I’d rather smite people.

Recently, I had the unfortunate experience of discovering that someone was speaking unkindly about me behind my back. Although given every opportunity to discuss the issues with me directly — including a text and voicemail inviting her to talk, both of which were ignored — she continues to send emails outlining her every complaint against me.

To other people.

Now, we can talk about the obvious social ramifications of this type of behavior — how it has eroded not just my trust in her as a person and a business colleague, but also how it has decimated my respect for her. I mean, I’m from Jersey, and in Jersey, when we have a problem with someone, we deal straight up. 

Except in high school. But that’s high school.

We could talk about how I can be the better person (which, obviously I’m not, since I’m here writing about it with a tiny, eensy-bitsy bit of maybe revenge fantasy that somehow she will read this and fall down into a guilt-ridden, snot-filled, blubbering ball on the floor for at least fifteen minutes).

Or we could talk about how I should forgive her. How I should take the high road, give her the benefit of the doubt, be kind, be big, whatever.

But the really annoying thing is that I am a Jesus freak, and so therefore I am called to not just shower her with forgiveness, to be the bigger person, to take the high road.

I’m also called to offer her grace.

Crap.

Crappity-crap-crap-crap.

Grace is a tricky thing, with its generosity and all-encompassing, no-holding-back kind of attitude. It’s so big, so radical, and it includes everyone and every sin. Grace is Jesus incarnate, God come down from his throne to be born in a manure-ridden barn. Grace is every murderer, every evil-doer, yes, even every Donald Trump supporter thrust into the wide open arms of the everlasting God.

And it’s not fair.

That’s the thing about grace.

It’s not fair.

It’s not what we deserve. It’s not what we should get.

Lord, can I lick the pearls of my hurts until they glow. The BFF who broke my heart; the friend who told me I wasn’t worth my hourly rate, the big brother who abandoned me. The birthday that was — worse than forgotten — just passed over as unimportant.

I’d like to pretend these things did not cut deep. I learned that in middle school — to pretend these things don’t hurt. Don’t show it on your face. Don’t let them see, so it just burns down deep in the middle.

Let me stop now before I break into some bad teenage-angst-filled poetry.

There has not been a single apology, not a single request for forgiveness or reconciliation. My BFF seems to not give a shit that we have gone our separate ways; my friend who thinks I’m overpriced still thinks she’s right. My brother is just gone. My birthday, never again mentioned.

And I’m called to something bigger than forgiveness. I’m called to offer grace, when I’d rather just smite people.

I’m called to not just forgive my passed-over birthday, but to lavishly celebrate someone else’s.

I’m called to send lots of love and prayers and good wishes to my BFF (I do) with no thought of the hurt I feel that she’s gone (that’s harder).

I’m called to pick up the phone and call my brother, even though he broke off ties with me for reasons I have yet to understand. To call the friend who questions my value, because I know where my worth comes from. (I’m working on all that.)

I’m called to serve she who is duplicitous.

Oh, how I suck at this Christian stuff! I am the worst at it, with all this hurt bundled up in my belly, and of course, I know I am no innocent. I know I am not perfect. I know I have dished out my share of hurt, too, and have received grace I do not deserve.

And therein lies the crux. I have received that which I do not deserve, in all the unfairness of our perfectly just God. And so I must also lavish this on others.

As for the burning ball in my belly, these hurts that light a fire in the deepest part of me, well all I can do is read the word, live as well as I can live, and pray that the living water will come and extinguish it in a steaming show of love and grace.

And thank God that he didn’t give me smiting powers.