Forgiveness is freedom
When I was twelve-years-old, I was lying in a hospital bed in excruciating pain. I was about to be wheeled in for an emergency fifth surgery on my broken arm. The screw doctors drilled into my elbow a few days earlier came out, spilling blood and bone on to the floor. It was horrifying. My mom leaned over my bed and began to cry. I asked, “What are YOU crying about? She said, “I know this hurts you, but it kills me.”
I thought she was crazy.
Then I had kids. It cannot be described; it must be lived.
When my children hurt, I hurt.
The night of my surgery, my dad ignored nurse Ratched and hospital visiting hours. He slept in the chair next to my bed. I awoke the next morning to my snoring father still in the seated position. Nurse Ratched must have put a blanket on him.
When my parents are gone, these are the things I’ll remember. They gave me life, taught me to deal with the world’s relentless blows, and they were always there to catch me.
They still are.
But my experience is not your experience. Maybe your parents failed you. Maybe they hurt you. Maybe you’re still holding on to that. And maybe it’s time to let go. Maybe you’ve tried before. Try again. Even if it’s hard — especially if it’s hard. You owe it to yourself to extend love as far as it will extend.
Love that comes easily satisfies only a little. Love that requires us to say things that are right and good, to forgive, even when it’s not deserved, that’s the kind of love that truly makes life worth living. That’s freedom.
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