This past weekend, I found myself in a most ironic situation. There I sat, in the living room of my friends house, holding a phone to my ear and listening to the sounds of my own heart being ripped out, for the second time in less than a year.
When the phone call was ended, and the damage done, I sat in the darkened room with my friend, who had heard most of what happened - an angry voice over the telephone and me, sobbing uncontrollably.
We all know what it is to be hurt. Sometimes the cuts are so deep, we are sure they will never heal. Sometimes the scars are so numerous, we can't remember what we were like without them. Sometimes the wound is so raw that even the slightest provocation will tear it open again. Sometimes forgiveness seems impossible.
She looked at me, my friend did, and offered me words of peace and calm. She's known me a long time, and always has had a knack for tempering my impulse to instantly and foolishly react.
There is irony in having such an event happen as I sat in her living room, because if she hadn't forgiven me when I asked, I wouldn't have been there at all. Indeed, such a phone call never would have existed, and neither would many of the happy moments of the last five months. A year ago, I made a phone call of my own and I asked for her forgiveness for something I had done wrong three years prior. She didn't even hesitate. She said, "I have been waiting for this phone call for three years."
With open arms, I was accepted. Much was forgiven of me, by her and by her family, without retribution. Without judgement. Without paying a price again and again and again. That's exactly what forgiveness is. The price has already been paid, the blood shed, and we can walk freely into the arms of Someone who didn't deserve to pay it, but who gladly did for our sake.
Because of Him, I can forgive much, because I am forgiven.
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