Forgiveness takes time.

Forgiveness takes time. August 30, 2016

"The Forgiveness Of God Is Announced In Jerusalem (Isaiah LIV, 6 10)," Marc Chagall  [WikiArt]
“The Forgiveness Of God Is Announced In Jerusalem (Isaiah LIV, 6 10),” Marc Chagall [WikiArt]
I keep reminding myself, sometimes every hour of every day: forgiveness takes time. Forgiveness is change, and change takes time. And time is the measurement of change (Aristotle).

My sister and I do not get along. She is right to be angry with me, though not right to take it out on me. (That’s just doing what I did.) Why she’s angry is hers to keep, so I’ll not mention it here. But really, we haven’t gotten along in years, even before all that. None of us siblings are especially close. It breaks my mother’s heart.

I never know what to say about it, what to say to her or anyone, and I’ve been struggling for a month now trying to find the words for it in this strange digital space. A recent encounter stripped everything so bare that I no longer have any idea where to begin. It all goes wrong somewhere. Everywhere.

My sister’s harsh expression follows me around in the shadows, as I keep replaying our conflicted encounter in my head. I remember all the flint of her pain, the sharp edges of her face. She stood there, already halfway out the door, unwilling to give me an inch – to explain myself or, just, anything – and I understood why even then. I get it. Doesn’t make it right, but I get it. I get what pain does to people, and I hurt her. Things that have nothing to do with me hurt her, too.

There was nothing I could do. That’s what I hated the most. That’s what drove me nuts, drove me behind a bathroom door – locking it tight so I could hyperventilate and ram my fists against the wall. Fighting to feel something other than suffocating rage. Fighting to breathe. Just – breathe.

I don’t think you’d like me when I get upset. When the cracks in my otherwise gentle demeanor begin to show. When that whole mental illness thing becomes obvious. When it flickers with its hideous light underneath the cracks. It’s grotesque, and I mean that with almost technical precision: something terrible that secretly unveils what is holy. The wild and strange collision of horror and grace.

There’s grace in those moments. I’m convinced. Horror too.

I don’t think people like it. I think people get perplexed and overwhelmed real fucking quick. My family didn’t say or do anything. Nothing at all.

God. I hate that.

The perplexing element of all of this is that there isn’t really one moment that needs forgiving or one person that needs forgiving. It’s a tangle of decades and deeds. Sometimes, it’s what we didn’t do.

And how do you even begin to let go of that? Forgive it? Offer it up and live with the scars? It’s not quite mapped out like the Gospels, where Jesus is perfect and he forgives the imperfect sinner. Here it’s sinners forgiving sinners. We’re all good, and we’re all mean and broken.

Which, actually, is the Gospels. Now that I think about it.

Forgiveness takes time. I keep thinking that, too.

The cross took place – takes place – in time. You must know, surely you must know, how important that is. How absolutely key that is. That Christ is crucified in time. If we’re to change, it has to happen in time. Purgatory is not literally made of days, but it takes place in time. Time, after all, is the measurement of change.

But because Jesus is God as well as man, he is able to occupy time in a way that we cannot. He is able to effect change that we cannot. He can forgive the sins of the entire world in a moment, in that single moment. All at once, once and for all.

We’re much smaller. And so bad at change. So impatient with time. Terrible at offering forgiveness and at receiving it. We take a lot of time.

The grace of Christ, I think, enables us to take his time. But sometimes that takes time, too.

 

 


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