Tag: forgiveness

Lenten Grace — Then Water Enters

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photo by Josh Scholten
photo by Josh Scholten
Rebuked, she turned and ran
uphill to the barn. Anger, the inner   
arsonist, held a match to her brain.   
She observed her life: against her will   
it survived the unwavering flame.
The barn was empty of animals.   
Only a swallow tilted
near the beams, and bats
hung from the rafters
the roof sagged between.

Her breath became steady
where, years past, the farmer cooled  
the big tin amphoræ of milk.
The stone trough was still
filled with water: she watched it  
and received its calm.

So it is when we retreat in anger:  
we think we burn alone
and there is no balm.
Then water enters, though it makes  
no sound.
~Jane Kenyon from “Portrait of a Figure Near Water”

There is a balm badly needed for souls scorched by their own anger.

Allowing anger to smolder only leaves us awash in ashes.  I am witness through my own eyes how my indignation inflames like an “inner arsonist”, leaving behind the shadows that forever cloud my vision.  I will not see clearly until I stop feeding the fire.

Time to let the water enter in, to flood and cool the flame, to cleanse, renew and forgive,  to restore a calm, silent and serene.

That is the balm badly needed.  That is the balm freely given.

I just need to apply it to where it hurts the most.

Wiping the Slate Clean

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photo by Josh Scholten

“Life is grace. Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves. Darkness wipes the slate clean, not spotless to be sure, but clean enough for another day’s chalking.”
~Frederich Buechner

And tomorrow
move forward
to leave a mark on a new day
after night’s erasing rest.

No matter what took place the day before,
no matter the misgivings,
no matter what should have been left unsaid,
no matter how hard the heart,
there is another day to make it right.

Forgiveness finds a foothold in the dark,
when eyelids close,
thoughts quietly open,
voices hush in prayers
of praise, petition and gratitude.

And so now
sleep on it
knowing his grace
abounds in blameless dreams.

Morning will come
awash in new light,
another chance
freely given.

Grace and Gratitude

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photo by Josh Scholten

Grace and gratitude belong together like heaven and earth.
Grace evokes gratitude like the voice an echo.
Gratitude follows grace as thunder follows lightening.
~Karl Barth

Nothing separates our thankfulness
from the gifts we’ve been granted.
We have been given life, certainly.
But that is not all,
though more than plenty.

Beyond imagining,
we are given forgiveness.
Offered a new life,
undeserved.
An opportunity to
make things right again
by forgiving
the unforgivable.

It is possible to be grateful every day
without knowing grace.
Many voices raised today
speak of thankfulness.

But to know the gift of grace–
experience its resounding clarifying brightness,
its gentle, compassionate merciful touch
every day, every hour, every moment
every breath,

we must respond, thundering
our gratitude at the spark of God,
echoing unending thanks
in our every breath.

photo by Josh Scholten

Heart Ache

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photo by Josh Scholten

…be comforted in the fact that the ache in your heart and the confusion in your soul means that you are still alive, still human, and still open to the beauty of the world, even though you have done nothing to deserve it.
Paul Harding in Tinkers

There is plenty of aching confusion this week about the nature of criminal intent, premeditated planning and the role of mental illness in excusing responsibility.  Seeing the blank confused eyes of the Colorado mass murderer during his first court appearance (was he faking it?  was he sedated? was he simply mentally “checked out”?) brings up the question of his competency and capacity to discern right from wrong.   He was certainly very competent and highly organized at setting up and executing a diabolical and intricate plan for killing as large a number of people as possible.    Incompetent people usually can’t plan breakfast much less mass murder.

So how do we know evil when we see it?  We don’t have to look very far.  It is hidden deep enough in each of us that we don’t usually confront it daily, but it is there.  For some it is their daily bread, feeding them as it is fed and growing.   It can be all-consuming, finally taking over the heart and the soul completely, leaving nothing recognizable behind.

Not recognizable, however though completely undeserving, redeemable.

May there be mercy for the aching, clarity for the confused and a new heart to replace the lost.

 

 

A Splintered Wreck

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photo by Josh Scholten

“The new is always present with the old, however hidden.  I am a frayed and nibbled survivor in a fallen world, and I am getting along. I am aging and eaten and have done my share of eating too. I am not washed and beautiful, in control of a shining world in which everything fits, but instead am wandering awed about on a splintered wreck I’ve come to care for, whose gnawed trees breath delicate air, whose bloodied and scarred creatures are my dearest companions, and whose beauty beats and shines not in its imperfections, but overwhelmingly in spite of them…”
Annie Dillard

Once every few years one of our horses gets hurt and had I made different decisions, I know I could have prevented it from happening.  I feel deeply responsible for the pain experienced by a creature I love and have cared for over two decades; I am a splintered wreck, unable to sleep, sick with guilt.

When the bird chorus began as the clock flipped to 4 AM this morning, my eyes had been open for hours, listening for sounds of distress from the barn. I knew I needed to check on her as soon as daylight dawned.  I walked to the barn in my bathrobe and rubber boots to make sure she had made it okay through the night.  As I approached, I heard her greeting me with her usual morning nicker, welcoming me back into her home, showing me grace despite her misery,  her eyes shining bright and expectant despite her cuts and bruises.

The barn contains a world of forgiving despite horses never ever forgetting.  She still loves me in spite of my imperfections.  I wander awed into her stall, touch her tender body and weep.

So, because of this, because of love that surpasses understanding, I am getting along, washed through my tears moistening her dried blood.

A Bit Messy

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“Do not be so open-minded that your brains fall out.”
— G.K. Chesterton

Few things are as condemning in this day and age than being accused of being close-minded.  In religion and politics, the most zealous are the least likely to see another point of view, much less tolerate it.  There is no chance of growth or redemption when there is not openness and willingness to change and admit one is wrong.

But I’ve known those who are so open-minded, there is nothing left inside but “whatever.”   It doesn’t matter, anything goes, if it works for you, who am I to judge, it’s a free country.  No boundaries, no barriers, all windows and free to come and go breezes, no foundational beliefs, hopelessly robbed blind.  It is a terribly empty void to behold.

Instead I strive to remain unlocked and ready to answer the knock on the door of my convictions and opinions to see who or what may be there, to be receptive to the possibility of something other.

But in reality I’d rather be open-hearted over open-minded.  It is far riskier, this bleeding of the heart,  when touched, bruised or pierced.   Perhaps even a bit messy.

Intentional, not accidental.  Grace once spilled from an open beating heart and still does.

Always has.  Always will.

“I tell you this
to break your heart,
by which I mean only
that it break open and never close again
to the rest of the world.”
— Mary Oliver

Crime and Punishment

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Summertime visits to our cousin Joe’s farm were always greatly anticipated.  We would be allowed several days of freedom exploring the fields and barns, playing hide and seek, reading comic books and Mad Magazines that we never had at our own house.

In addition, we got to play with Joe’s cap guns.  These obnoxious little pistols had the ability to make a popping noise from the roll of “caps” inserted inside.  These seemed more authentic than any of the pretend guns at home.

But I was a girl and got tired of the cowboy or war shooting games quickly.  There is only so much popping you can do and it just isn’t that fun any more.  I was also bored with my brother and cousin playing with the guns endlessly so one day I simply put an end to it by pocketing the last roll of caps in my jacket, thinking I’d slip them back into Joe’s bedroom the next day before we left for home.

It wasn’t until we were home several days later that I was reminded in the middle of breakfast about the roll of caps when my mother came out of the laundry room dangling the coil of dots up for me to see.

“What are these doing in your jacket pocket?”  she asked.  I swallowed my cheerios down hard.

“Guess they belong to Joe.”   I said, not meeting her gaze.

“He gave them to you?”

“Um, not exactly.”

“You took them?”

“Guess so.”

“Does he know you have them?”

“Not exactly.”  I started to cry.  I didn’t even want the stupid things, didn’t even like them.  But I took them.  In fact, I stole them.

She put the roll on the kitchen table in front of me, set a big envelope and a piece of paper and a pencil down in front of me and told me to write an apology to my cousin Joe, as well as my aunt and uncle.  The note would be wrapped around the roll of caps and mailed to them that day.

I was mortified at being caught with ill-gotten gains.  How could I confess this thing I did?  How would I ever make it right with my cousin?  How would he ever trust me again,  and how would my aunt and uncle ever allow me to come visit again?

I wrote slowly, every printed word oozing the guilt I felt.

“Joe, I’m sorry that I took your roll of caps without asking you.  I put them in my pocket where they didn’t belong and forgot about them but that was wrong.  I have never taken anything that wasn’t mine before and I never will again.  I’m very very sorry.”

My mother read it, nodded, sealed up the envelope with the roll of caps inside, put on stamps and we walked out to the mailbox together to mail it.  My stomach hurt and I didn’t think I’d feel okay ever again.

Three days later, my aunt wrote me back:

“Thank you for returning Joe’s caps.  Sometimes we learn hard lessons about doing the right thing and Joe accepts your apology and has learned from your example.  He’s relieved he didn’t lose them as he has to earn the money to pay for them with his allowance.  We’re looking forward to your next visit!  Much love to you.”

Instantly I felt much better.  I’ve never forgotten the sweetness of forgiveness.

After the Storm

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photo by Josh Scholten

This was a wild weather week on the outside: heavy winds, snowfall in the mountains, sweaty sunny middays, torrential unpredictable showers–and inside my cranium: words that flew out too quickly, smothering anxiety, searing frustration, overflowing tears.

The month of May needs no explanation for acting like October, December and August within a span of a few hours.  I am not so unburdened.  I end up lying awake at night with regrets, making apologies, and wanting to hide under a rock until the storm is over.

But in the midst of extremes, while the storm is raging, a miracle takes place.  It can only happen when brilliant light exposes weeping from heavy laid clouds, like the rainbow that dropped from heaven last night to touch the earth right in our backyard, only a few feet from our barn.

God’s cries, His wept tears, have lit up the sky in a promise of forgiveness.   This storm too will pass.