Forgiveness. We all know of its value. It’s the antidote for
bitterness. The hand that opens so we can let go and move on with our
lives. And it’s an easy enough state to reach when the transgression
caused only temporary hurt feelings and was settled with the heartfelt
words, “I’m sorry.” But what about the acts that cause much deeper
wounds? Acts so despicable that they crumble the very foundation upon
which you stand, and cause you to doubt your worth, your safety in the
world, and even your faith in God? What then?
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I was in my
early thirties when I faced the depth of the physical, mental, and
spiritual wounds I was carrying as a result of the severe abuse my
mother inflicted on me when I was a child. And there I was, grappling
to accept that my mother would go to her grave without expressing any
remorse for the PTSD and bouts of depression I was suffering from. I
was frozen in fear and hurt, staring at a lifetime of damage I didn’t
know how to repair. And already at this point, I was hearing the words,
“But you have to forgive her.”
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Forgive, as in forget? As in absolving her on her sins, even when she expressed no remorse? The very thought made me dig my heels into anger, and not even the gentle hints that God would only forgive me of my sins
if I forgave her of hers could not budge me. And as strange as it may
sound, in hindsight I’m glad I let go of the notion of forgiving her.
Because if I’ve learned anything from my long road to recovery—and
later, from the women who suffered trauma as children in the groups I
facilitated—it is that forgiveness is more than a word. It’s a
state of being. One we cannot be guilted or shamed into feeling, by
others or by ourselves, no matter how spiritually inept it makes us feel
when we can’t quite get there.
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I spent the next seven
years tending to my mental and physical wounds, allowing the anger and
angst to seep from my pores. I worked hard to help my mind and my body
learn to react differently. And finally, there I was, standing on new
ground, feeling better, yet still left with a gaping hole that I knew
could only be filled with spiritual healing. And that, I knew, was a
personal journey I would need to travel alone. Little did I know, when I
set out to heal my soul, that what I was seeking and what I would find,
was the state of grace we call forgiveness.
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Viktor
Frankl, psychoanalyst and Holocaust survivor, said, “Man is willing to
suffer, as long as he can find meaning in his suffering.” And the path
of spiritual healing (where forgiveness patiently awaits us), is about
just that: finding meaning in our suffering. It’s what we choose to do
with what’s been done to us after our wounds scar over.
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So
I said goodbye to all I’d lost, and focused on what I’d gained--which
was apparently a deep-seated understanding of the healing process. I
formed the support groups, and over the next six years I dedicated what
time and knowledge I had to helping others heal. And when the last
woman felt she was healed enough not to need my support anymore, I
looked at the gifts all my life experiences had given me: The
courage to look suffering in the eye. An understanding of human nature.
A sense of humor. The courage to reveal what’s in my heart and on my
mind. The ability to live hope and be inspiring. And an incessant
curiosity about the stories we all live. I poured these gifts into my
love of books, and worked to become a published novelist. And from
these actions, I transformed my suffering into something to give to
others. I found my purpose.
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Recently someone asked me if
I ever forgave my mother. I have. But it’s a different form of
forgiveness than the one I once envisioned as being synonymous with forgetting and the equivalent of absolving someone of their sins.
I cannot forget my past (it is a chapter in my life’s story) any more
than I have the power to pardon my mother of her sins (that’s between
her and her God.) No, today forgiveness means something quite different
to me. It is the state of grace that comes after you tend to your
wounds. After you let go of the blame and the shame, and the notion
that what you suffered through somehow makes you less—or more—than
others. It’s what happens after you take what’s been done to you and
transform those things into something good you can share with others.
And it’s a state of being you cannot will yourself to reach any more
than a child can will themselves to grow. One day you simply awaken to
the realization that your compassion has softened the hard places, and
you find yourself at peace.
