears of rage. Richard is right behind me.

             “Couldn’t take the rev anymore?” he jokes, but there’s worry in his eyes.

             “You told him. You said you wouldn’t and you told him. You lied.”

             “I didn’t even see my dad until breakfast, and you were right there.”